The Ring will come to Gondor
by Varda
Chapter Forty-three: The Constable of Gondor
A
row of willows grew beside the pool at Bywater, shading its deep, still
water. In summer Merry and Pippin sometimes fished from the bank there,
although more sleeping than fishing was done, and the trout nibbled the
bait without coming to any harm.
When the sun was high Merry would paddle in the shallow stream and
trail his hands in the clear water to cool off. The stream rushed down
the low weir below the mill with a steady splashing, the sun sparkling
on the foam and a rainbow forming in the air above it…..
The water was running still as Merry opened his eyes, but his hands
burned as they never had in the Shire, not even in the hottest summer.
Above him a carved and painted ceiling came into view, and Merry stared
at it; this was not his bedroom…
‘How do you feel, Merry?’ said a familiar voice beside him. He turned
and saw Pippin, his eyes red with lack of sleep, sitting by his bed….
‘My hands are burning…’ he replied, then asked;
‘Where am I, Pippin?’
There was the clink of a brass basin and the rustle of skirts and Merry felt water trickling over the bandages on his hands.
‘Keep the linen damp’ said a woman’s voice, and Merry turned his head
as much as he could and caught a glimpse of a long blue gown trailing
past the bed. A hand was laid gently on his brow then a door closed
softly and he and Pippin were alone.
Merry looked around the room; on a low table beside the bed stood a
blue and white pottery jug and basin and on the hearth a little fire
burned brightly. Along one wall ran a window through which the hobbit
could see a colonnaded garden planted with small conifers and roses,
although it was too early in the year yet for flowers. Merry realised
he was not in the Shire, he was still in Minas Tirith. The sound of
running water came from the fountain of the Houses of Healing.
‘Peregrine?’ said Merry. Pippin sat up straight in alarm; Merry never
used his full name unless he was angry with him, or wanted to say
something very important.
‘Yes, Merry?’ said Pippin nervously.
‘You can’t stay here…’ said Merry. Pippin stared at him, not understanding.
‘We set out to keep cousin Frodo company’ said Merry. ‘…to help him on his journey….’
Pippin nodded uncertainly.
‘Well…’ went on Merry. ‘I can’t do that any more, not hurt like I am. I
want you to go and find Frodo and stay with him. Don’t waste time here
with me….’
Pippin was shaking his head; Merry said;
‘I want at least one of us to see the Shire again…’
Pippin shook his head even more vigorously;
‘No, Merry! We are both going to go home, you will get better. They
have great skill in healing here. Sam can look after Frodo. I want to
stay with you….’
Merry smiled sadly.
‘I know you do, Pip my lad, but it cannot be. Now, listen to me. Go, and find Frodo…’
Pippin got to his feet; he knew Merry in this mood, nothing would sway
him. But a cold feeling fell on him then; perhaps his cousin was indeed
not going to get better. Perhaps he was dying?
He knelt and placed a kiss on his friend’s pale, cold forehead. Merry’s eyes were closed but he smiled.
‘And when you get home..’ said Merry in a low voice ‘…make sure you
show the trout at Bywater that the world is not as safe as they
thought….’
And Merry fell silent, breathing quickly and unevenly, no longer aware of his friend’s presence.
Pippin hated to leave Merry, but he did not want his friend to see him
cry. He walked quickly from the room, down the neat gravelled walkway
that ran through the garden and up the stone steps into the hallway of
the Houses of Healing. Two sisters stopped to watch him but forgetting
his hobbit manners he dashed past them down the wide high hall. He
seized the great handle of the outer door and threw his whole weight
against it. When it swung open, with maddening slowness, Pippin
squeezed through and darted down the steps without closing it after
him. With tears on his face, he ran as fast as he could to the Citadel.
‘I must find Aragorn!’ he thought ‘Oh if only Gandalf were still alive, he would not let Merry die….’
When Pippin was gone, Merry opened his eyes again and gazed out of the
window. From the little garden came the sound of a bird singing; a
thrush. A bell was ringing in the city below, but the birdsong was
louder than the brazen clamour warning the city of approaching enemies.
The thrush made Merry think of the Shire again and he started to drift
off into dreams of the past. He knew he should try to stay awake, for
he feared if he fell asleep he might never wake again at all, and
Pippin would come back to find him gone forever…
After he left Frodo, Boromir walked across the Courtyard of the White
Tree, down the long flight of wide stone steps, into the shaded
passageway that led to the lower battlements of the Citadel, and along
the narrow street that led to the First Gate.
In Boromir’s heart was only ashes, and he felt nothing. A hot breeze
from the plain fanned his cheek, but the city itself could have been
burning for all he noticed of his surroundings. All he knew was that
suddenly, and for the first time in his life, he wanted only to leave
Minas Tirith; the city that he loved was a foreign place to him now,
the gleaming white tower of Ecthelion looming like an accusing finger
over the Citadel.
And yet Frodo’s parting words sounded in his ears and worked on his bruised heart like a balm.
‘Frodo forgave me’ thought Boromir. ‘But can I learn to forgive myself…?’
Once the man who drew all eyes in Minas Tirith, and delighted in the
people’s praise, now Boromir wanted to avoid all notice. Seeing a great
crowd of soldiers and Rangers at the gate, and guessing from the shouts
that there had been a fight, Boromir slipped through a low, narrow gate
set into the massive inner walls, and emerged into an empty street in
the next level down. He sighed; running away did not come easy to a man
who had never feared anything….
Moving cautiously and praying above all not to meet Gimli, Boromir came
at last to the sixth level of Minas Tirith, to the wide streets behind
the square where the stables were. He entered the empty, cobbled yard
and the grooms looked up from their work in surprise. Boromir called to
them and said;
‘Saddle my charger, Seabhac Dubh…’
The men stood astonished for a moment, then seeing the determined look
on Boromir’s face they hastened into the stable and presently they led
out Seabhac Dubh, Black Hawk, Boromir’s great warhorse….
There were few horses in the stables now, and those were hollow-flanked
with hunger and dull of eye. But The Hawk, although lean, was still
full of fire and fight, tugging at the groom’s hand as he was led out
saddled for Boromir to mount.
‘My lord…’ gasped the groom, struggling to hold him.
‘He has not had a gallop for days; he is unmanageable!’
Boromir smiled, and walking slowly up to the horse he laid a hand
gently on the glossy black hide of the great steed’s arched neck. He
held out a wisp of hay and as the beast took it from his palm he rubbed
its ears and said in a low voice;
‘Great heart, will you bear me on one last errand?’
The horse whinnied as if it understood the question, and the grooms
looked doubtfully at each other; word had reached even the lowest
levels of the city about the storming of the Citadel by the Rangers,
and the death of the Steward. Boromir turned and led the horse past the
men, under the stable arch and gathering up the reins he mounted and
rode towards the Great Gate of Minas Tirith….
Just then, as he turned a corner into the square, a dark, ragged figure
stepped out and planted himself squarely in the path of Boromir’s
horse. He reined in at once. Aragorn!
Boromir sat still, his horse impatiently pawing the cobbles. Aragorn
had his drawn sword in his hand and his face was grim. He said to
Boromir;
‘You can go no further, Boromir. Give up that which you took by force from Frodo…’
Boromir smiled bitterly; even Aragorn could not bring himself to name
the Ring. He leaned over his horse’s neck and dismounted, moving slowly
as if he was exhausted. Aragorn stood ready for battle, light on his
feet and agile as a cat, his sword glinting in the deeply shadowed
street. Boromir kept his distance, and said;
‘I do not have the Ring any more, Aragorn; I gave it back to Frodo.’
At once Aragorn lowered his sword and stepped forward.
‘Boromir!’ he said, joy and relief in his voice. ‘I knew you would do it..!’
Boromir smiled and went to speak, but before he could, Aragorn had embraced him.
‘I knew it!’ he said again. ‘You have kept faith with us after all!’
Then he let Boromir go and said; ‘Where is Frodo?’
‘I left him in the Citadel; he is not hurt, Aragorn….’
Aragorn shook his head.
‘I know….’ He looked keenly at Boromir. ‘What will you do now?’
Boromir sighed.
‘I must leave the city, Aragorn. Gimli has sworn to seek my death in
battle, and I intend to deny him his battle and whoever’s death it
might bring…’
‘Why does he want your death?’ asked Aragorn, baffled.
‘I slew Legolas….’
There was a long silence. Aragorn stood staring at Boromir, speechless
with horror. Boromir raised his hand in a gesture of helplessness.
‘He tried to take the Ring, Aragorn. I tried to avoid him, I tried to
defeat him without harm, but Elves are great fighters, and in defending
myself…I mortally wounded Legolas.’
Aragorn bowed his head. At length he said;
‘Then you must indeed leave the city. But Denethor your father is dead, you are Steward….’
‘No!’ said Boromir. ‘When I took the Ring and brought it to Minas
Tirith, to the ruin of my city and my father, I forfeited the
succession. Faramir my brother is Steward now, and has decreed my
banishment…’
‘This is a hard doom!’ broke in Aragorn. ‘A brother banished by his own brother, and from the city you love!’
Boromir smiled bleakly;
‘It is a comfort to me, Aragorn, that you still find it in you to pity me, despite the harm I have done you and the Fellowship…’
Aragorn stepped up to Boromir and his eyes burned. He said in a ringing voice;
‘I tell you now, Boromir, that none more valiant or more noble than you
lives, in Gondor or anywhere else. If it is indeed impossible for you
to be Steward of Gondor, I here, with the power I have as last heir of
the line of the kings, create another honour for you alone to bear; you
will be the Constable of Gondor, to guard and guide her, under the
king, when he returns….’
Boromir stared at Aragorn for a long time, then asked hoarsely;
‘You would do this for me, after all the hurt I have caused?’
‘Yes’ said Aragorn.
‘Then..’ said Boromir, bowing low ‘..farewell, my king, and I hope I
will live to take up the title this conferred upon me in my darkest
hour….’
He went to leave, but Aragorn detained him.
‘Where will you go?’ he asked.
Boromir pointed to the red glow in the sky above the distant mountains.
‘To lessen the numbers you must face in battle…’
Aragorn shook his head.
‘You cannot throw yourself alone on the enemy!’
But Boromir just smiled and said;
‘Guard Frodo well, Aragorn, for there lives not another like him in all Middle Earth…’
Aragorn nodded, unable to speak. Boromir slapped him on the shoulder and laughed, an echo of his old self.
‘Weep not, brave comrade. Who knows what doom awaits us? The battle is not over; we may yet cheat Sauron of victory ….’
Then they embraced and Boromir without another word turned and quickly
mounted Seabhac and rode out through the great doors of Minas Tirith,
which stood half open. The guards went to haul the gates shut and the
last Aragorn saw of Denethor’s eldest son he was galloping across the
plain towards the distant line of Orc armies…..
