Looking out over the city, watching as the moon, skirted by dark clouds, endeavored to cast some light on the scene below him, Denethor watched and wondered if the people really understood or remembered what they were celebrating tonight. The Day of the Dead had turned from a feast of solemn remembrance, to a feast of carnality, a feast of depravity. The dead would ‘roll over’ in their graves, should they see the spectacle that lay before him. He shivered. Boromir and Faramir were someone in the crowd of revelers. He wished it were not so. ‘Grant them safety, Valar,’
To him, on this day of all days, he would sit in his mother’s terraced garden, thinking of her, of his grandfather Cranthir, his own father, Ecthelion, Finduilas…. Oh, even Thengel and too many others to even remember the names. Though remember them he did. Each one who had fallen for him, or at his command. The list had lengthened to the point that, if he said each name aloud, it would take days, perhaps weeks, to name them all. And so, he stood with the scent of flowers filling his nostrils, while the sight of debauchery filled his eyes.