The Ring will come to Gondor
by Varda
Chapter Forty-six: The Ring and the Stone
‘Were
you lying then when you said you meant me no harm?’ asked Frodo
angrily, clutching at the Ring under his shirt and retreating from
Faramir and the Palantír till his back touched the rough stone
wall of the chamber.
‘You ask me to reveal myself to Sauron, and risk exposure to the Eye!’ Frodo went on breathlessly.
‘All that I know, all our hopes and plans, would be laid bare to him, wrecking our chances of success and….and….’
Frodo could not bring himself to say any more; the thought of Sauron’s
unpitying gaze seeing into his very soul caused him to quail, and he
fell silent, breathing hard and staring desperately at Faramir. At last
he said in a low voice;
‘You ask too much of me, Steward of Gondor….’
Faramir endured Frodo’s reproach, standing still with an impassive look on his face.
‘When I said I wished you no harm, Frodo…’ he said at last. ‘I meant
what I said, for we speak the truth, we men of Gondor. I will not force
you to do anything you do not wish to do. You don’t have to do anything
at all. I will bring you back down to the Hall of The Kings now, and
lead you back safely to your friends…’
And without waiting for Frodo’s reply, Faramir turned and opened the door and being tall he bent down to go out through it.
‘No!’ said Frodo sharply. Faramir stopped and looked back.
‘Don’t go, Faramir.’ said Frodo. ‘I ….I did not mean to speak to you in such a manner…’
Faramir paused, his hand on the latch. Then he turned slowly and came
back into the room, closing the door behind him. He stood looking at
Frodo, waiting.
Frodo walked to the other side of the room, avoiding Faramir’s eyes. He
felt trapped. Not by Faramir, but by his duty. The idea that he might
save Boromir and his friends, and this ancient city of brave and noble
people, tortured him. But the thought of showing himself to the great
burning Eye, the Eye that had haunted his dreams, waking and sleeping,
since he left the Shire, struck horror into his very soul…
‘How do you know it will work?’ he asked in an agony of doubt. Faramir shook his head.
‘I don’t’ he replied simply. ‘It is a gamble, Frodo. There are no
guarantees. But then, there never are, and your quest too is at the
whim of chance. We must just do what we think is right, and leave the
rest to fate..’
‘Fate!’ thought Frodo bitterly to himself. He said aloud;
‘And when the Great Eye has scorched my brain to dust, so I cannot tell
night from day, nor good from evil, fate and the world will go on their
way, without me….’
Frodo stopped then, and shook himself. He sighed and looking up at Faramir he said;
‘Forgive me, Lord Steward, but I am….afraid.’
A look of sympathy crossed Faramir’s face and he smiled, but he did not speak or interrupt the hobbit…
‘Since I first took the Ring..’ said Frodo slowly ‘I have been bound by
this duty, to let no other have it, either for their burden or for
their advantage. But now I see you are right; I am trapped in Minas
Tirith, and the Ring with me. If the Enemy takes the city, we will all
perish and he will get back the Ring and the errand, so solemnly laid
on me in Rivendell, will fail…’
He looked up at Faramir, afraid but resigned.
‘You are right…’ he said wearily. ‘I must show the Ring to the Stone,
and hope the sight of it causes Sauron to stumble in his plans and let
us escape and leave the city standing…’
Faramir gave a nod that was also a bow to Frodo’s courage, and stepped
back. Frodo moved forward to stand in front of the Palantír. As
if from another world he heard Faramir say in a whisper;
‘Remember I am here, Frodo. If you are in peril, or some dread vision assails you, call me and I will try to break the spell….’
Frodo did not reply, just nodded assent, thinking grimly that if Sauron
seized him and held him with his gaze, there would be little indeed
that Faramir could do to break the spell. But he was encouraged by the
tall, brave man’s presence, as once he had been heartened by the
strength and courage of his brother, Boromir. But that was before he
fell….
Frodo looked into the Palantír. Despite everything, he was
curious. As he peered into the glass, Faramir said in a low warning
voice;
‘Just the Ring, Frodo, just let him see the Ring. Remember that is all you have to do. Do not go into peril….’
Without taking his eyes from the black glass, Frodo groped inside his
collar and closed his fingers on the cool metal orb. It slipped away
from him for a moment and he fumbled, trying to catch it like a
hobbit-child might try to catch a young trout in a Shire stream. A tiny
note of alarm sounded in his mind; it was as if the Ring sensed the
presence of the Palantír and through it the Eye and sought
mischievously to avoid a confrontation with its master.
But it was too late now to stop. Faramir was quietly encouraging him
but Frodo was not listening to the words any more; his hand closed on
the ring and he fixed his gaze on the black depths of the shining orb
before him…
At first Frodo could see nothing in the Palantír. Or rather only
darkness; a winter night without stars. But then, as he stepped closer
and laid a steadying hand on the cool stone ledge of the dais, he saw
tiny pinpricks of light circling in the depths of the stone.
Drawing the Ring from its hiding place under his shirt, Frodo held it out as if in self-defence....
All at once a drowsiness assailed him. He had walked and run for many
hours that day, since long before dawn, and had ascended every level of
this great city, and now his weariness lay heavily on him. But he knew
it was not just physical tiredness. He struggled to stay alert,
watching the swirling dots with knit brows, the Ring dangling before
him, the reflection of its pale gold orb gleaming on the black surface
of the Palantír.
Then suddenly, so quickly Frodo had no time to even give a gasp of
surprise, the orb sprang into vivid, pulsating life. Darkness in its
heart gave way to brilliant colours and shapes that swirled and shifted
and grew dazzlingly clear. Letting go the Ring Frodo’s hand fell to his
side and he leaned forward, his lips parted and his gaze transfixed….
In the orb Frodo saw Aragorn. Not as he had last seen him, striding up
the narrow streets of Minas Tirith, his drawn sword in his hand, his
face grim and determined, like a hunting wolf. The vision in the
Palantír showed Aragorn lying dead in some strange, dark grove
of tall whispering trees, a gloomy forest where the sky was only a
lurid streak of poisoned green overhead.
‘Strider!’ gasped Frodo, leaning forward to get a better look.
There was no doubt, it was Aragorn, and as the image became clearer
Frodo saw, with a missed heartbeat, that he was certainly dead. He lay
on a bier of tangled tree-boughs, moss-grown grey branches long ago
hewn from living wood. His pale, thin hands were crossed on his breast,
clasping the hilt of a great bright sword Frodo had not seen before.
Its bare blade glinted in the dim light under the gloomy trees and
likewise Aragorn’s face shone white in the shadow, fair even in death
but gaunt and hollow and cold.
That Aragorn had met no secret or sudden end was evident to Frodo. Like
a king he had been arrayed on the bier in a rich gown of dark blue
velvet sewn all with stars. A slim mithril diadem, set with a single
pearl like a drop of moonlight, encircled his long grey hair.
Frodo’s heart was pounding, but he struggled to master his thoughts; he
remembered that the Mirror of Galadriel could show things that would
happen in the future, but no future was sure, and people could turn
aside and avoid their doom….yet to see Aragorn dead, the end of all
their striving, wrung Frodo’s heart. At the same time he was aware that
despite his anguish the orb had not taken him over; he could reason
with himself about what he saw, nor was he shaken by despair as
Denethor had been…
‘The Ring!’ thought Frodo. ‘The power of the Ring is keeping the power of the Palantír at bay….’
As if in answer to his thought the orb suddenly grew dark, and just as
suddenly cleared again. Another scene filled Frodo’s sight. A wide,
grassy plain, lit by the strong, slanting sun of spring. A distant line
of blue peaks marked the horizon and their silhouettes were strangely
familiar to Frodo, as if he had seen them from another angle…then a
figure running as fast as he could across the long steppe grass caught
his attention….
‘Sam!’ cried Frodo.
It was indeed his own Sam, gardener of the Shire and lover of trees, a hobbit who bore the favour of Queen Galadriel herself…
But the favour of all the Elven kings since the lighting of the stars
could not have helped Sam now. As Frodo watched in horror a rider clad
all in black and mounted on a great black steed came into view behind
Sam, pursuing him hotly with an upraised scimitar, its notched blade
glinting wickedly in the bright sun…
‘Run, Sam!’ shouted Frodo at the orb. ‘Run for your life….’
There was something strange about Sam’s appearance; he had no pack and
his beloved pans were missing. But there was no doubt it was Sam; his
grey Elven cloak, clasped with his Lorien leaf-brooch, streaming out
behind him. He carried a sword, not the blade he took from the
barrow-wights but a long claymore with a hilt shaped like horses’ heads
with garnets for eyes.
So clear was the vision that Frodo could see the detail on the handle
and the beads of sweat on Sam’s brow. He saw too that Sam could not
possibly escape his mounted pursuer; the dark horseman overtook him and
raising his scimitar he brought it down on Sam’s unprotected head with
all his might….
‘No!’ wailed Frodo, forgetting everything and gripping the glass of the Palantír with both hands.
‘No! Not Sam…..!’
Frodo must have closed his eyes at the last moment, unable to see Sam
slain, for when he looked again the vision in the Palantír was
still and quiet, like a scene in a tapestry. Sam lay unmoving in the
long grass of the empty plain, far from the Shire, blood on the silvery
fabric of his Elven cloak.
‘Not Sam….’ Frodo said again, weeping. The scene grew dark, or perhaps
it was his own sight, marred by the pain of grief. Darker and darker,
till Frodo could barely make out anything at all. Then suddenly a
candle was lit, and it showed a stone chamber, much like the one Frodo
and Faramir stood in. And on one side of the Chamber was a tall hooded
figure, its back turned towards Frodo. The figure was robed in a long,
black, dusty cloak. Sensing the hobbit’s gaze it began to turn, and a
light sprang up all around it. Slowly, slowly, it turned and the light
grew and Frodo felt the Ring humming against his cold chest and he knew
what he was about to see. The hood of the robe fell back, and finally
what was beneath came into view…
The Great Eye..….
