The Ring will come to Gondor
by Varda
Chapter Fifty-eight: King by Candlelight
Less than an hour later Aragorn heard the door open behind him, and turning round he saw Frodo emerge from the room.
‘How is Sam?’ he asked anxiously. Frodo smiled, a look of relief on his face.
‘He will be all right, I think, Strider.’ he replied.
‘He is badly cut about the head, and is tired and bruised. He needs rest, and care…’
Frodo smiled ‘…and he needs food. And so do I..’
Aragorn laughed.
‘A sure sign that a hobbit is on the mend; he wants his dinner!.’
Aragorn had started off to find one of the Sisters of the Houses of
Healing and ask her to bring food for Sam, but Frodo put a hand on his
arm to detain him.
‘No, Strider, let me go.’ he winked ‘A hobbit can always find the
kitchens. I am unwilling to put these good Sisters to any trouble on
our behalf.’
Aragorn went to take up guard again on the door but Frodo shook his head.
‘I do not think it is necessary for you to stay on sentry duty here, Strider.’
Aragorn looked closely at Frodo. The hobbit shrugged and waved his hand at the empty hall.
‘We can hardly come to any harm here in the very heart of the Citadel
of Minas Tirith, can we? It goes against my heart to see you out here
like some watchdog..’
Aragorn hesitated; it did indeed seem unnecessary to mount a watch so
deep inside Minas Tirith, which was so well guarded. And yet Frodo now
had the Ring again, and Aragorn knew only too well its power to unlock
desire in the hearts of men….he looked uncertain; he did not want
another to fall as Boromir had fallen. While he hesitated, Frodo took
his arm and gently pushed him forward down the hall.
‘We will be all right, Estel! I can see you have much you want to do. Go on now!’
And indeed the hobbit was right; Aragorn knew it was time to present
himself to Faramir, the new Steward. It was poor courtesy to wander his
city without making himself known to the Lord of Gondor. He bowed to
Frodo.
‘Very well, Frodo. But when you deem it right to leave Sam, come to me
in the Great Hall, for we must take council over what we should do
now….’
Frodo nodded, and Aragorn turned and with the long silent stride that
had earned him the name Strider when he wandered the North, he quickly
traversed the long hall and disappeared.
‘We must indeed take council..’ said Frodo to himself thoughtfully. Then he smiled and added;
’..but not on an empty stomach…’
He set off to find the kitchens, guided to food as all hobbits are by
his nose. He reached the end of the corridor and descended a flight of
stone steps.
The bright spring day was sinking into shadows, and the hall was
growing dark. The lamps had not yet been lit, although the bell for the
changing of the first watch of evening was tolling slowly in the city
below. As the final stroke rang out, a shadow detached itself from the
darkness under the stairwell and crept along the corridor, hugging the
wall, keeping low to the ground, seeming rather to slither like a snake
than walk.
This dark shape reached the door of the room where Samwise lay and
stopped, and sniffed along the base of the wood, probing with a short,
bony snout like a starved cat seeking fish. Scenting something that
drew its attention, it raised a hairless, mishappen skull and stared
around with large, palely luminous eyes.
‘Hobbitses!’ it hissed. ‘We smells hobbitses! Perhaps….perhaps we’ve found the Bagginses that stole the Preciousss…!’
The last word was uttered as a strangled shriek, and as the noise
bounced off the bare stone walls the creature in alarm put his long
bony hand over his mouth. The great greenish eyes rolled in fright and
scrutinised the hall; it was empty. No-one had heard him.
‘Careful, Preciousss!’ the creature hissed angrily to itself.’Don’t
bring nasty great men, with nasty bright swords. Hard and sharp, they
are….’ with these words Gollum cowered and bent his head, steeped for a
moment in self-pity and the memory of bitter woundings and beatings.
Then he looked up again and there was a dangerous gleam in his eye.
‘Hobbitses are here, maybe Bagginses. Must find the Precious before
anyone comes…’
With these words Gollum reached up a skeletal, scarred white arm and
grasped the iron door-handle. His fingers were long and splayed at the
tip, and webbed like a reptile. As he carefully closed his hand on the
iron ring he held his breath, and his curved, emaciated back, ridged
with long coarse hair like spines, was tense with expectation. Giving
the door a sharp push, he opened it and slithered inside like a snake
disappearing down a crack in the desert.
Inside the room was even darker than the hall, for evening now lay over
the city and the only light came from a small brazier set close to the
bed to keep Sam warm as he slept.
On all fours, so low his hollow belly touched the cold marble floor,
Gollum crept across the room. He did not go straight across the centre,
but kept to the sides, clinging to the shadows at the base of the
walls. In the twilight he was like a gaunt river rat sneaking up from
the cavernous sewers of Minas Tirith to haunt the city with pestilence
and terror.
In the great high bed Sam had fallen again into a doze, and had
returned to his bad dream; he tossed uneasily as he saw a great shape
block out the sky while it hunted his master. He cried out in his sleep;
‘Mr.Frodo, don’t go in there….!’
The words made Gollum jump, thinking he had been seen. He plastered
himself against the wall, raising his bon, webbed hands as if in
entreaty, ready to beg for his life. But then he realised Sam was still
asleep and he dropped his arms and a sly, venomous look came over his
emaciated grey face.
‘So, the Baggins Frodo is here!’ he thought. He grinned, revealing a
line of teeth sharp as a weasel's, although some were broken and others
missing. He crept to the foot of the bed and peered up at Sam like a
fox stalking a particularly fat goose.
‘Not the Baggins itself….not the Baggins….’ He repeated as if to
reassure himself. In the quiet room his loud, laboured breathing, like
a broken bellows, wheezed and hissed. Then he gave a little cry of
despair.
‘But it might be the Baggins! All hobbitses are alike….!’
And with that Gollum inched closer to Sam, raising his long, bony hand as he went.
The dream had receded again and Sam was sleeping peacefully. His tawny
hair gleamed bright in the firelight against the cold white of the
pillows and Gollum held his breath as he reached for the hobbit’s
throat, fearing lest Sam should hear his laboured breathing and wake up.
Gollum’s hand hovered over Sam’s open shirt collar. Perhaps the
Precious was there? Even though Gollum knew how impossible it was to
part with the Precious, his longing made him half believe that Frodo
might have given it to Sam. He yearned to reach in and seize his
Precious…but it might not be there, or even if it was, the hobbit might
wake up and overpower him. He looked at Sam’s face.
‘Wrong hobbit!’ he thought angrily. ‘Too fat!’
But so desperate was Gollum, so set on his murderous path that he did
not stop, but in a violent lunge wrapped his two long bony hands round
Sam’s throat, and started to strangle him….
At the first touch of Gollum’s hands Sam sprang up as if he had been
stung by a horde of bees. Gollum’s grip slipped and Sam came awake
suddenly to find a horrible grey bony face only inches from his own,
the great green eyes glaring into his and a wild, whining voice keening;
‘Wrong hobbit! Now you dies anyway….!’
Weak from his wounds as he was, nevertheless Sam still had some of the
speed and strength of a sturdy hobbit. Flailing out his hand he struck
a round brass bowl, set on the table by the bed to hold the dressing as
the Sisters bound his head. Now Sam gripped the smooth rim and lifting
the heavy bowl he brought it down on Gollum’s bald skull with all his
might.
The bowl hit Gollum’s head with a loud ringing sound, somewhat like a
brass gong. The creature at once let go of the hobbit’s throat and fell
backwards off the bed as if pole-axed. Sam, still holding the bowl like
a weapon, struggled to get free of the enveloping white sheets to hit
him again but he was too weak. Gollum, however, tumbled onto the floor
with a loud thump and lay for a moment dazed. Then he pushed himself up
on all fours and looking up at Sam he snarled.
‘Nassty hobbitses! Nassty bowl! Hurts Smeagol…’ and he would have
subsided into self-pity only Sam looked very much alive and alert, and
Gollum knew he must kill him quickly or be hurt again, then taken by
the Men of Gondor. Like a great frog he gathered himself for a leap
onto the bed….
But he never got the chance; from behind came a voice.
‘Not this time, Gollum!’ and before he could look up a tray bearing
plates and food was brought down on his already bruised skull. Gollum
was flung to the floor in a shower of broken crockery and spilt broth,
and lay there senseless….
Aragorn approached the door of the Great Hall of Minas Tirith in the
gloom of gathering dusk. The Courtyard of the White Tree was lit by
torches set in iron sconces on the walls and the black-cloaked guards
with high silver helms threw long fantastical shadows on the white
marble flagstones. Sentries hastened to swing open the great iron-bound
oak doors, and Aragorn passed into the Hall of the Stewards….
Inside it was quite dark, despite tall candelabra set at intervals and
filled with great yellow candles as thick as a man’s arm. Hearing his
own footsteps echoing on the hard marble floor, Aragorn walked forward
slowly.
He made his way down the centre aisle of the Hall, aware of the statues
of kings and Stewards of old standing on either side in the shadows,
following him with their cold stone gaze. He felt small and
unimportant, and wondered bleakly if he could ever match, let alone
surpass, the feats of these great kings of Gondor. He grieved again
that he had not seen Boromir’s struggle with temptation, until it was
too late….then he forced himself to look in front of him, to where a
tall, slender figure with long, fair hair and a dark green velvet robe
sat in thought on a plain wooden chair set at the foot of the Throne of
Gondor….
Hearing footsteps Faramir looked up quickly. Even in the dim yellow
light cast by the candles his keen grey eyes quickly took in Aragorn’s
battered mail and torn, ragged leather coat. He saw the glint of a
great broadsword in its well-worn scabbard at his side. But more than
all, he saw for himself that the bearing and the features of this
Aragorn were indeed those of the ancient race of Numenor; he could have
stood for the original of the statues that stood silent on either side
of him.
An onlooker would have marked the difference between the two men;
Aragorn was tall and dark-haired, his face weatherbeaten by sun and
wind, his shoulders broad and powerful from wielding the sword in
constant warfare. Faramir was as tall but of slighter build,
fair-haired with dark grey eyes and a face pale against his green
velvet robe. Where Aragorn halted and stood square, proud and stern,
Faramir moved to meet him with the grace of a leopard at ease in its
surroundings….
Then Aragorn knelt before Faramir;
‘My Lord Steward…..’ he began. But before he could say any more,
Faramir had reached down and taking his arm he lifted Aragorn to his
feet. Then he in his turn knelt and raising the white staff of the
Stewards he pushed back his cloak and unhooked from his belt a bunch of
keys and held them out to Aragorn and said;
‘You are Aragorn, Isildur’s heir and last of the line of Elendil. You
are our king, and our hope; all of Gondor, from the furthest sheep-cote
to the White Tower of Minas Tirith, waits for you to take up your
throne, and rescue us from darkness and despair….’
Here Faramir held up the keys and staff.
‘As the last Steward of the House of Anarion, I yield to you, the King,
the keys of the city and the Staff of Ecthelion and Denethor…’
Aragorn put out his hand and rested it on the keys for a moment. His
fingers, bruised by fighting, trembled as they touched the cold metal
of the keys, brass and silver and steel. Then he took away his hand. He
said in a hoarse voice;
‘My Lord Steward, do not offer me what is rightfully yours till the King comes again…’
Faramir looked at Aragorn with bafflement and almost pleading. At a nod
from the Dunedain he got to his feet, then Aragorn went on in a quiet
voice;
‘My time, Faramir, is not yet come. I am still Strider, only a soldier
in the service of Gondor, which you rule in honour, as your fathers
have done down all the ages. I am still yours to command, for you are
still Steward…’
Faramir, perplexed, bowed his head.
‘It will be as you wish, Dunedain; although for my part I would set
aside this burden. My house has borne it too long, and lately with
little honour…’
‘No!’ said Aragorn. ‘a terrible storm that shatters a tower cannot undo
the centuries it withstood foe and weather to keep the people within
its walls safe. Bear your staff still, with honour and my blessing….’
And Faramir bowed low once more, and when he straightened up tears of
joy and relief shone in his grey eyes. Aragorn said to him;
‘Our first task is to find a way to escort Frodo safely out of the city, and send him on his way....into Mordor…’
Sam, rubbing his throat where the weals from Gollum’s fingers were
starting to show red, stared down at the gaunt, sinister creature lying
senseless amid the broken crockery and spilt food. Then he looked up at
Frodo, who was smiling grimly.
‘A friend in need, Sam…’ he said. Sam frowned.
‘What do you mean, Mr. Frodo?’ he asked uneasily. Frodo winked.
’Who better than Gollum, the frequenter of secret and terrible ways, to
show us the dark and secret tunnels that lead out of Minas Tirith?’
