The Ring will come to Gondor

by Varda


Chapter Eleven: We Will Be Kings

A hush fell on the hall of the Steward as everyone there took in the awful meaning of Denethor’s words; by ordering Faramir to attack Osgiliath the Steward had condemned his younger son to almost certain death…

Suddenly the doors flew open with a resounding crash and a strong wind rushed down the great hall, an East wind, hot and acrid with the smoke of some dreadful burning deep in Mordor…

High up on the wall a banner which had been set there many ages before was rent from its staff by the wind and carried along for a while then descended gently and billowing out fell with a sigh at the feet of Boromir.

The Steward’s eldest son bent down slowly and gathered it up. He saw how old it was, the white silk yellow with age, the emblem of the tree and stars faded. But under the sign of the tree were the runes for Steward; Arandur.

Boromir held it out to his father and said;

‘In the name of Steward, given to our ancestors and borne with honour all these ages, do not betray our duty to preserve this city for the return of the King, father. Do not send Faramir my brother to his death….’

‘Stewards!’ snapped Denethor ‘We have been stewards for too long! Now we will be kings!’

Boromir stared at his father and remembered with horror that he had wanted this for his house; to be kings. Now his wish was granted by the power of the Ring. Suddenly Faramir spoke up;
‘When a steward takes for himself that which he was given to keep safely, his house is not a house of Kings, but of thieves.’

Denethor looked at Faramir as if he was a stranger. He smiled coldly and said;
‘You will never be one of a royal house, traitor-son. And when you ride to Osgiliath, take with you all those Rangers loyal to you. In that way I will be rid of every traitor in the city…’

A horrified murmur went round the hall. Faramir stared aghast at his father, more grieved at the death sentence on his brave Rangers than on himself. Then as if weary of the proceedings Denethor stood up and holding out his hand he said to the clerks, bent in terror over their parchments at a table in the corner of the hall;
‘Bring me the warrants!’

A black-robed scribe, tripping over his feet in fear, picked up a paper and ran to the Steward, holding the document out gingerly with the tips of his fingers. Denethor snatched it and making a fist of one hand he rammed it, with the Steward’s great signet ring, into the molten wax seal at the bottom of the parchment. Such was the force of his blow that a few spots of red wax flew onto the polished white floor, like blood.

Boromir, walking forward to the throne, pointed to the hand that held the Ring and said in a voice that shook with reproach;
‘Father, with the Ring I gave you that power which you now use unjustly to condemn the innocent!’

Denethor smiled.
‘And in good time you gave it!’ he said quietly. Then he cried;
‘I dismiss you all! Leave us!’

The captain holding Merry bowed and asked quickly;
‘My lord Denethor, what do you want us to do with the halfling?’

Denethor looked down at Merry, standing unsteadily but grim and defiant between two black-liveried palace guards and he smiled.
‘Ah yes, the outspoken hobbit. Let us see if his impertinence can outlast the touch of a red hot iron. A little persuasion might help him to remember the names of his accomplices.’ A flicker of satisfaction crossed Denethor’s thin stern face when he saw Merry go pale. He snarled;
‘..then kill him’


The light was failing as Boromir made his way to his chamber high in the White Tower. It was hot, unnaturally hot for March and the Steward’s son felt sweat trickling down his face. He was aware too of people darting out of his way as he descended the wide stone staircase and crossed the square. They were avoiding him, and who could blame them? A man who had given his own brother up to death….

Boromir’s aching head could think no more on it. When he reached his room it was dusk, an hour too early, with the thick cloud issuing from the East. He fell onto his bed fully clothed and sleep, denied for two days past, claimed him.

He began to dream. He was still in his room in the White Tower, but it was now nearing morning and the sky had cleared to reveal a skull-like yellow moon hanging just over the Eastern mountains, leering at him through the high window. By its sickly light Boromir saw that he was not alone in the chamber. Someone or something stood by the window, its back turned towards him.

‘Who are you?’ demanded Boromir, starting up from his bed. ‘And what are you doing here?’

The figure at first showed no sign that it had heard, but then it began to turn, slowly, to face Boromir. It was cloaked in black, and had a hood drawn up to hide its face. But as it turned, it raised a gauntleted hand to push back the hood.

Boromir sat on the bed, watching in growing fear as the ragged black fabric slid back from the face. The head was not the head of a man; it was huge, and broad, round and hairless. Nor had it the face of man, but a wide glistening mask, its mouth fixed in a grin, or a snarl. Boromir wanted to cry out but just as when his father pronounced doom on Faramir, he could neither move nor speak. He was forced to watch as the creature approached the bed.

For a moment he thought it was a troll, so great was its size. But then its eyes flew open and fixed on him and he saw they were golden-grey, like the eyes of the strange soldiers with which his father had filled the city. It smiled and its mouth moved but nothing came out but a ringing sound, like a distant brazen gong.

‘Who are you?’ cried Boromir, suddenly finding his voice. Another voice, like an echo, sounded in his ears;
‘I am the Ring’.

Boromir woke with a yell, and threw himself from the bed. He looked around wildly; he was alone. The creature was gone. The bright pool of moonlight was gone too, and the oppressive blackness and heat rushed in on him and pulling off his tunic and shirt he strode to the pitcher standing on a table below the window and poured water into the basin. It was so hot! He picked up the pitcher and poured the water over his head and shoulders, then leaned on the table, regaining his breath.

He looked into the basin. His reflection in the water gazed back at him, hunted, desperate, gaunt. Suddenly, Boromir thought of Frodo; he had never realised till now what great strength lay in the small frame of the hobbit. Strength to resist this thing, which he, Boromir, with all his power, could not….

In a sudden movement he hit the basin with his fist and it flew off the table and struck the wall. Before the sound had echoed away Boromir walked to the door and threw it open and strode down the hallway, the dozing guards jumping to attention and staring at the dishevelled and half-clad heir of Gondor. Boromir ignored them and made his way out onto the wide walkway behind the battlements of Minas Tirith.

The night breeze was cool on his skin, helping him to gather his thoughts. He grasped the low wall of the parapet and looked down at the city. Under the deep cloud cover there was still some light, and the lines of old scars received in defence of these very streets showed on Boromir’s pale skin.

Below him the city was in complete darkness; his father had declared a curfew which it was death to break, and everyone was afraid to light any lamps or venture outside their homes. In the black streets and squares, hordes of bats, never seen in the city before, circled and swarmed with high-pitched cries. Boromir looked at them in disgust and said aloud;
‘I wanted to protect this city, and I have placed it in grave peril! Would that I had perished fighting the Uruk-hai at Parth Galen rather then bring this ruin on Minas Tirith. I am sorry, Frodo, wherever you are….I did not understand. I thought I could control the Ring; I thought I could use it…’

His voice trailed off into silence and he bowed his head in despair. Suddenly a voice spoke up from the end of the parapet.
‘No-one can use the Ring, except Sauron. It is his Ring, and is altogether evil…’

Boromir sprang back from the wall, clapping a hand to his empty scabbard. He cursed; he had left his sword in his chamber. Undeterred, he strode towards the voice, and in the gloom he made out a figure standing tall and motionless at the stone balustrade, also looking over the city, but it was cloaked in black and had a hood drawn up….

Boromir remembered his dream and his steps faltered, but at that moment the figure turned from the wall to face him and lifting two long thin white hands it pushed back the hood and from under the dusky cloak a glimpse of silver-white raiment and a white beard emerged. Boromir gasped;

‘Gandalf!’