The Ring will come to Gondor
by Varda
Chapter Thirty-two: The Ashes and the Fire
When
Alladar, never a confident rider, was 13 a half-wild colt threw him and
he landed awkwardly and broke his back. For many days he lay on a hard
bed, admonished by his father, old King Thengol’s half-brother, not to
move, and fearing all the time that he might never walk again.
During the second week of his forced inactivity he was visited in his
chamber by Théoden, at that time not long on the throne of Rohan.
Théoden was a very different man in his youth; tall and straight
and active, with a keen searching eye and a forceful, impatient manner.
The young king seemed always anxious to be off to war, or to the hunt,
not languishing at home with the old hounds and even older advisors.
He prowled round Alladar’s room, picking up the pieces of quartz and
fossils, the dried bats and strange insects and pungent herbs the boy
had found in his solitary wanderings on the Mark. For Alladar was
intensely curious about the world around him and collected anything
unusual he came across. At last Théoden, examining a monkey’s
skull with distaste, spoke;
‘I think, when you are better, Alladar, you should forget horses….’
Lying flat on his back, the boy stared at the king in disbelief; Rohan
was the Land of the Horse. A man who could not ride was despised.
Théoden turned to the lad and sat down on his bed. Allagar
winced. Théoden ignored his pain and nodding to the pile of
bones and fossils he said;
‘You have an eye that looks into the nature of things and you think
more deeply than a lad of your age should. You are too slight to be a
fighter, and horses sense your fear. Don’t bother trying to learn how
to ride or trying to break a wooden sword on my warriors’ thick skulls
with your delicate hands; get yourself a leech and apprentice yourself
to him. I myself will prepare letters of commendation when you find a
suitable fomenter of potions and mender of broken bones to teach you….’
And before Alladar could thank the King he strode out of the room…
And so it was that Alladar became a leech, and eventually, King
Théoden’s leech, the best in all Rohan. But he had not been
summoned to the king’s presence for a long time; Wormtongue had
banished him from the royal chambers. Alladar, who was no courtier and
lacked the cunning to counter Wormtongue’s baleful influence, could
only watch from a distance as his beloved king dwindled and declined.
Alladar was berated by the people as the one responsible for the King's
health. But he could do nothing, not even approach the king, without
Wormtongue intervening and forcing him away…..
All this flashed through Alladar’s mind as he bent over
Théodred. He struggled to grasp that his king’s son, the heir to
the lordship of the Mark, lay dying under his care. But as he probed
the young man’s wound his hands were quite steady….
Then he forgot everything but his work. He could see, just about, a
black splinter of the orc shaft deeply embedded in the wound. He took
up a tiny pair of silver pincers and closed them on the minute fragment
of wood.
‘Easy now, out you….come!’
The splinter came out all in one piece, and Alladar stepped back and
flicked it into a brass bowl. Then he looked closely at it. At first it
seemed just a sharp piece of wood, slick with blood. But then Alladar
noticed that it was etching the brass of the bowl. He drew in his
breath sharply; the arrow had been steeped in a deadly poison!
Alladar straightened up and looked for the first time at Éomer, standing anxious and pale at the foot of the bed.
‘I will try a poultice….’ Alladar said to him as hopefully as he could. ‘It might draw the venom out….’
As the leech hurried out through the door, he almost collided with Eowyn. He bowed hastily and went on out into the hall.
‘What happened?’ demanded Eowyn, rushing forward and bending over the prince.
‘Théodred! Théodred!’ she called. The young man seemed to
hear her, deep in unconsciousness as he was. He stirred and moved his
head slightly. Eowyn smiled a brittle smile and taking up a cloth she
laid it on his brow which was bathed in icy sweat. She glanced at
Éomer.
‘What happened?’ she repeated.
‘We were ambushed’ said Éomer in a low voice. ‘By orcs…’
As Éowyn bathed her cousin’s face Éomer stepped over and gently removed the dressing.
Éowyn stared down at the wound for some moments as if unable to
take in what she saw. Then she closed her eyes and her pallor matched
that of Théodred. Éomer replaced the dressing. A spot of
anger burned on his sister’s cheek. She shot him a furious look;
‘How could you let this happen?’ she hissed.
Éomer stepped back as if struck. He shook his head and went to
reply, but at that moment Alladar bustled in with simples and linen for
the poultice. Éomer strode out of the room and down the hall,
tears smarting in his eyes.
As he rounded a corner a voice called out;
‘Lord Éomer! My lord…!’
Éomer stopped and looked back; four of the King’s Guard were
marching along the hallway, hands on their sword hilts. Their faces
were set and grim.
‘What is this?’ asked Éomer.
‘You must come with us, my lord…’ said the officer of the guard, a hint of apology in his voice.
‘Why?’ asked Éomer in surprise. The guard shuffled his feet and said;
‘You are summoned before the King…’
‘By whom am I summoned?’ asked Éomer suspiciously.
‘By the King’s councillor, Grima Wormtongue’ replied the man.
Éomer stepped up to the officer and said in a low voice;
‘Grima Wormtongue can go to blazes….’
The guard swallowed hard and said;
‘You don’t understand, my lord…you are under arrest!’
‘What for?’ asked Éomer in astonishment.
The guard replied, seeming to recite the words;
‘For treasonously leading Prince Théodred the King’s son into an ambush and bringing him to deadly hurt and harm…’
Before the man had finished speaking Éomer had turned
contemptuously on his heel to walk away. At a sign from the officer the
guards went to seize him but they were no match for Eomer who beat them
off with some well-aimed punches. But from nowhere a gang of ruffianly
attendants, sworn followers of Wormtongue, ran to their aid, and with
half a dozen men holding onto each arm, Éomer was at last
overpowered and dragged away….
When Éomer vanished into the Golden Hall with Théodred
Sam felt suddenly alone and unprotected; the townspeople stared at him
blankly. But Suaránach quickly dismounted and lifted the hobbit
down from his horse and slipping his cloak over him he led him away
from prying eyes through the stable arch and down a long straw-thatched
passageway to the kitchens and the servants’ quarters. There he removed
the cloak.
‘I beg your pardon, Master Holbytla, for such a rude reception, but it
is necessary for secrecy. The King’s councillor, Wormtongue, is a spy
of the Wizard Saruman, and he has many servants in the Hall and the
town….’
‘A servant of Saruman!’ exclaimed Sam. ‘But then I am not safe here, Saruman nearly slew me once already! What will I do?’
Sam had reached the kitchens of Meduseld . All along one wall was a
vast open fireplace, lined with spits and huge cauldrons bubbling over
a great fire which never was never allowed to go out. Sam’s panic was
assuaged by the smell wafting up from the pots; stew! He barely heard
Suaránach’s reply;
‘Saruman has spies, but Wormtongue too has enemies, a whole city of
them here in Edoras, and I can promise you are safe here, Master
Samwise….’
But Sam was already bending over the nearest pot, sniffing the
contents. Just then a tall, broad cook with a cheerful, friendly face,
wearing a voluminous white apron and wielding a ladle as a knight would
wield a broadsword, crossed the stone-flagged floor with a rolling gait
like a sailor on the deck of a great ship. He demanded in a booming
voice;
‘What is this here? Some hungry warrior wants his vittles? Well, seat
yourself at the long board, little master, and you will taste my mutton
stew without any more delay…’
Except for Suaránach and the cook, Sam was alone in the kitchen.
Suaránach took a piece of bread and cheese and chewed listlessly
on it while sitting on a wooden settle near the great arched door. He
was listening for anyone approaching, guarding Sam as he ate. After a
while he said;
‘Stay here, Samwise. I will be back shortly…’
The cook led Sam down the kitchen to the long, open buttery where the
servants ate. He was seated at a great ash-wood table scrubbed white
with a blue ceramic bowl of grey sea-salt set in the middle. Sam
concentrated on his food as only a hungry hobbit can. As well as the
mutton stew, which was thick and meaty and full of onions and carrots,
there was griddle bread and buttermilk and fresh butter and cheese. Sam
ate till he could eat no more, then he ate some more anyway. At last,
feeling content and noticing his wounds ached less with the banishing
of his hunger, he pushed his chair back from the table and looked
around….
He was alone. In the great cavernous kitchen the fire crackled and the
pots bubbled but the cook was nowhere to be seen. Sam saw a row of
cakes browning on a griddle over the fire and taking a cloth he swung
the griddle away from the flames.
‘They could have burned!’ he fussed. ‘Where did the cook go? In fact, where has everyone gone?’.
He had been told to stay where he was but Sam had an instinct for when
things were going wrong and now he felt alarm grow in his heart..
‘Steady, Samwise, you are in the home of friends…although I did not
much like the sound of that Wormtongue or whoever he is…I think I will
go and find Éomer, just to be sure….’
Out of the kitchen, under the great arch, Sam crept. The tunnel outside
was dark, with no windows and all the torches gone out. Sam felt his
way forward with his woolly feet, inching along. At intervals
passageways led off this dark hall, to the servants’ quarters, and one,
all covered with flour dust, led to the grain store…
At the end of the passageway was a flight of stone steps. Sam went up,
looking about and wondering where were all the servants who normally
made this a bustling place. He heard a voice, droning and high-pitched,
and made his way along a narrow high gallery with wooden walls towards
the noise…
Sam did not know it, but this was a service alley that ran the length
of the Golden Hall. Sam padded down it to the light at the end. When he
reached it he found himself at an open doorway. There were servants
clustered under its arch; the voice was louder now, harsh and scornful…
‘And then this traitor Éomer led Prince Théodred into an
ambush, set by renegade brigands from West of the mountains. He led
Théodred to his death!’
A shocked gasp rose from the crowded hall. Sam, horrified, elbowed his
way through the servants and found himself in the Golden Hall. Only a
few yards from where he stood was the throne, and on it a wizened,
palsied old man, his robes almost concealing him so shrunken and bowed
was he. On his head, sunk upon his chest, the crown of Rohan was awry
and his thin, blue-veined hands lay limply on the carven wooden
armrests of his throne.
Before the king, like a jackal before an old lion, stood a hunched
black-clad figure gesturing with a yellow handkerchief, which he
occasionally used to dab false tears from his eyes. As he spoke he
threw his long thin arm out to point at Éomer, standing with
bound hands amid a gaggle of heavily-built guards. The Golden Hall was
crammed with people, warriors, servants and townspeople, their faces
all alike registering horror and disbelief. But Wormtongue was not
abashed…
‘Do you doubt me?’ he sneered at a white-haired woman clad in black who was shaking her head.
‘What proof do you have, Grima?’ she replied in a firm voice. For a second Wormtongue was taken aback, but he recovered quickly.
‘Proof? What proof do I need? All the men who rode with the prince say
the same, that he was allowed to lead the charge on his own,
unprotected, unaided, and fell to the poisoned arrows of the enemy….’
‘That is a lie!’
The voice was clear and loud and came from the back of the packed hall.
Everyone began looking about, and Wormtongue frowned. The crowd parted,
and someone laughed. Sam pushed his way forward, and stood before King
Théoden, facing Wormtongue.
A murmur of astonishment rose from the people, who had never seen a hobbit before. But from Éomer came a cry of dismay.
‘No, Sam!’
But Sam did not dare look across at his rescuer. He had started, now he had to go on….
Planting his woolly feet firmly on the stone flags, Sam swept the hall
with his gaze. He let the hubbub die down till everyone could hear,
then said, loudly and forcefully;
‘This is all lies! I was there! Prince Théodred outran the
horses of his own warriors and reached the enemy before everyone and
was cut off. Lord Éomer here….’
And for the first time Sam risked a glance at Éomer and was
shocked to see the brave prince pale and with one eye half-closed by a
blow. He was however listening intently to Sam, raising his bound hands
to wipe blood away from his cut mouth….
‘…Lord Éomer tried with all his strength to reach Théodred but the Uruk-hai were too many….’
At that the hall erupted into chaos.
‘Uruk-hai?’ asked the white-haired woman beside Sam. ‘Was Prince
Théodred wounded by Uruk-hai?’ Shouting to be heard, Sam replied;
‘Your prince was wounded by Uruk-hai of Isengard, creatures bred by
Saruman in his underground caverns at Isengard. It is his intention to
conquer your lands with these man-beasts….’
Sam could say no more; uproar had broken out in the hall, everyone
shouting and arguing. So great was the commotion that even the dozing
king looked up.
Then Sam noticed Wormtongue staring at him. He saw the creature’s thin white lips moving. He thought he heard the words;
‘This is the halfling….!’
And before Sam could speak, Wormtongue cried out;
‘Silence! Listen to me! This is no witness of the Battle of the Ford!
He is a fugitive, a criminal who escaped from Isengard, where he was
being held by Saruman the Wise for his crimes. I have only this morning
come from Orthanc, where Saruman begged me to entreat the people of
Rohan to lend their aid in recapturing this miscreant….’
‘He’s a bit small to do much harm, isn’t he?’ shouted a voice from the
back of the hall, and a laugh went up. But Wormtongue said angrily;
‘Did you not hear him tell lies about Saruman? That it was his forces
who wounded Théodred? Yet everyone knows Saruman the Wise is a
friend to Rohan….’
An uneasy silence descended. Wormtongue went on;
‘This is a spy, in the service of the traitor Éomer. We should
mete out the severest punishment to one who seeks to protect those who
have hurt Rohan’s prince…’ as he spoke, Grima raised a hand to his
guards standing behind him. Suddenly Éomer shouted;
‘Run for your life, Sam….!’
But Sam had already realised his danger and turning he dived into the
crowd, burrowing through long gowns and chain mail, twisting and
turning like a hare before the hounds, desperately trying to find the
door to the kitchens. The guards moved to shove through the people
after him, but the crowd blocked their way, tripping them up and
catching their garments.
‘Let them through!’ screamed Wormtongue, wondering was this the
halfling Saruman had told him to watch for, and what would the Wizard
think if he found out he had let him escape? And just then, roused from
his stupor by the shouting, King Théoden looked about dazedly
and muttered;
‘A Holbytla! I’ve not seen one of them for years…..’
Aragorn knelt down to look into Pippin’s face. The hobbit said again, his voice low and unsteady;
‘I’ve lost Merry, Strider…’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Aragorn. ‘Is he …is he dead?’
Pippin shook his head and looked at the Rangers.
‘I do not know, Strider, I do not know! These men tell me he perished
by torture in the Citadel, but I can’t believe Merry is dead, Strider,
I can’t. For if Merry was dead, I would know it…..’
Aragorn stood up and nodded.
‘The heart is wiser than the head, Peregrine. I believe you; if Merry
was dead, you would indeed know it.’ He looked at the Rangers and
smiled. ‘I do not doubt your word, my friends. But I fear you do not
yet know hobbits. They are hard to daunt or kill….’
Pippin looked at the Rangers; they were nodding and some were smiling. But before he could speak, a voice behind him said;
‘I have lost something too, Pippin.’
Peregrine turned in astonishment. It was Frodo, standing beside Aragorn, a faint smile on his face.
‘Frodo! My dear Frodo!’ cried Pippin rushing over to embrace his cousin.
Frodo did not move as Pippin put his arms round him. The younger hobbit
was aware that Frodo’s clothes hung on him as on a corpse. Underneath,
Pip could feel only bones. Alarmed, he held Frodo at arm’s length and
studied his face. There was a sad smile and a strange pallor, but it
was still his old Frodo, his beloved cousin…he embraced him again. As
his cheek brushed that of Frodo, he felt the skin cold as stone. He
drew back again and gazed at his cousin, who nodded.
‘I too have lost something, Pippin, and my heart with it. Not just the Ring, but Sam too…’
‘Sam!’ gasped Pippin. ‘But how…’
‘Somewhere in Parth Galen, either taken or slain. We searched for him
for days, but found nothing, either alive or dead. To lose the Ring,
that I always lived in danger of. But to lose Sam…..’
Frodo broke off, for a moment unable to speak. Then he went on;
‘I am like one already dead, Pippin. No warmth, no hope, no life. You look on a corpse….’
Pippin stared in horror. Frodo’s eyes were dark and his voice was
lifeless, as if he was reciting the words of another. Pippin looked up
at Aragorn, who was listening with a look of pity on his face, but he
did not intervene or protest. Pippin knew then that what Frodo said was
true. He grasped Frodo’s hand and said impulsively;
‘We will get it back for you! All these brave men, and Strider too! We will return it to you, Frodo….’
‘Frodo looked at Pippin and said in a tired voice;
‘You do not understand, Pippin. You see the ashes but the fire has gone
out. Once you have it, you will always want it. Even if you lose it or
it is taken from you, you will always crave to have it again. But the
Ring never returns to one it has abandoned…’
The mention of the Ring seemed to rouse Pippin’s anger. He said;
‘It did not leave you, it was taken from you, by force. Boromir overpowered you and took it. The fault is not yours!.’
Frodo nodded, as if remembering. And for the first time Pippin noticed
the bruise on the side of Frodo’s face, and the mark on his throat
where Boromir had torn the chain from round the hobbit’s neck. Wanting
desperately to give Frodo some hope, Pippin said;
‘Boromir has changed, Frodo. He saved my life in the dungeons of Minas Tirith. I was under sentence of death, but he saved me…’
And Pippin pulled down his collar to show Frodo the weal round his neck
made by the noose. Frodo raised a hand as if to make sure the scar was
real. Then he dropped his hand and said;
‘I trusted him more than I trusted myself, for I bore the Ring and my
thoughts were all haunted by it. But he was my companion, under oath to
save me. I trusted Boromir...’
At the name of Boromir there was a low rumbling noise behind Pippin. He looked round and saw Gimli . He rushed to embrace him.
‘My brave Gimli!’ he said, tears in his eyes. He could say no more. The
Dwarf hugged the young hobbit till he thought his ribs would break. But
when he let Pippin go he said to him;
‘You didn’t by chance see the Elf?’
Legolas. Pippin’s heart missed a beat. What had become of Legolas?
Panic rushed up on him, but before he could speak, Caol the Ranger said;
‘The Elf who was wounded? They took him to the Houses of Healing. More than that we do not know…’
‘Wounded?’ growled Gimli, a dangerous gleam in his eyes . ‘Legolas is wounded?’
Caol nodded. ‘A broken wrist and other hurts, but he was not in mortal
danger, I don't think. We took him to The Houses of Healing in hopes he
would be safe there…’
Gimli smouldered in silence for a few moments at the thought of Legolas hurt. Then Aragorn said quietly;
‘Perhaps it is best for us all that Legolas is confined to the Houses
of Healing; he deserted us in Parth Galen, swearing to find Boromir and
kill him….’
‘But he must not!’ cried Pippin. ‘Boromir has changed, he has repented,
you have to believe me. And he no longer has the Ring, he gave it to
his father…’
‘No, Boromir has the Ring’ said Caol. ‘Denethor is dead; the news came at morning. The Steward is dead…’
‘Denethor dead!’ exclaimed Aragorn. He bowed his head. ‘So passes one
of Gondor’s greatest Stewards! May he find more peace in death than he
did in life….’
There was an awkward silence for some moments, then Caol spoke quietly;
‘My lords, we hold no disrespect for our Steward, the living one or the
dead. But we are resolved to seize the Citadel, whoever is Steward now,
for the city is held by a militia more in allegiance to Sauron and his
evil ways than to our ancient customs. We can no longer stand by and
watch wrong and injustice. By your leave, we will now march on the
Citadel….’
‘Wait!’ said Aragorn. ‘You cannot just attack the Citadel. It is
strongly defended, and not just by the new militia, but by the Citadel
Guard, men of honour and loyalty, who will fight to defend the sacred
places even against Rangers such as you.’ He looked at Pippin and added;
‘Boromir might have had a change of heart, as you say, Pippin. But if
not, you will all be slaughtered before you breach the upper gate!’
The Rangers looked stern; Aragorn was right. Suddenly, Pippin spoke up.
‘I have a plan!’ They all looked at him. He went red but continued;
‘There is an order out to find me. Why do you not bring me to the
Citadel and say you have arrested me and want to be rewarded for your
catch. That way the guards will let you into the Citadel. Then you can
attack from inside….’
There was a silence. The men looked at each other. Gimli rumbled;
‘Not bad, not bad at all….for a hobbit..’ But Aragorn shook his head vigorously.
‘No, it is too dangerous for you!’
‘All paths are dangerous now, Strider' said Pippin.
'We must get into the Citadel and find the Ring….’
He looked over at Frodo's exhausted face and added;
'We must restore it to the true Ringbearer...'
The Rangers were nodding. Aragorn bowed his head and sighed;
‘As you wish, Peregrine…’ Just then another voice spoke up; it was Frodo.
‘Pippin, you will be in front of the Rangers, unarmed, between them and
the Palace Guard. You will be taken first. If Boromir once again fails
to keep faith ….'
Frodo paused. Everyone was listening to him.
‘..then you, Pippin, will be the first to die..’
