The men of Gondor were positioned around the walls, and on the gate. They were ready for war, with their arrows and swords held in their sweaty hands.

"Open the gate!" The order went up, and Faramir was brought inside. Two men carried him up and lay his beside the white tree. Denethor, having heard the shout, came running out.

"Faramir! Say not that he has fallen." He cried.

"They were outnumbered. None survived."

"My sons are spent, killed by the hand of the enemy. My line has come to an end."

Pippin ran to his side, and carefully placed his hand on Faramir's brow. "He's alive." He said, with a joyous smile, stretching across his face. "My Lord, he's alive!"

"The House of the Stewards has fallen." Denethor said, not hearing Pippin's joyous remarks.

"He needs medicine." The hobbit said, urgently.

Denethor got up, and stumbled absently towards the wall.

Pippin tried desperately to get his attention. "My Lord." He said, wistfully. Denethor reached the wall, and stared out across at the massive army that was about to breach the walls. He gave a soft moan of misery. What was left of his mind broke in that moment. His life had been torn with tragedy, the Palantir had poisoned his thoughts and turned his against him self. And now he was faced with Sauron's army, the whole of Mordor had been emptied. And Gondor had little defences or men.

"Rohan has deserted us!" He yelled. "Théoden's betrayed me. Abandon your posts! Flee! Flee for your lives!" He shouted to his men.

They looked around uncertain of what to do. Whether or not to obey their steward. Gandalf whacked

Denethor in the head with his staff, and shouted his own orders to the men. They returned to their posts, ready to fight.

There was a scream as part of the wall crumbled.

"This is no place for you Pippin, go back inside!" Gandalf shouted to the halfling.

Pippin wondered into the courtyard, and saw Denethor carrying a lighted torch. Behind him his guards followed carrying the unconscious Faramir. Denethor pushed opened the doors to the House of Stewards and walked in.

Denethor stared around. "No tomb for Denethor and Faramir. No long, slow, sleep of death embalmed.

We shall burn, like the heathen kings of old." The madness was in his voice. He thought the end had come. "Bring wood and oil!" He ordered. "The house of his spirit crumbles. He is burning. Already burning."

Pippin ran up to pyre, and started pulling away the wood. "He's not dead! He's not dead!" He screamed, hysterically.

Denethor grabbed Pippin away and threw him out of the doors.

Pippin hammered on the door in panic. Denethor's mind had gone so far now, that he no longer listened to reason, or noticed his son twitching slightly as the oil was poured over him. Pippin took one last look at the door before scurrying off to find Gandalf. He had to stop Denethor killing his son.

"Gandalf! Gandalf!" He shouted, running down the walls, ducking as the arrows soured over his head.

He was pushed this and way and that as the Gondorian soldiers struggled to protect their city.

"Set a fir in our flesh!" Denethor yelled. He stood on the pyre arms outstretched, like a martyr.

Faramir lay at his feet, as the guards approached slowly brandishing their torches. He looked down at his son, and his strength failed him. His heart quaked as he thought of his darling, sweet Findulias, so gentle in her nature. She had cared for Faramir as he could not. His son moved ever so slightly but

Denethor's eyes were blinded by evil. The Palantir tugged on his heart, long since he had stopped using it, and yet it was still consuming him. He could hear the distant cries of pain and suffering, the crashes as Minis Tirth fell beneath the enemy. There was no hope left. No chance. He, Denethor, the twenty sixth and last Steward of Gondor would not die by an enemy blade. He would die here, like the King's of old, beside his son.

As the guards were about to light the pyre, the doors crashed open, and Gandalf and Pippin both riding Shadowfax appeared in the doorway.

"Stop this madness." Gandalf yelled.

The guards stepped back, but Denethor reached down and snatched one of the torches. He stared defensively at Gandalf. And for that split second when their eyes met, the white Wizard saw right in his soul. It wasn't Denethor any more. It wasn't Denethor with the torch in his hand, covered in oil. He use to be tall, proud and valiant, but heavy losses had turned his heart, and the will of Sauron had taken over. He truly believed his son to be dead, he refused to listen to the wisdom of Gandalf, after all the wizard was planning to supplant him on the throne of Gondor. Rohan had abandoned him, and the enemy were at the doors of city, they may even have breached it. He would not die by their hands. It was his last act in this world, and he would not die by them.

He stared down at the form of his son, and thought of Boromir. He had lost Boromir. He would not lose his youngest son. And he cast the torch down on to the pyre. The oil caught quickly, and the wood began to burn.

Gandalf knocked Denethor off with his spear, and Pippin jumped down into the fire to save Faramir.

He pushed him out, and began batting the flames from his clothes. Denethor scrambled up from the floor. He looked down on Pippin, and saw him as a murderer and a traitor. The halfling was trying to take his son away from him. He lunged at Pippin, and knocked him away from Faramir.

"No! You will not take my son away from me!" Denethor shouted.

Gandalf turned at the shouts of Pippin, Shadowfax reared up and kicked Denethor into the flames. Pippin scrambled up, hurriedly.

Denethor twisted in agony as the fire claimed his body, he peered through the orange flames and caught sight of his weak son. And as he glanced upon Faramir's war beaten face, his eyes flickered ever so slightly, and then opened.

"Faramir. . ." He said, softening. His son was still alive. Love gushed into his heart once more, a love he had not felt since the death of his fair wife, since he had glanced upon the evil depths of the Plantir.

He wanted to reach out and touch his son, reassure him. . .care for him. . .and in those last few seconds, his eyes, which had been closed for so long, opened, and he saw the world. And then the fire took control. It burnt into his body, with a searing ferrous pain, but it was nothing compared to what he had suffered during his life.

And in his last moment he leaped from the pyre, and ran ablaze with flames from the House of Stewards, and over the edge of Minis Tirith.

So to answer the question. No, Denethor was not just another Steward to govern Gondor. He was tragic figure, who loved his family in the only way he knew how. He death was proud and valiant, truly worth remembering.

Gandalf watched sadly, as Pippin knelt beside Faramir. "And so passes Denethor, son of Ecthelion."