The Ring will come to Gondor by Varda

The Ring will come to Gondor

by Varda

Chapter Forty-five: The Eye of Sauron

After Boromir left him, Frodo walked slowly across the Court of the King, past the fountain that ran with a clear silver sound and the tall unmoving sentinels that guarded it and up to the door of the great building that stood dominating the Citadel, the House of The King.

A flight of white stone steps led up to the doors, but the entrance was unguarded. Unlike the guardians of the White Tree, the Citadel garrison had been called away during the fighting at the gate, leaving the doors open and unattended.

On impulse, Frodo entered the great arched doorway.

The doors were of bronze, both comprised of eight great panels. Each panel was graven in the likeness of the kings and Stewards of Gondor, with their queens and consorts. The bronze effigies stood out from the door, and Frodo ran his hand over the polished surface and peered at the faces of the kings, proud, stern and haughty, although some were smiling as they rode to war or sat in state.

‘The line of kings is broken….’

The words leaped into Frodo’s mind and he looked furtively round, thinking for a moment that someone had spoken. But no-one was there. It was a voice from the past, the voice of Elrond as he spoke to Gandalf, pouring scorn on the hopes of men….

The words chilled Frodo’s heart. Because now he had regained the Ring his duty to destroy it loomed over him even more inescapable than before. All this would fail, if he failed….

He pushed the great doors further open, and walked in…

Coming in from the bright spring sunshine that flooded the courtyard, the high, colonnaded hall seemed dim and cool. But as Frodo’s eyes became accustomed to the semi-darkness he realised that windows set high in the walls let in long shafts of light, which fell in wide bars of gold across the black and white marble floor. Leaving the door open behind him, Frodo walked on down the hall…

All along both sides of the central aisle stood tall statues. Frodo went up to each, gazing up at the faces, stern and cold, fixed in marble. They bore sceptres or swords, and some carried scrolls. They all had a certain likeness, a familiar look, and Frodo at once thought of Aragorn; here were his ancestors…
‘Or at least his cousins, or great-grand-cousins, if such people exist….’ he mused.

As Frodo walked forward, he was aware of the Ring sliding on its chain against his chest; Isildur had brought the Ring here to Gondor. Perhaps it had been carried into this very hall. Now it trembled and grew warm, and Frodo faltered and felt weak.
‘This place calls to it…’ he thought. ‘It must be taken away from Minas Tirith as soon as possible….’

Frodo felt dizzy and looked for somewhere to sit down. At the end of the great hall stood a high throne, with a crown suspended over it. Too weak to care that he beheld the crown of Gondor, Frodo saw a seat carved of black stone at the foot of the throne, and he slumped into it, sweat beading his face. He closed his eyes and drew long breaths.
‘I must take it away right now….’ he thought. He opened his eyes.
‘If I keep it here, it will work its evil on someone else, perhaps another of the Fellowship. I must go on, alone. But how can I get away from them, meaning to help me though they do? And how can I go on without Sam? What has become of him? I have to know where Sam is before I can leave this place….’

‘You are sitting in the Steward’s chair’ said a voice behind him.

Frodo leaped up as if struck, fright driving away his weakness. Behind the chair, standing where he had emerged from the quarters reserved for the Steward when he was preparing for an audience in the Great Hall, was a tall, tawny-haired young man.

His slender figure was clad in a black velvet tunic emblazoned on the front with a tree and stars in silver thread and he wore at his side a great broadsword in a silver and black scabbard. His pale, fair face was stern as he walked forward to stand before the hobbit, studying him intently. When he reached him he drew his sword and said in a cold voice;
‘Who are you, and why do you dare come into the Hall of The King?’

Frodo stammered;
‘I am right sorry, sir, to have invaded the sanctity of The King’s Hall. I saw the door open and just came in. I felt tired, and…and…’
‘You’re the Ringbearer, aren’t you?’

Faramir’s question cut through Frodo’s words and he went pale; he could think of nothing to say. Who was this man…?

As if reading his thoughts, Faramir said;
‘I am Faramir, Steward of Gondor. I think you are acquainted with my brother, Boromir…’

There was a strange, even dangerous note in the man’s voice. Frodo stepped back involuntarily. But the tall man stepped forward, and slowly raised his sword till the point was level with Frodo’s throat.
‘I know that the Ringbearer is a hobbit, so it must be you. Did Boromir give you back the Ring?’

Frodo’s head swam; he feared to even speak of the Ring, and here this great stern warrior was questioning him about it. He regretted coming into the Hall; he had the Ring now, he should have gone back to Aragorn right away, where he would have been safe….he opened his mouth to reply and at the same time took another step backwards and his foot struck a low footstool in front of the Steward’s Chair.

Frodo fell backwards, flailing out with his arms. He would have landed headlong on the hard marble floor but the man, as quick and agile as a leopard pouncing on a deer, threw down his sword and darted forward and caught him, scooping him up and setting him gently on his feet again. Frodo looked up at him in doubt and went to back away, but Faramir shook his head and said;
‘Do not fear me, little one. It was just the thought of what grief you brought to my house, my father dead and my brother lost….but forgive me! It was not your fault..’

Frodo looked up at Faramir as he let him go, but could think of nothing to say. There were tears in Faramir’s eyes. He spoke softly, almost to himself;
‘Not your fault, Frodo…no, not your fault…’

For some time neither spoke, and Faramir looked down at the marble floor, an expression of pain on his face. At last Frodo said;
‘Boromir has given…it…back to me, and has left the city….’
‘I know!’ interrupted Faramir. ‘I banished him.’
Frodo fell silent. Faramir went on;
‘I am Steward of Gondor now, and my first action was to banish my brother, to send him into exile and perhaps to his death!’
‘He might yet live, Lord Faramir….’ said Frodo desperately, but Faramir shook his head.
‘Not Boromir!’ he said with force. ‘Not my brother! He will seek the thickest press of foes, the most fearsome battle. Only blood can wash away his dishonour, his and everyone else's…’
Seeing the look of doubt on Frodo’s face, Faramir said;
‘Come, let me show you…’

And Faramir turned on his heel and strode away across the white and black polished floor. Frodo followed him, up the short flight of steps to the high octagonal platform behind the throne of King and chair of Steward.

Here, in the apse of the House of the King, were a series of tall, narrow windows that looked out over the mountains and the Pelennor Plain. No shutters or defensive grilles obscured them and through them streamed light into the hall. Faramir walked to the middle window and leaned his hands on the stone ledge, his face pale with despair and weariness. Frodo walked softly up to him. Without turning, Faramir said to the hobbit;

‘Boromir does not have a chance. Look there!’

And Frodo stepped up beside Faramir and looked out, and saw, ringing the Pelennor like a dark crust of vileness on a poisoned lake, the army of Mordor, drawn up and ready to attack Minas Tirith.
‘They are like an iron ring around the city!’ said Faramir. ‘At no point does their line break. Boromir will ride straight to his death, if he is not already slain….’

And Faramir turned away as if he could not bear the sight.
‘And after Boromir, they will attack the city, unguarded and weakened by our own strife as we are. Then they will have an easy victory….’

Faramir looked at Frodo then and said;
‘It will not matter then who has the Ring, for Sauron will reclaim his precious thing, and we will all perish, and our world with us….’

Frodo looked at Faramir in horror, but said nothing. He gazed again out of the window, and his heart sank; the feat of regaining the Ring paled now in comparison with this great and inescapable danger….
‘What can we do?’ he asked bleakly.

There was a long silence, then Faramir said;
‘If you dared, if you thought that it was worth the hazard, there is something you could do, to save this city, and perhaps even my brother, and also serve your own quest to leave Minas Tirith and reach Mordor…’

Frodo turned and looked up at Faramir. He noticed for the first time that Faramir was pale and gaunt, and moved stiffly; he was wounded, or injured in some way. But Frodo set the thought aside and said;
‘Yes, I would do anything, save yield up the Ring, to help Boromir, and your city….’

Faramir looked long and hard at the hobbit, turning something over and over in his mind. At last he said abruptly;
‘Follow me…’

Behind the octagon was a low door, barely visible until opened. Faramir reached under his cloak and took from his belt a bunch of keys, the keys of the Citadel. He slotted one, a silver key with a crystal as its head, into the lock and the door swung silently open. Faramir gestured to Frodo.
‘You first…’

Fear groped at Frodo’s heart, but he beat it down. He trusted this man, for all the harm his brother had done to him and his quest. Taking a deep breath, he entered the doorway, his head held high…

It was not as dark as it seemed from the outside, but the door led only to a staircase, wending steeply upwards into the Tower of Ecthelion, lit faintly by some sunlight from high above. Frodo glanced uncertainly at Faramir.
‘Do not be afraid, Frodo. Climb the stairs. I will follow you….’

And so Frodo ascended the bare stone steps. No marble here, these plain granite stairs bore signs of being rough-hewn, perhaps made when some secret place had been needed in times of war, for the Steward or his councillors to have a place to confer away from the eyes even of the city….

Up and up Frodo went, hearing the soft footfalls of Faramir right behind him. At intervals as they ascended were small window-slits in the walls, but too high for Frodo to see out. He counted the steps, and after the number passed a hundred he began to sweat and pant for breath. Faramir stopped him then, and they rested. Then at a nod from the Steward, they went on.

Frodo counted three hundred and then, turning a corner of the staircase, they came abruptly to a great iron-bound door. Faded on the wood was the emblem of the white tree, with this time a half-moon over it and a sickly sun. Faramir stepped in front of Frodo and taking again the keys he selected another silver key, this one with a garnet for a head, and slotting it in the lock he opened the door and went in first.

Without being told, Frodo followed.

It was another octagonal chamber, but this time much smaller and darker. It was high up in the Tower, and Frodo could feel the high stone room sway slightly in the high wind. A moaning sound was the breeze rushing past the shuttered slots that served as windows. Frodo felt dizzy, and held onto the door, for there was no furniture in the small bare room….

Except a high stone dais in the middle.

Faramir was circling this, looking intently at something on top of it. His eyes growing accustomed to the gloom, Frodo saw that it was a round, solid object, shrouded with a black cloth. Faramir reached out a hand gingerly and took the cloth between finger and thumb, and whisked it off.

Under the cloth was a black, shiny orb, made of dark glass or highly polished stone. Frodo stared; it seemed almost an anti-climax after the long climb and the locked doors. He was going to ask Faramir why he had brought him up to see it, when he felt the ring suddenly slide on its chain, banging against his bony chest like a millstone. He gave a gasp. Faramir looked sharply at him. A tiny light, a mere pinprick of flame, lit up in the dark depths of the orb, and a dull whine began to sound in the room.
‘What is it?’ whispered Frodo, with a sudden feeling of dread…

‘This..’ said Faramir slowly ‘is a Palantír, although Men have called them ‘Seeing-Stones’ for many ages.’
‘But what is it?’ protested Frodo ‘What does it do?’

Faramir drew a long breath, and replied;
‘Once, long ago, there were seven of these, and they belonged to the Kings of Gondor, and none but the Kings could use them. They are stones for seeing, in them you may see things that are passing far away. By means of these ‘Palantírí’ the Kings ruled their lands….’

Then Faramir’s face grew dark.
‘..but in the long wars with Mordor, the Seeing-stones were lost, or worse, fell into the Enemy’s hands, till none were left.’
‘Then what is this?’ asked Frodo, nodding to the orb. Faramir sighed.
‘This is, indeed, a Palantír. My father must have found it, or the Stewards always had it, and he …he used it, as he should not have done.’
‘And what happened then?’ asked Frodo, feeling slight exasperation; this was all too mysterious and confusing….

‘I don’t know’ said Faramir with a bitter laugh. ‘My father never told me he had a Palantír. Nor did he tell Boromir, from what I can see. That secrecy itself bodes ill. The stones can show you what is happening far away, but they also reveal you to others using the Stones….’
‘So…’ asked Frodo in horror.’Sauron could see your father?’

Faramir shook his head.
‘I don’t know, Frodo. Only the King has the right to gaze into a Palantír and so only he can do so unscathed. I think my father saw things in it that made him despair. But whether he saw Sauron himself, or revealed aught to the Eye, I know not….
‘But you do believe that Sauron has a Seeing-stone, and is using it?’
‘Yes’ replied Faramir.

A silence fell. Between them the orb glowed dull red now. Frodo felt icy cold.
‘What do you want me to do, Faramir?’

’Only one thing can make the Enemy draw his armies back from attacking Minas Tirith, and that is if he thinks we have the Ring.’ answered Faramir.

Frodo felt even colder. Faramir said in a voice barely above a whisper;
‘On the other side of that orb is the Eye of Sauron, watching, seeking..’

A nexus of light had begun to grow in the black depths of the Palantír. Frodo had stopped breathing.

‘You must show the Ring to Sauron, Frodo…’