The Ring will come to Gondor
by Varda
Chapter Twenty-four: Come and Get Me
When
the man had finished speaking to the chieftains of Rohan they remained
seated on their horses while he knelt before them on the marshy,
trampled ground of the West Emnet. He was deeply weatherbeaten by sun
and wind and his black hair was long and shaggy. He was clad in the
skins of beasts and carried an empty quiver slung on his back. The
Rohirrim had taken his arrows and his bow from him and broken them.
‘I don’t believe the orcs are on the West side of the river!’ said Théodred to Éomer.
‘He’s lying!’
The man raised his dark eyes enough to shoot a look of hatred at
Théodred. Éomer dug into a pouch at his belt and taking
out two gold coins he threw them on the ground.
‘Take those and go!’ he said to the man. ‘And tell your folk, stay on
the Western side of the mountain, or suffer the consequences!’
The man scooped up the money and bowed, then turned and ran off at a
swift loping pace through the ranks of horsemen, who parted reluctantly
to let him through. When he was clear of the Rohirrim he glanced back
at Théodred and spat on the ground.
‘Amadán!’ he said with contempt. In the degenerate Westron the Denlendings spoke, it meant Fool….
‘You’ve wasted your money, Éomer, he is lying!’ said
Théodred. ‘I would have beaten him and thrown him in the river.’
‘Don’t you think we have enough enemies?’ asked Éomer quietly.
‘He is only a Dunlending!’ said Théodred.
‘He’s a man!’ retorted Éomer angrily. ‘And this used to be his land!’
They stopped, for the men were watching. Éomer dismounted and walked aside and Théodred followed. The prince said;
‘Éomer, I do not doubt that orcs are on the East side of the
Isen. But they can only be a few, scouts maybe. I don’t believe there
is a large war band there. How could they get across?’
‘Orcs can swim, Théodred.’ replied Éomer wearily. ‘And
build rafts. I do not underestimate the creatures Saruman has bred, as
I think you do….’
‘I am not afraid of them’ said Théodred hotly.
‘Neither am I, Théodred!’ said Éomer, calmly. ‘But if the
orcs have invaded the willow brakes and marshes on the East side of the
river they will be impossible for us to catch…’
‘We have horses’ said Théodred.
‘Horses are no good in marshes’ said Éomer.
‘I came here to fight’ said Théodred, his face pale and angry.
‘The men came here to fight. Not to turn and run on the word of a
Dunlending….’
Éomer looked round; Théodred was right, the men were fidgeting for action. He sighed.
‘We will ride on to the Ford, then. But let us not cross the river till we have scouted the land well, Théodred…..’
But the Prince had already spurred his horse forward to ride at the head of his Rohirrim…
Faramir at last reached the topmost level of Minas Tirith and walked in
under the last gateway, the Gate of the Citadel. Guards kept the people
back but the angry sound of the crowd rose like the noise of a
disturbed swarm of bees.
‘If father did not listen to me, he won’t listen to the people in the streets….’ thought Faramir bitterly.
The prison of the Citadel was set into the solid rock of The Hill of
Guard, but on a lower level to the tombs of the City of the Dead. Both
were catacombs cut in the blue-white stone of the mountains long
before, in the time of Gondor’s greatness. The street wound upwards and
Faramir, trailed by the watchful soldiers of Denethor’s new Palace
Guard, felt strange to be walking his own city, his very home, as a
prisoner.
As they passed through a narrow courtyard hung with banners of black
and silver Faramir could hear, far away but clear in the quiet of the
walled Citadel, the silvery sound of running water; and he guessed it
was the fountain in the Courtyard of the White Tree. Despite
everything, Faramir’s heart lit up with hope….
Then his escort led him down a long, steep flight of steps, dank and
overgrown with moss. A smell of damp and decay assailed him. A great
iron door was hauled open and Faramir was ushered into the prison of
the Citadel.
Inside it was dark, and a tiny yellow light swam towards Faramir; a
rush lamp, held by a jailor, whose face showed surprise and alarm at
the invasion of armed men. One soldier took rough hold of Faramir’s arm.
‘Take your hand off me, or I will break your neck’ he said to the man in a low voice.
The soldier let go his grip at once. The captain of the Guard turned
and smiled, showing yellow, uneven teeth. Faramir remembered him; an
officer dismissed from the Citadel guard long ago for disobedience and
dishonesty….
‘Still proud, Lord Faramir?’ he asked with a mocking smile. Faramir stared at him, not answering. The captain’s smile faded.
‘Let us show you what happens to the proud and unwilling in here’ he said
‘….follow me…’
They led Faramir down the long central gallery of the prison. Tunnels
led off the main halls, some blocked and abandoned. The ceiling rose to
an unseen height in the darkness. At last they came to a low door and
the captain drew the bolts and swung it open. He bowed to Faramir and
said in a mocking voice;
‘Enter, my lord…..’
Faramir stooped and went in. When he straightened up he at once noticed
the smell of burned flesh. He would have put his hand over his mouth,
but did not want to give his captors the satisfaction of knowing he was
sickened. .
He looked around. It seemed at first to be a forge, for there was a
great furnace in the centre of the chamber, its heat beating on
Faramir’s face. Long irons poked out of the fire, and overhead there
was a vast assemblage of wooden wheels with pulleys and chains. Fixed
into the wheels were iron manacles. For all the fires of the furnace,
Faramir felt cold; this was a torture chamber.
‘I’ve lived too long…’ he thought ‘if I’ve lived to see Minas Tirith come to this….’
Behind him his guards stood about, smirking. Their leader walked over
to a long wooden bench and pulled back a length of dirty sacking. He
called to Faramir;
‘My lord, here is the halfling we captured. We will do the same honours
for the one that was taken with you, when they bring him in….’
Faramir turned round in horror; on the long low wooden settle lay the
hobbit Meriadoc, covered to the neck with his grey-green Elven cloak.
Trying not to give his feelings away to the watching guards, Faramir
walked over to the bench and forced himself to look.
‘Merry!’ he said out loud despite himself. He touched the hobbit’s face
but it was cold. Lying outside the cloak however were his hands, burned
with irons. His face was still and white, and to Faramir it was some
comfort that it was peaceful, for he saw that Merry had been tortured
to death…
Faramir leaned over and placed a kiss on the pale forehead of the dead
hobbit. A tear fell on the grey Elven cloak. He touched the burned
hands then straightened up.. Suddenly into his head came Boromir’s
words as he set out for Rivendell;
‘Do not fear for me, brother! Elves and halflings and whatever else, we men of Gondor are stronger than all those…!’
‘Not better, though; worse, far worse…’ said Faramir. ‘Farewell, Merry…’
Then Faramir’s guards went to take hold of him and pull him back but
before they could reach him he turned quickly and headbutted the first
with such force that the man went down as if he had been poll-axed. He
seized the wrist of the second and twisted it till there was a snap,
and as the man howled and tried to pull away Faramir took hold of the
hilt of his sword and wrenched it from the scabbard.
Seeing the glint of firelight on steel the others scrambled backwards
out of Faramir’s way. He sprang after them and as they tried to squeeze
through the narrow doorway he ran one through and taking the sword in
both hands he swung it in a great arc and beheaded the other.
Faramir staggered back, then regained his balance and kicked the
carcass of the man he had decapitated forward onto the ground before
the Captain of the guard. He shouted at him;
‘That is for Meriadoc of the Shire!’
Then Faramir took up position in front of the furnace, with his back to
the flames. Dark against the yellow light he looked tall and as
dangerous as a cornered wolf, his long tawny hair black with sweat and
his grey eyes blazing. On his chest there gleamed the silver of the
White Tree embossed on his jerkin. He raised the sword, running red
with blood in the leaping firelight and brandished it in their faces
and cried;
‘Now, ye who are beasts not men, come and get me!’
The door creaked open, and Boromir entered his father Denethor’s chamber in the White Tower.
At first he could hardly see; the room was dim, lit only by a small
brazier set against the chill of the March dawn. Then he made out a
small hexagonal table inlaid with black wood and ivory, on which stood
a large glass globe. Boromir spared only a glance at the object, for
sitting in a high wooden chair beside the table was his father, and the
change wrought in Denethor in only a few days shook Boromir and almost
made him forget his errand….
Tall and powerful despite his years, Denethor had never lost his skill
in arms, nor his hardiness. But now the face that was turned towards
Boromir was that of an old man, shrunken and wizened, the skin yellow
and lined, the eyes burning feverishly deep in their sockets. The hand
that lay on the hard wooden armrest was paper-thin, almost translucent,
the veins showing blue under the white skin. A thin rasping noise was
all that was heard in the room as Denethor drew his breath with
difficulty.
‘The Ring has done this to my father….’ thought Boromir ‘and it was I who gave him the Ring…’
‘Who comes into the presence of the Steward of Gondor bearing a drawn
sword?’ asked a querulous voice, which Boromir hardly recognised as
that of his father. He looked down startled; why indeed was he carrying
a drawn sword? Boromir felt all his courage and determination drain
away at his father’s words. His mind clouded and he could not even
stammer a reply….
Suddenly Denethor laughed, a high cackle that grated on Boromir’s senses…then the laughing stopped and his father snapped;
‘I know why you have come, even if you yourself do not have the courage to admit it!’
Boromir stared at him. Denethor said;
‘You have come for the Ring…..’
The Ring. Boromir rose to his feet and swept the Council with a look of
disdain; Elves, men and dwarves. Even those strange tiny folk, the
hobbits. What did they matter? What did anything matter, beside Gondor?
He would tell them now, he would let them know what Gondor suffered,
how Gondor needed this mighty gift….
‘I’ve come to take it back, father…’ Boromir said, finding his voice at
last. He felt strange, weak and dizzy. But he clenched his fingers
round the handle of his sword and desperately held onto his resolve. He
saw in his mind’s eye Frodo at the moment he had overpowered the hobbit
and torn the Ring from around his neck. He saw again, burned into his
memory as it would always be, Frodo’s look of pain and horror and
betrayal.
‘It is not ours‘ Boromir said ‘and should never have been brought to our city.
Give me back the Ring, Father….’
Denethor stood up and stepped forward to face Boromir. Despite the
effects of the Ring he was still tall and erect and warlike; but
Boromir thought he looked like one of the images hewn in stone on the
tombs in the City of the Dead; cold, ashen-pale and bone-thin. Boromir
remembered something he had been told; that the bearers of the rings of
power became mere ghosts, wraiths…..then Denethor flicked aside his
cloak to reveal that he was still bearing his great black sword.
‘I too am armed, my son’ he said mildly. ‘Yet I do not wish to use my
sword against you, but to know why I should return to you that which
you gave up of your own free will….’
‘I should never have taken the Ring from its appointed bearer!’
exclaimed Boromir. ‘I should never have brought it to Gondor, and I
should never have given it to you…’
‘In good time you gave it!’ shouted Denethor.’It has made us strong….’
‘It has made us a city of spies and murderers!’ retorted Boromir. ‘Hated and feared by our allies who used to honour us….’
‘Honour?’ sneered Denethor. ‘Who cares about honour when we are strong?'
Boromir did not reply, just smiled sadly. He raised his sword and said quietly;
‘Give me the Ring, father. For if you do not give it to me…I will take it from you by force….’
Denethor smiled back, drew his own sword, then reached into his shirt
and pulled out a bright silver chain. Boromir’s heart leaped in his
chest when he saw the glistening orb dangling from his father’s hand.
The Ring! Then Denethor said;
‘Come and get it…’
And he put the ring on his finger and vanished…
