The Ring will come to Gondor
by Varda
77; A Precious Thing
When Faramir entered the room Pippin got to his feet at once.
`Merry is much better!`he said, running to meet him. `Come and see!`
Merry had been taken from his bed and put on a long fur-covered couch
beside the window of the little room in the courtyard of the Houses of
Healing. The window was open to the sunlight, and the morning breeze,
although cool, brought the scent of poplars from the gardens below the
Citadel. Merry was wrapped in a dark blue shawl trimmed with white fur,
and he was sipping from a bowl of warm milk held by Airdeall when
Faramir entered.
The Steward let Pippin lead him to his friend`s bedside. Merry looked up and smiled.
`Good morning, my lord…`Faramir shook his head.
`You must call me Faramir, Meriadoc. You are too good a friend to be
bounden by ceremony when you speak to me.` he smiled and laid a hand on
the hobbit`s curly head.
`I am right glad to see you so much better….`
Merry looked down at his bandaged hands.
`I can`t remember a great deal of how I came by my hurts, but Airdeall tells me I was close to being a very quiet hobbit….`
Faramir laughed.
`I never met a quiet hobbit, but it is true you almost became a completely silent one…..`
Àirdeall also tells me…` said Merry….`that you were able to ease my hurts just by a touch…..`
Faramir sighed. He was not so sure of that, for all Airdeall`s knowledge of healing. He just said; `Perhaps so, little one….`
Merry laid his head back on the cushion, as if he was worn out by talking. His eyelids drooped. Faramir frowned.
`I will leave you now, Meriadoc….` he said `you are tired. You must
sleep….` he nodded to Pippin, who pulled the blue shawl around his
friend`s shoulders and closed the window. Faramir crept out quietly.
The last thing he saw before he shut the door was
Merry asleep, Pippin sitting at his side, his arm round his friend. Faramir winked at him then closed the door…..
When the Easterlings retreated Boromir leaned on his sword and caught
his breath, gulping in air and wiping the sweat from his eyes with the
back of his gauntlet. He felt elated, though at the back of his mind
was the grim knowledge that this respite could not last. Even now he
felt his arms and legs growing stiff. He was tiring. Soon he would be
pulled down like a lion beset by jackals. For an instant Boromir wished
he had the Fellowship at his side, but he quickly dismissed the
thought. He had freely given them the gift of the chance to escape.
`It is better this way...` he thought sternly.
Just then Boromir was aware of a commotion among the Easterlings on
the far side of the bridge. A tall, broad-shouldered warrior in a
gilded helm, bearing a buckler with a lion worked in brass on its front
was pushing through the throng, not caring how roughly he shoved his
compatriots aside. The dark eyes that showed above his black mask
eagerly sought out Boromir and despite his size the big warrior moved
forward to battle with an easy grace. Gripping his curved scimitar he
stepped out in front of the crowd, who drew back as if half afraid of
him. Then he laughed, and shouted a challenge the words of which
Boromir did not understand. But he knew what it meant, and without
hesitation he stepped forward to meet Garbh`s champion….
Boromir stood in the middle of the bridge, waiting for his enemy.
Underfoot the stone surface was dry and smooth, and a breeze swirled
dust off into the dark chasm below the white arches. High above a bird
soared and Boromir, assessing the size and strength of his foe, was
aware of a harsh cry piercing the silence that had fallen on the
Easterling host. A bird of prey was hunting for its food, casting a
shadow on the white paved bridge……
With a roar the Easterling champion suddenly rushed at Boromir, who
did not dodge or retreat but waited as if rooted to the spot with fear.
Then at the last moment, just as the Easterling blade was inches from
his face, he lightly danced aside, clipping the upraised sword with the
rim of his black shield. The scimitar was knocked aside, but Boromir`s
counter-blow, aimed at the man`s chest, was deflected by his steel
corslet. The
force of the blow knocked the wind out of him and he staggered back, for a moment lowering his guard….
Like a leopard seeing its prey falter, Boromir darted in under the
man`s buckler and thrust the sword of Gondor straight at his heart.
Against any other man the stroke would have proved fatal, but the
champion was tall and heavy and he used his bulk skilfully in combat,
this time blocking the thrust with his mailed upper arm. The tip of the
sword burst the metal rings and scored the man`s flesh, but he wrenched
the blade down and almost pulled it from Boromir`s grasp. The warrior
of Gondor had to retreat swiftly, using all his strength to recover his
sword.
While Boromir was off balance, the Easterling charged forward, at last
using his greater strength and bulk to advantage, crashing into
Boromir`s shield and bearing him backwards under it. From the
Easterling host behind came a wild shout of triumph, and Boromir felt
his own sword hand trapped by the force of the warrior bearing down on
him. He stepped back but it was too late; the Easterling was propelled forward by his
superior weight and Boromir could not move away quickly enough. His
heel caught the broken edge of one of the stone blocks of the bridge
and he tripped and crashed to the ground, the Easterling falling
headlong on top of him….
Trapped under his great black shield, Boromir`s face was only
inches from that of his opponent. The man`s eyes glittered with hatred
and even with the black mask covering his features Boromir knew the
Easterling was grinning in triumph. He hissed something at Boromir, and
with his sword hand free he raised the scimitar and brought down the
hilt on the man of Gondor`s head. Unable to evade it, Boromir took a
crushing blow to his temple. The world grew dark and the bridge seemed
to waver under him. As if through a mist, he saw the scimitar raised
for another blow.
`He`ll knock me out then finish me…`thought Boromir desperately.
His right hand with his sword was trapped under his own shield, but
with his left he groped frantically for his long silver-handled skian,
which he wore thrust into his belt as did all warriors of Gondor. His
finger-tips touched it just as the heavy scimitar hilt came down again
and grazed his cheekbone. As it was raised for a third time, Boromir
clawed his skian free and in one swift movement he plunged it through
the black mask into the Easterling`s throat, pushing the man backwards
off him at the same time…
As Faramir made his way along the narrow street that led from the
Court of the Tree to the Gate, the first missile arced through the
clear morning sky above his head, trailing yellow fire.
Faramir stopped in mid-stride, staring upwards in dismay. There
could be no mistake; it was a fireball, catapulted from some siege
engine drawn up on the Pelennor by Sauron`s forces. Of all the weapons
that Mordor could have chosen to use against Minas Tirith, fire was the
most deadly. For the winter had been dry, almost a drought, with arid
bitter winds blowing without respite out of the East, out of Mordor.
Many of the wells were empty and all the fountains in the city were
dried up, their basins dusty and choked with weeds. The thunderstorm
before dawn had been the only rain for months, yet so parched was the
city that even that great downpour had barely left a puddle in the
great stone water tanks that fed the city`s aqueducts.
Faramir began to run, but even as he formulated in his mind the
orders he would give for the defence of the city, he knew that there
was not enough water in the city to put out the multitude of fires that
this barrage would start in palace yard and on thatched stable roof.
Faramir realised then that Sauron did not want to conquer this city; he
wanted to clear the city of its people by burning it to the ground. He
could rebuild it easily, as manpower was no obstacle to him. Mordor
could furnish endless legions of slaves to do the backbreaking labour,
driven on by the lash. The city built by Men and Elves and Dwarves and
adorned with all the beauty of their arts and skills would be reduced
to ashes and replaced with a hideous travesty created by Sauron. The
old Minas Tirith, the true White City, would be gone forever, and
Gondor with it. A new Minas Tirith, a foul mockery like Minas Morghul,
would replace it…..
With a deafening whoosh, another fireball shot over the city walls
and landed in front of Faramir in the narrow street. So close was he to
it that through the flames he could see the blazing skeleton of the
fiery sphere, made of wicker and a dense core of tar. The blazing orb
bounced off the wall and hurtled headlong down the street towards
Faramir, who could feel its intense heat on his face. It struck one
wall, then the opposite wall. Chunks of burning wicker flew off but
still the sphere blundered on, straight towards him, as if it had a
will of its own and was seeking him out.
But Faramir could not flee or move out of the way. His feet were
rooted to the ground and he stared as if hypnotised by the blazing
sphere bowling straight at him.
`Only one brother will live to see tomorrow`…the apparition had said to him in his dream.`…..you, or Boromir…..`
With a bound, like a wild animal leaping to the attack, the fireball bounced once, twice, then flew straight at Faramir….
Merry opened his eyes and beckoned to Pippin.
`Is Faramir gone?`
`Yes…` said Pippin doubtfully. Meriadoc raised his hand and slowly,
painfully, he tried to undo the leaf brooch he had been given by the
Lady Galadriel in Lorien. But his burned hands were unable to manage it
and he dropped them and said to Pippin with a weak smile;
`Unclasp this, my dear friend…`
Pippin did so, and sat looking at the brooch as it nestled on his palm. He knit his brows.
`Merry, I don`t understand why you want to take off your Elven brooch….`
`I am sleepy, Pip` said Meriadoc. `But this is no ordinary sleep.
Faramir brought me great peace, and banished much of my pain. But my
hurts are grievous; I am tired and cannot go on….these wounds are too
much for me to outlive. My time is come, Pippin my cousin and my
friend. I will fall asleep, but I will not wake up…`
Pippin stifled a sob.
`No, Merry! You are getting better…`
Merry shook his head.
`Pip, listen. I have no time. This is the end for me, but not for
you. You must be ready for the battle for Minas Tirith that is sure to
come. This brooch I want you to take, and to keep, in memory of me….`
Pippin was shaking his head, tears in his eyes but Merry went on;
`..and if this war is ever over, and you return again to the Shire,
take my Elven leaf brooch with you, as a sign of the friendship between
Elves and hobbits and to show the world that a halfling from the Shire
once earned the favour of the great Elf-Queen of Lorien. Let this
brooch be an heirloom of the house of Brandybuck. It is the most
precious thing by far that we ever owned…`
Then Meriadoc, exhausted, closed his eyes and spoke no more.
From the shadows of the room where she had been sitting listening,
Airdeall walked softly across and tucked the blue shawl closely around
Merry`s shoulders. Then she turned to Pippin.
`Do you wish to stay with your friend to the end?` she asked
gently.` he may not waken again….`
Pippin nodded dumbly. Then, as Airdeall turned to move away, he asked with a sob in his voice;
`What good did the healing hands of Faramir do then?`
Airdeall replied gently:
`Well, Peregrine, they brought him peace, and relief from
suffering. And you were able to say farewell to him, and he to you. And
Faramir was
given his visions…..`
A long time elapsed before another warrior stepped forth from the ranks
of the Easterlings to confront Boromir. The host itself withdrew to the
other side of the ravine, giving him a chance to catch his breath and
rest his aching muscles. He even had time to lay his heavy shield down
and sheath his sword. His laboured breathing slowed and the updraught
from the ravine dried the sweat on his brow. He felt his strength
return, but he did not dare allow himself to hope; he was a warrior,
and he knew what the end of this affair must be…
On the other side of the river, out of sight of Boromir, Garbh had
seated himself on the step of his gilded chariot. He ordered the horses
unhitched, to give them some rest. A warrior brought him a golden
pitcher containing some bitter wine, a cake of hard bread and a hank of
smoked meat. Garbh poured out the wine then took the food and chewed it
thoughtfully, looking at the sky and the bridge. After a while, he
heard a roar from the crowd of warriors thronging the bridge, but he
did not get to his feet or even stop eating. At last the smaller of the
two champions approached him.
`Don`t tell me....` said Garbh gloomily. `that stupid great ox failed to kill Boromir....`
Behind his black veil the champion suppressed a smile. He bowed.
`Your excellency, it is as you say, the prince of Gondor has slain your chosen warrior....`
`Chosen by himself, not by me!`snorted Garbh. `Now we must go back to
bludgeoning our way across, and that one solitary man will make us pay
in blood....`
`No, my lord....`replied the warrior. Garbh looked at him. The champion went on;
`Allow me to remove this obstacle from your path to honour and conquest....`he said, kneeling before his lord.
Garbh looked at the man`s bent back and rubbed his beard, his face doubtful.
`You have sharp teeth, little fox`he said `But you are no match for this Boromir...`
The warrior took a chance and looked up. His dark eyes shone eagerly.
`Send me, my lord, and I will ask no reward, like that other fat
fool did. All I ask is that when I overcome this Boromir, you give me
his body, every lock of hair and drop of blood, whether he be alive or
dead. Yield me too all his weapons and war-gear, his cloak, his jewels,
wrought in Minas Tirith and Osgiliath of the Stars, and his shield as
black as night. This I ask, and no more. In return I will save you the
lives of many of your warriors....`
At last a figure approached across the bridge. Boromir picked up
his shield, drew his sword and looked at his opponent. The sun was high
now, and no longer in his eyes. He could see his adversary clearly.
And as he studied the Easterling warrior, a twinge of fear awoke in
Boromir, the man who had rarely known fear in his life, in battle or
anywhere else.
For something about the bearing of this opponent raised a doubt in
the prince of Gondor`s heart. Where the other champion had been tall
and broad and strong as an ox, this man was smaller than Boromir,
barely as high as his shoulder and of slender build. But he moved
quickly, like a panther, and held a long, curved sword in one hand and
in the other a short, narrow-bladed spear, the stabbing spear long ago
favoured by Easterlings in close combat. Boromir had never seen this
weapon used and had no experience in fighting against those who bore
it. The Easterling carried no shield, relying on speed for his
defence...
Boromir weighted down by his chain mail hauberk and heavy
shield and slowed by fatigue, knew that this Easterling had the advantage over him.
`Are you my doom, warrior in black?`he wondered aloud. The wind had
died down and his voice sounded loud in the quiet. The Easterling
warrior heard him and stopped. He raised his scimitar in a salute, then
continued to advance.
`Well` thought Boromir `if this is the end at last, then so be it;
I will do my best for Gondor and my friends, as I have always done. My
life is only precious in what it buys for them….`
And throwing his great black shield before him, Boromir shouted;
`For Gondor…..`and under his breath; `…and for Frodo..`
and he ran forward to meet his foe.
