The Ring will come to Gondor
by Varda
Chapter Four: Whatever Happened to Samwise Gamgee?
Boromir woke to blinding sunlight streaming into
his room in the White Tower. He put a hand over his eyes and sat up,
his head aching fiercely. He was fully clothed and for a moment he
could remember nothing at all. Then, slowly, it all came back to him.
The desperate struggle with Frodo in the woods at Parth Galen, the
taking of the Ring, the return to Minas Tirith… .
Boromir groaned and bent his head. He could not remember what he was
thinking when he attacked the Ringbearer; his mind was a blank, as if
something had possessed him at that moment. But he remembered only too
clearly Frodo’s face, his look of terror and betrayal, and his own
determination to beat down the little one’s opposition and take the
Ring.
And then, when he held it in his hand, Boromir had been overwhelmed by
a powerful feeling of triumph and sheer joy. Never had he felt so
strong, so invincible. Nothing could prevail against him, or Gondor,
now! He gazed for a long time at the golden circle on his palm. How
bright, how beautiful it was! Far exceeding any treasure in the wealthy
city of Minas Tirith. Boromir had laughed aloud, turning away from the
hobbit lying unconscious where he had fallen, and with the Ring in his
hand the Prince of Gondor had strode swiftly away. He had not put it
on, but there had been no need to; already it had taken over his
thoughts, and he saw only a golden future for himself, his city and his
house.
He had reached the top of the hill before he came back to himself. The
Ring seemed to have shrunk and grown less bright, lying on his palm
like a dull trinket of some weary former age. Boromir passed a hand
over his eyes and began to realise what he had done….
Bells were ringing in the city below; a call to arms. Boromir
raised his head, alert for anything to do with the defence of Minas
Tirith. He got swiftly to his feet and strode to the window; below he
saw soldiers running through the streets to their guard posts. His
heart sank; instead of using the Ring for defence, his father was going
to use it for attack, and Rohan would be their first victim. Boromir
remembered his conversation with Denethor the night before…..
‘I gave you the Ring, father! Was that not loyalty enough?’
‘Do you regret it?’ snapped Denethor, and Boromir floundered for a
reply, for indeed now he was sorry he had given it to him. Already the
place in his mind that the Ring had taken burned to get it back.
‘Of course not…’ he stammered. ‘You are the Steward, and my Lord. I will do your will….’
Boromir banged his fists on the windowsill; this was worse than the
danger of Sauron! To have to obey a mad old man….Boromir stopped
himself. What was he thinking? He rubbed the sweat from his brow. His
father knew best….but his father was no longer his father, he was
hardly recognisable; Faramir was right….
Boromir straightened up suddenly; where was Faramir? And Merry and
Pippin? He turned and hurried from the room; if he could not undo the
damage he had done by bringing the Ring to Gondor, he could at least
save the hobbits, and free his brother….
The hallways and galleries of the White Tower were strangely empty
and silent; it was after eleven, and the Steward’s daily audience was
proceeding. Boromir walked quickly down the great hall to the doors and
without waiting for the startled guards to open them he pushed them to
and strode into the Hall of the Stewards…
Angry voices were stilled as he entered. Everyone stopped talking
and looked towards him in surprise. Glancing at the throne, Boromir was
taken aback to see Denethor had forsaken the Steward’s Chair and was
now sitting on the Throne of Gondor, the seat of High King Elendil.
Despite himself, Boromir was shocked…but then his father’s sharp,
mocking voice cut into his thoughts;
‘Awake at last, Boromir?’ he asked sarcastically. ‘Well at least
you are in time to see this ragged band of rebels given their final
warning….’
Boromir looked round and saw, standing with their hands hovering
over their sword hilts, tense and angry like high-spirited, brave men
insulted and threatened, the Princes of the Mark Éomer and Théodred….
Frodo sat up slowly and looked around. He did not know how long he had
lain there, but the winter sun had slipped further down the sky and the
wooded slope was now in deep blue-grey shadow. He shivered; he was cold
to the bone. He raised his hand and groped inside his shirt; the Ring
was gone.
For a moment Frodo felt neither joy nor anguish, only a great sense of
lightness; the Ring had weighed him down like a heavy stone, and now
that was gone. From his mind too the impending presence of the Eye was
removed, the haunting shadow that had kept him company, night and day.
And yet Frodo felt no relief; instead panic rose up in him, a terrible
need to get the Ring back. He rose unsteadily to his feet and looked
round wildly. Boromir, he had taken it. But where was he? Frodo
realised he could never find the man again; the Ring was lost to him
forever.
Panic overcame Frodo and he ran down the hill, tripping and stumbling. But there was no sign of Boromir, or any of the Company.
‘What will they say?’ he thought to himself. ‘I was entrusted with the
Ring, and now I have lost it. Oh why did I wander off alone? I should
have seen Boromir wanted it. I should have run away! Gandalf was wrong
to give such a great task to a mere hobbit…’
And as if all his strength suddenly had drained out of him, Frodo sat down on the soft leaf cover and began to weep.
‘I can’t go back to the Shire’ he thought. ‘I could never face them
after failing like this. I can’t go on, for what is the point? I do not
have the Ring any longer. I can’t bear the thought of telling Aragorn I
have lost it.’ Frodo sat with his head bowed. He fingered the raw weal
that the chain had left on his neck. He seemed unable to think clearly
without the familiar feel of the cool metal against his skin. He shook
his head;
‘I will die here’
He got to his feet and began to walk, not caring in what direction.
Sounds came to him from the river bank, shouting and the clash of arms,
but he did not heed them. After a while he came to a wide stone
staircase rising up the wooded slope, with stone images of Kings of
Gondor on each turn and platform. Some were broken and the heads lay
half buried in the soft leafy earth. Instinctively he turned and
climbed up the steps, moving mechanically, his mind blank of all
thought.
At the top the steps opened out onto a broad stone platform with a high
stone seat in the middle. Frodo walked to the seat and feeling suddenly
weary, he ascended the short flight of steps and sat down.
Even dazed as he was, Frodo gasped at the vista spread out before him;
almost the whole of Rhovanion lay in the spring sunshine, right to the
dark line of Mirkwood and the gleaming Anduin to the West. Dark swathes
of land showed themselves to be the retreating hosts of Mordor, called
back by the Dark Lord when he realised that the Ring was now in
Gondor…but there, still threatening, still undefeated, was Mordor. And
suddenly Frodo heard a voice in his head, even though he no longer bore
the Ring; it was His voice; Sauron…
‘So the Ring has come to Gondor! Not what was foretold, but better
still. The Ring in the White Tower! To have the Lords of the West
fighting and destroying themselves over it. What more could I ask? When
it is all over, I will lead my armies into the ruins and pick the Ring
out of the ashes….’
‘No!’ Frodo shouted to the empty forest around him. He looked
about; there was no-one there; the sun gleamed on the river and the
wind whispered in the pines below the hill.
‘I will not wait to see the Dark Lord conquer’ Frodo said to himself.
He got up and walked to the edge of the platform. He looked down on the
tops of the trees, and thought about Sam. Regret twisted his heart.
‘Go home, Sam.’ He said aloud. ‘Go back to the Shire; perhaps the storm will pass you by. Farewell….’
And without waiting further he flung himself off the ancient seat of Amon Hen.
‘Frodo! Mister Frodo!’
Sam had run and walked for what seemed an age, and now his short hobbit
legs were ready to give way. He had been ordered to follow Aragorn but
the long-legged Ranger had quickly left him behind. Sam could no longer
even hear the sounds of the remains of the company rushing through the
trees in pursuit of Frodo and his cousins.
‘My legs are too short for this’ he sighed, plonking down on a fallen tree trunk to get his breath back.
‘Use your head, Sam Gamgee, not your feet….’
He looked around; he was quite high up the hill, but through the trees
he could still see the silver glint of the river. The river!
‘That is where he has gone, I wager!’ thought Sam. ‘Back to the boats!’
And Sam leaped to his feet and hurried back the way he had come, to the
lakeside campsite where they had left the Elven boats. As he hastened
along he could hear distant sounds, and he realised it was fighting. He
moved more cautiously; hobbits can make very little noise when they
want to go undetected.
‘Well, they’re fighting in the wrong place, I’m glad to say’ thought Sam. ‘I’ll be bound Frodo is back at the boats….’
At last Sam saw the blue-silver stretch of water between the trees, and
the grey hulls of the Elvish boats rising and falling gently on the
waves. Moving warily, Sam crept through the trees till he stood on the
little strand where they had made camp. Across the lake of Nan Hithoel
the sun shone on the woods of the far shore. There was no sign of
Frodo.
Sam felt bitterly disappointed. He looked round, wondering had Frodo
perhaps put on the Ring, to escape danger. But he knew that if Frodo
was near, he could reveal himself…..Sam sighed and turned away from the
lake; he would have find Aragorn and the others….
A huge mailed hand clamped down on Sam’s shoulder with crushing
force. He stopped dead, too surprised to pull away, and looked up.
Sam’s eyes lit on leather armour and a black breastplate of vast size.
He looked further up and saw a great white hand imprinted on the
breastplate. Long dreadlocked black hair lay on shoulders as wide as a
mountain. Sam looked above that into two yellow eyes set in a wide,
leathery face also marked with the White Hand. The eyes glowed with
triumph. Sam’s heart faltered. Lurtz roared at his Uruk-hai;
‘I have found the halfling!’
