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In the first days, the memory of his brother can catch him unawares. It is shot through with anger, that after all their years of struggle, he missed the peace by a matter of weeks.

Later, a statue is put up, remembering his victory at the Fords. And there are other reminders too, less formal his sons laugh, the shrug of his shoulders.

As the years go on, the thread is not lost, but picked up part of the weft of the fuller tapestry of his life. Grief is not eternal, and beyond this world there is more than memory.


Written as a birthday present for Annmarwalk, who asked for something about both or either of Denethor's magnificent sons
11th November 2004


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