The Ring will come to Gondor
by Varda
Chapter Thirty-six: Something Worth Loving
‘I’ve
brought you some holly, Pip…’ said Merry hesitatingly, laying a small
cutting on the white and blue coverlet of Frodo’s bed.
Peregrine stared at it, the leaves so dark and glossy, the berries vivid red in the dim light of the bedroom of Bag End.
‘It is the only thing that is green and growing in the whole Shire’ Merry went on.
‘Everything else is covered at least a foot in snow!’
‘Indeed!’ snorted Bilbo, bustling into the room and looking sternly at the two young hobbits.
‘All the more reason not to go tramping in the fields in winter! He is
better this morning, Master Meriadoc, but you went and got this little
Took right cold and wet, and a nasty fever came of it….’
Merry sat on the side of the bed, looking miserable. It was true, they
had gone walking in the woods and were caught in a blizzard. Such a
snowstorm was a rare thing in the Shire, but the weather recently had
been strange, more unsettled than even the old folk could remember.
As the elder hobbit of the twain, Meriadoc felt he was to blame when
Pippin, usually hardy and lively despite his small size and slight
frame, fell ill with a fever, hot but shivering and talking strangely…
‘Where is cousin Frodo?’ asked Pippin, making an effort to sit up.
‘I don’t like to think I am putting him out of his bed!’
‘Oh never fear, he slept by the fire last night’ said Bilbo, fussing about a jug and cups, preparing a drink for the invalid.
‘He often falls asleep over a book anyway. This morning he has gone up
to the Cottons with Sam to fetch a mustard poultice Mrs Cotton is
getting ready for you. That should make you better pretty quick, my
lad….’
Pippin shrank down in the bed; not one of Mother Cotton’s poultices!
Effective but more dreaded than a dragon, along with her
cupping-glasses and blistering compounds….
‘I don’t think I need it, Bilbo, I feel a lot better already….’ Pip said desperately.
‘Oh-ho, no you don’t get off that lightly!’ chortled Bilbo. ‘I feel
responsible for making you better, my lad. A mustard poultice it is,
and no going out till there is a thaw…’
Bilbo regarded Pippin for a moment; the youngster’s face was pale and
his eyes had that sunken, dull look that fever brings, but he seemed
more clear-headed than he had been the day before. Bilbo gave a quiet
sigh of relief; despite his cheerful manner, he had been worried….but
then, hobbit lads were tough.
Pippin placed his hand on the spring of holly and looked at it. Against
the clean white bedspread the red berries were like drops of
hearts-blood….
Aragorn saw Pippin fall, and saw blood on the pavement, but then he
looked away from the hobbit as the young militia leader had raised his
sword to strike him as well…
Aragorn backed off; he still hesitated to shed the blood of his own
people. But Tachrán, although barely more than a youngster,
threw himself on the Ranger with furious strokes of his sword, driving
him back down the hill….
The sword-masters of Minas Tirith had taught Tachrán well, but
he had that which no instructor can impart; fighting fury and a
desperate courage. His fine sword of Gondorian steel was not a
broadsword, but he wielded it as a broadsword, both hands on the hilts,
the sharp tip singing past Aragorn’s face as he ducked back out of
reach...
The Rangers behind him drew back to give them room, and even the
militiamen paused in their attack. Both sides waited till their had
leaders fought it out….
Aragorn gave way, hoping to let the lad tire himself out. But
Tachrán, although tall and thin had a wiry strength that
reminded Aragorn of himself at that age. He began to draw in gulps of
air, and his blows fell lower, but the fury of his onslaught did not
lessen. The two blades clashed and sparks arced up into the damp air.
Tachrán, realising he was beginning to tire, caught Aragorn’s
sword and forced it down to the ground. He let go with one hand and
grabbed at the Ranger’s hunting knife, the finely engraved Noldorin
blade given to him by Galadriel which Aragorn wore in a sheath at his
back. Tachrán had got a grip on the handle, but the weapon would
not draw out; some Elven spell prevented it from being used against its
owner. Aragorn twisted away and Tachrán lost his hold on the
knife…
Seeing the young man off balance, Aragorn decided to spare him no more
and drove forward, raining hard blows on him, sending sharp shards of
steel from the young man’s blade and forcing him back. Tachrán
fought bravely and with all his failing strength, but Aragorn was too
much for him. In a deft move he struck the militiaman’s sword below the
hilt and the steel shivered and broke. Tachrán tried to dodge
aside but his weary feet would not obey and he tripped and Aragorn
lunged forward and seized the front of his black and silver tunic,
dragging him to his knees and putting his blade to his throat….
The young man looked up at Aragorn and his face was white. Strider smiled grimly;
‘You were quick enough to cut the throat of a defenceless halfling; now feel what it is like yourself….’
But Tachrán was defiant even in defeat;
‘I would cut the throat of any foe of Gondor, be they great or small!’
Aragorn paused; to what depths had the Ring, and Boromir who stole it,
brought his city! Great courage and great honour had been warped from
their true paths to turn in upon the people of Minas Tirith and destroy
them! Had Gandalf or Elrond or all the wise not told him, here he could
see for himself how the Ring destroyed all it touched…
‘Do you know who I am?’ Aragorn asked the boy. Tachrán stared up
at him, baffled. He had expected to be slain, not questioned….
‘No…’
‘I am your king….’ said Aragorn.
A sudden silence fell. The militia behind the gate stood still, staring
at the ragged figure holding their leader at sword-point. The Rangers
behind him stared at him in equal bewilderment. Tachrán said
‘You are lying! There is no king in Gondor…’
‘There is now’ said Aragorn quietly. ‘I have come to claim my own, and
I do not come too soon, to judge by you and your friends….’
And Aragorn nodded at the militia.
‘Tell your men to throw down their weapons and surrender, and I will spare them…’
Tachrán stared at Aragorn, too surprised to speak.
‘Submit to me, and I will spare you too…’
Tachrán replied angrily;
‘I will not buy my life with submission! The men of Gondor cannot be bought….’
Aragorn looked at him thoughtfully. Something close to amusement came
into his eyes. He straightened up and released the young man, who
scrambled to his feet, glaring at Aragorn.
‘You’re right’ the Ranger said brusquely. ‘No soldier of Gondor can be
bought. I spare you freely, and offer you the chance to serve your
king.’
The boy stared at him, speechless. Aragorn said;
‘There are evil men in Gondor, but you are not one of them. You are
brave and hardy, and did what you did out of a desire to serve your
city and your Steward. But the day of the Stewards is past. Denethor is
dead and Boromir his son has fallen under a great and evil enchantment.
Now the time has come to serve your king, or serve no-one but Sauron….’
Tachrán stood staring at Aragorn for what seemed an age. The
Ranger's clothes were ragged and he was little more than a begger. But
in his grey eyes burned something fearless and noble. It struck
Tachrán in the heart like an arrow, bringing back to him a
memory of something lost long ago, something great. Something worth
fighting for, something worth loving….Tachrán raised a shaking
hand and hastily brushed away a tear.
‘I am right sorry, my lord, for bearing arms against you…’
A kind of sigh went up from the militia behind Tachrán. One or
two looked relieved, but others turned and ran back into the Citadel.
Caol and Ailnigh looked ominously at each other.
Aragorn, however, just put his hands on the young man’s shoulders.
‘I have forgotten it already. But I will find it hard to forgive your taking of the life of one dear to me, the halfling….’
And Aragorn looked round for Pippin, but to his astonishment, did not
see him lying where he had fallen….just then Gimli pushed through the
Rangers and Aragorn said to him;
‘Gimli, where is Pippin…?’
The hobbit fell heavily on the wet stones of the street before the High
Gate of the Citadel of Minas Tirith. He held a hand to his throat, and
on the ground before his dazed eyes he saw bright spots of blood.
‘So this is the end of the journey..’ he thought to himself. ‘I hope Frodo gets away from this peril….’
All round him tall men, Rangers and militiamen, were surging and
fighting, and a sudden kick in the ribs made Pippin get up on all fours
and crawl quickly out of harm’s way. When he was clear of flying feet
and boots he looked down in surprise; on the ground, and on his clothes
there was only a sprinkle of blood; he was not mortally wounded after
all. His neck was grazed, but he had not been slain….
Pippin ran a hand over his elven cloak and the clasp which held it. The
clasp was bent. As Tachrán had ploughed the blade across the
hobbit’s throat, the hilt had caught in the leaf-tip of the Elven
brooch Galadriel had given him, along with the rest of the Fellowship.
With the great strength that often lies in apparently delicate objects,
the brooch bent but did not break, and the sharp edge of the sword only
nicked Pippin’s skin.
A surge of relief and gratitude rushed over Pippin and he scrambled to
his feet. At once he saw the militiamen, all sixty-odd of them,
charging down the paved street towards Aragorn and the Rangers. The
hobbit was faced with a wall of armed men running to the attack. He
darted under a raised arm bearing a sword aimed at him and down a
narrow walkway beside the gate, one too narrow for more than one man,
and only a man not wearing armour….
Pippin hated to run away, but he had no choice.
‘You’d only be minced up like meat for dinner…’ he thought grimly, and
wriggled through the gate and set off running down the echoing walkway
and away from the battle….
The tunnel eventually gave out onto a street beside the wall of the
Citadel. Pippin ran to a halt, winded. He looked around. On one side
was the highest of the seven walls of the City of Minas Tirith, smooth
and hewn of white stone. On the other side soared up the White Tower of
Echthelion, the highest point of the Citadel. Pippin felt in awe of the
great buildings, but unnerved by the silence and desertion of the place.
He walked along the street, his feet making no noise but a strange echo
following him all the same. The roadway was empty but strewn with
discarded items of flight, boxes, bags, weapons and clothing. Pippin
poked at the jumble wondering what had happened. A dreadful thought
struck him that everyone had been massacred by the militia, but he then
took heart, because there were no bodies. Probably the Steward’s guard
had just looted the buildings then been disturbed in their evil work
when Aragorn and the Rangers approached the gate….
High overhead a shutter rattled in the wind, and Pippin thought;
‘I am out in the open here, I better get under cover. You never know who might come along, and they might not be friendly…’
And at that moment Pippin recalled, with a pang, how they had taken
refuge under a great tree in the Shire when the Black Rider had pursued
them...how Pippin wished he was back in the Shire......he shook himself
and returned to the present. Seeing an alley leading off the street he
turned into it and came to a great stone building, or rather a number
of tall buildings ranged around a peaceful courtyard shaded by poplars
planted in great stone urns. There was a dark pool in the middle of the
courtyard and a fountain played with a soothing, silver noise. Pippin
crossed the courtyard and walked up a flight of stone steps to the
doors….
These were of oak bound with iron, and were broken open and hanging
loose on their hinges. There were signs of great force evident on the
aged wood. Pippin, his heart in his mouth, quietly slipped inside…
He found himself in a long, tall gallery lit by windows high up in the
walls. It was a bright, airy place with rooms leading off the central
hall. As Pippin walked down it, he noticed chests lying broken open and
their contents strewn across the blue and red tiled floor. Bottles and
jars were broken on the ground, and Pippin bent to examine the contents
of one. He wrinkled his nose in disgust.
‘Mustard poultice!’ he exclaimed. ‘This must be some kind of fever-house…’
He stirred the broken jars cautiously with his foot, feeling dismay
that anyone would destroy such a store of healing medicines laid up
over so many years. But from what Pippin had seen of the Steward’s new
guards, he was not surprised. Another grim thought struck him; had the
militia slain all the inmates of the hospital? Pippin felt cold at the
idea, but peering into room after room he found only beds upturned and
chests emptied. There was no sign of the inhabitants. They must have
fled in time….
Pippin felt relief, but from the open door he could hear the sound of
distant fighting. He turned and hurried to the end of the hall and was
about to descend a flight of stone stairs when a voice called to him;
‘Pippin, where are you going?’
Pippin turned round quickly and stared in amazement….
At the end of the hall, standing watching him with a faint smile on his face, was Faramir…..
‘Faramir!’ shouted Pippin, running back down the hall to where the tall
prince was standing waiting for him. As he came up to him he slowed
down, and stopped at last, standing abashed and suddenly uncertain….
For this was Faramir as Pippin had never seen him before. He was clad
in a hauberk of black chain mail, finely wrought, and over it he wore a
black tunic embroidered with a silver tree and seven stars. He wore a
black belt embossed with silver from which hung a great broadsword in a
scabbard decorated with a pattern of gulls’ wings. Over his tunic he
wore a heavy black cloak embroidered with symbols of sun and moon. But
despite his fine clothes, Faramir’s face was drawn and grey, and when
he bent and embraced the hobbit he winced. Pippin realised that Faramir
was wounded…..
‘You’re hurt!’ he exclaimed. Faramir shook his head.
‘It is nothing, Pippin. But I am very glad to find you alive, and unhurt….’
Pippin smiled and nodded. But then his smile faded and he touched Faramir’s fine cloak.
‘Why are you dressed like this, Faramir…?’
Faramir looked down at the black surcoat with a half-smile on his face. Then the smile vanished and he said;
‘I took this gear, and these weapons, from the Armoury of the Citadel.
It is my intention to harrow Minas Tirith; to rid it of the evil that
has grown in it since Boromir my brother brought the Ring thence….’
Pippin drew in his breath sharply; it was still a shock to him to hear the Ring spoken of openly.. Faramir went on;
‘Gondor has been attacked from within, not from without. It is being
eaten away and destroyed and Sauron has not had to lift a finger. The
Ring claimed my brother and caused my father’s death. It is my
intention to set right the harm that has been done. That is why I have
taken the arms and mail that were made for my father, and for my father
before him….’
‘But…what about Boromir?’ blurted out the hobbit. ‘What if he will not give up the Ring..?’
‘Then I will take it from him’ replied Faramir grimly. ‘for me it holds
no temptation; it has destroyed my house, I have no desire to keep it….’
Pippin stared at Faramir, and realised he spoke true; here was one whom the Ring would not claim….
‘And when Boromir has given up the Ring, willingly or not, he must
leave Minas Tirith, for he has brought such evil on the city that he
can never now be Steward. I will rule as Steward until the King come,
for I believe that will not be long now….’
Seeing the look in Pippin’s eyes Faramir smiled and said;
‘No, Pippin, I will not slay my brother. But he must take off the Ring, and leave the city….’
Faramir fell silent, and Pippin stared at him for some time. He had
always loved Boromir, but now he saw why Faramir was even more beloved,
for he had courage as great as his brother Boromir’s but wisdom and
compassion as well…..
‘Enough of this….’ said Faramir with a sudden twinkle in his eye.
‘Let me show you something that will gladden your heart, Peregrine Took….’
And turning, Faramir, limping slightly, led the way down the stone
steps to a sunken garden planted with herbs and evergreen shrubs. A
sheltered collonade ran round the garden on three sides and rooms led
off it, secluded chambers where the sick and wounded could rest and
recover their strength…
Faramir walked haltingly along the covered way, the only sound his
footsteps and the soft cooing of doves nesting in the arches overhead.
At last Faramir stopped at a doorway and waited for Pippin to come up
to him. Then without speaking he turned the handle and pushed the low
oaken door open. Pippin walked into the room….
It was quite dark inside; the shutters were down and there was no light
but a fire burning merrily in the grate. The room was scented by herbs
cast on a small brazier in a corner and against one wall was a couch
beside which sat a woman clad in a long blue gown and with one arm
clumsily bandaged. She got to her feet at once when they entered and
Pippin noticed that cast round her shoulders was a warrior’s cloak, the
long black robe of a Citadel Guard. The woman was Airdeall, and her
wounded arm had been bound up by Altach, who had given her his cloak….
Airdeall bowed to Faramir, and smiled at Pippin, but she said nothing,
just moved away from the couch and slipped quietly past them and out
the door. Pippin looked from her to Faramir, mystified. Faramir put a
hand on his shoulder and nodded to the couch. Pippin turned and looked
again and his heart faltered.
‘Oh my…it cannot be…’
In the dim light a familiar figure could be seen lying in a deep sleep
on the couch, his bandaged hands outside the coverlet. Pippin
approached the bed, hardly daring to hope…
‘Merry!’
