The Ring will come to Gondor by Varda

The Ring will come to Gondor

by Varda

78; Fire and Ice

The Easterling champion who faced Boromir on the white bridge had only once seen the city of Minas Tirith, and then only in the far distance. It had seemed to be an unattainable vision of white battlements and shining domes cut from the very heart of the mountains. From its highest point there rose a spire of pearl and silver, towering many leagues above the mist-covered river plain of the Anduin.

The leader of the war party had pointed with his spear and shouted to his warriors;
'There, fighters of Rhun, there is the great city of our enemy, Minas Tirith. There is their White Tower and seven gates. One day we will stable our horses in the Hall of the Kings!'

But it was an idle boast. Although the glories of Gondor were all in the past, still formidable armies defended her borders with strength and courage, and under her princes Boromir and Faramir Gondor repelled the raids of the Easterlings and all others. The war party went back to the shores of Rhun, leaving the bones of their chariot horses to bleach on the wetlands North of Cair Andros. No Easterling ever believed they would defeat the men of Gondor.

Then, in early spring when the snow was still on the ground, an emissary of Sauron arrived in the land of Rhun. A tall masked sorcerer clad in black armour and riding a black horse with trappings of silver and jet, he seemed out of place in the wretched, wind-blown Easterling villages on the shores of the still half-frozen lake. He astonished the tribesmen with gifts of gold and gems and fine weapons wrought by the Dwarves of long ago. He promised them that they would conquer the armies of Gondor, as they had once before when the Wainriders surged out of the East to slay the kings of the West. This time, however, the Easterlings would do so under the banner of Mordor, and Sauron`s victory would be theirs.

But long ago the Wainriders had been destroyed, and the Easterlings had learned then that they could slay the men of Gondor, and even lay low their kings, but others would always rise to take their place. Never did it seem that the Easterlings could wear out the tenacity and courage of the people of Westernesse under their Kings. But Sauron`s emissary raised his black-gauntleted hand with a ring bearing the emblem of the red Eye, and swore that this time it would be different; this time they would conquer Gondor for ever.

The Kings of Rhun gathered together to take council in a bleak lakeside camp. They planted their black horse-tail war banners to stream out in the cold wind and argued and shouted but could not decide. Certainly, the legate of Mordor brought rich gifts. But they were not unconditional gifts, and his promise was not without demands.
'Fight for Sauron, and you will rule where once you served....' he said softly. `Leave behind the ice of Rhun and join with the Fire of Mordor….`

Then his voice changed and he thundered;
'If you do not join with Sauron, you will be destroyed by Sauron, as Gondor will be destroyed, surely and completely. Those who are not with Sauron are against him…'

A great debate ensured, but still the High King of Rhun, Aracht, the Powerful, hesitated. To be sure, Sauron was mighty, with a strength not entirely of this world. But he did not rule all Middle earth yet, and Gondor was powerful still, and Minas Tirith was a long way for the chariots of Rhun to go to fight a war…

The next morning, Aracht was found dead in his tent. There was a great outcry, but the king had no wounds on him, and at the feast the night before he had eaten and drunk only the same fare as everyone else, so how could he have been poisoned? With his death, however, all remaining opposition to joining forces with Mordor melted away. Out of greed at the thought of plundering Gondor, as well as out of fear of Sauron, the Easterlings once again yoked their war chariots and set out to conquer the West…

Boromir eased the handle of his shield till he felt it secure in his grasp. His sword felt as if it were a part of him, and his every sense was alert to everything happening around him. He was aware of the changing colours of the late afternoon sky, the soft breeze whispering out of the West. He could hear the rustling of the willows dipping in the dark water of the river far below the bridge. Another battle, just one more of many as a warrior and prince of Gondor…

Boromir studied his adversary, a slight figure clad in black and wearing a corslet of fine steel that shone in the sun and a gilded helm with a noseguard wrought like a snake. Under the helmet dark eyes gazed intently at Boromir`s every move and between the eyes was the line of a dark blue tattoo.

Of all the warriors he had fought, Boromir thought, none had come from a land as far away, as unutterably strange to him as this man. On the hem of the warrior`s black veil there was sewn a golden border of script, barbaric and unintelligible to Boromir, who stared at the words and wished he could understand what they meant. For words were composed and written by men, like him, perhaps in books of great age; as old as those of Gondor possibly…..Boromir sighed and wished for the first time in his life that he could lay down his sword and not fight any more. With a suddenness that startled him, he felt an ache of longing for his city of Minas Tirith, far away across the plain….

The Easterling suddenly sprang forward at a run so swift Boromir could barely follow his movements. Quickly gathering his wits he gripped his sword tightly and crouched, ready to receive the onslaught.

But the black-clad warrior darted past without striking at him. Boromir turned, and the Easterling was already coming at him from behind, thrusting with his spear. Boromir parried the blow, then dashed the man's scimitar away as he brought it down on his head. The warrior retreated, then unexpectedly hefted the spear and flung it.

The movement was swifter than thought, but Boromir reacted in time and ducked. The spear clipped his shield rim and clattered to the ground. Boromir straightened up but found his opponent gone. Twisting about, he saw him already behind him, snatching up his spear.

'Oh you are good, Easterling....' thought Boromir, smiling despite himself.
'Fast as thought and sharp as steel....'

Then he had to leap aside as the Easterling ran at him again. This time he did not pass, but thrust at Boromir with his blade and when the man of Gondor retaliated, he knocked down his sword with the butt of the spear. Boromir retreated, breathing quickly and feeling the handle of his sword slippery with sweat. From the far shore came the murmur of the crowd, scenting the possibility of victory for their champion....
'Not yet, my friend...' thought Boromir. 'I have a few tricks too....'

He let the Easterling engage him in swordplay for a few more seconds, then dropped his blade to the ground, as if his enemy had knocked it from his hand. The Easterling at once leaped forward, and Boromir swung his shield with all his might, catching the warrior under the chin with its full weight.

The Easterling staggered back, dropping his scimitar. Boromor snatched up his sword and thrust it straight at the man's heart. But the Easterling saw the glint of steel and turned, barely inches from death, and the keen blade merely sliced the mail rings on his back.

Boromir retreated, recovering his sword. The Easterling turned quickly and there was a circle of red drops on the white stones from a deep gash on his jaw, and more blood on his black mask. But his face was pale with concentration and in one flowing movement he brought the short spear up underhand and as Boromir stepped back he struck him in the side, above the hip.

Even though he was tired and slowing down, Boromir knew it was a lucky hit. Some evil chance had guided the spear at a moment when he was not concentrating, not expecting a strike. The blow did not even hurt, Boromir just felt a sting in his flank and some pressure, but looking down he saw bright blood welling out through his tunic, and a dark stain on the leather of his scabbard, and he saw the shaft of the spear embedded in his side.

Boromir took a few unsteady steps backward, grasped the spear in his hands and with his rapidly failing strength he wrenched it out of his side. The world grew dark, and the bridge faded into the distance. He shook his head desperately to clear it, but then his left leg gave under him, and he stumbled, and there was a roar from the far shore. He still held his sword, but now he was on his knees and could not rise for he had no strength in his legs. Cold sweat trickled down his face, and as if through a mist he saw the Easterling champion approach him slowly and cautiously, his scimitar raised.

On the far shore, drawn by the excited baying of his men, Garbh stood up and walked onto the bridge, the throng of warriors respectfully making way for him. His heart lifted when he saw Boromir half kneeling, half lying before the Easterling warrior who had vanquished him. Garbh smiled; not for nothing was this champion called Taise, the Ghost. For no-one could move as swiftly, more like a spirit than a human being. Delighted, Garbh called to his men;
'At last, the prince of Gondor is ours!'

On the bridge, Boromir stared defiantly at the Easterling walking towards him. He still held tight to his sword and was still determined to make this enemy pay for his life. Then for all his resolve his shield slipped from his hand and clattered onto the stones, and he fell forward to the ground, still gripping his sword. The Easterling champion said to him in a strange ancient dialect of Westernesse;
'Yield to me, Boromir of Gondor. Yield and you we will let you live....'
'Yield to the slaves of Sauron?' gasped Boromir, raising his head from the dusty stones. 'Never!'
The Easterling hesitated and looked back towards Garbh. The chieftain nodded to his champion….

The evening sun was casting long shadows on the Mark when Eowyn reined in her horse on a low hill within sight of the White Mountains. Her page, Ciall, awkwardly pulled up his mount beside her and Aragorn and Gandalf cantered to a halt behind them. Legolas gently pulled up his horse to avoid unseating Gimli.

Well now what is it?’ asked the Dwarf gruffly, sore and tired from a long day in the saddle, and still disheartened by the leaving behind of Boromir. Eowyn, even more tired and aching from her wounded leg, replied in a listless voice;
‘Have no fear, master Dwarf. Here are no more enemies, except secret and cunning ones masquerading as allies in our court. Behold, you see before you the city of Edoras!’

At that Gimli craned around the Elf to look ahead, and marvelled at the sight of a town seemingly built all on the crest of a hill that rose up from the midst of the rolling plains of the Mark. In the evening light the wooden walls and gables were lit with gold, and on the crown of the hill rose a great hall, its pillars and roof-ends painted gold in earnest, and red and green and yellow as well. Before the hall stretched a great stone platform and even at this distance the company could see planted on it a tall post from which flew a great banner of a white horse running on a green field.

‘Edoras!’ breathed Aragorn.
‘Yes, my lord Aragorn, Edoras..’ replied Eowyn in a tired voice. ‘Behold the Golden Hall of Meduseld, royal seat of the Eorlingas, Kings of the Mark for many ages…’ she looked down then, and her face fell.
‘I would that you had come in happier times!’ she said. ‘Now you find us a beaten and fearful people, our king fallen under a spell, our court a hive of spies ruled by a snake, Wormtongue…..’

She stopped, and drew a deep breath, as if to compose herself. She managed a pale smile then said to Aragorn;
‘Here, my lord, we must part company. I had hoped to lead my betrothed, prince Boromir, into the halls of Edoras to free my father and my people. But Boromir has fallen, and the task must pass to you, if you can accomplish it.’

For a moment, Aragorn did not reply. He had no words to heal the pain that he saw in Eowyn’s eyes. He merely inclined his head in a bow.
‘My lady, I will do all I can to accomplish what you ask of me…..’
Eowyn’s smile faltered. Then she seemed to shake herself, and went on in a stronger voice;
‘Here, my lord and all you lords of the Company of Gondor, our ways must no longer lie together. I left my city in stealth, and must return the same way. Only Grima Wormtongue knows I departed, so I will slip back into the city unnoticed, and brave his vengeance. He alone knows he sent warriors after me to kill me…’

Aragorn went to interrupt but Eowyn raised a hand to prevent him.
‘No, my lord, trust me in this. I will be quite safe, because…..’ she made a face. ‘..it is easy to slip unnoticed into Edoras. It was never built as a fortress; when we need to withstand the siege of an enemy we withdraw to Helm’s Deep. There are many ways back into this city, and no sentry will stop the niece of King Theoden.’

Behind the princess, Ciall was shifting nervously in the saddle. Unaccustomed to being on horseback, he was sore from the long ride, and now wondered what his fate would be. As if reading his thoughts, Eowyn turned and smiled at him.
‘Do not worry, loyal page of Gondor..’ she said in a reassuring voice.
‘When we gain access to the city, I will have you dressed in the livery of a squire of Rohan, in a plain homespun cloak and leathern tunic. You will pass as a lad sent from the East Enmet to be my page. No-one will think to question you…..’
Then her brow furrowed.
‘Just talk as little as possible and feign lack of wit….’

`No feigning will be needed for that….`thought Ciall glumly. Whatever waited for him in this city of wood and steep muddy alleys, it could not be as bad as fighting off orcs…could it?

Then Eowyn turned to Aragorn and said;
‘Farewell, my lord. I will sneak into my own city by the back door, while you, a ragged but noble stranger, must beg admittance at the front. I fear you will find little hospitality! Yet may the fates give you victory, for the sake of both our kingdoms!’

And not waiting for a reply, Eowyn spurred her horse down the slope to the low marshy land at the bottom of the hill. There she turned and followed the course of a tiny stream that meandered out of sight behind the town. Unsteady in the saddle, Ciall rode after her. Soon they vanished among tall reeds and patches of dry brush.

The company of Gondor, now only four, sat without speaking on their horses till the princess was out of sight. By then the sun had sunk below the White Mountains and a single star glittered in the deep blue sky over Edoras. Gandalf turned and said to his companions;

‘Follow me now to the gate of Edoras, last of the Company of Gondor! King Theoden is under a spell and we can expect no welcome here. Be on your guard, all of you!’

And with those words, Aragorn and Gandalf, Legolas and Gimli rode forward and passed through the gate of Edoras and under the sullen eyes of the people they ascended the narrow streets to the Golden Hall of Meduseld…..

The heat of the fireball grew stronger till it almost scorched Faramir’s face. He put up a hand to protect himself from the blazing missile careering towards him….and woke with a cry.

‘Lord Faramir, is everything all right? Are you sick?’

Faramir came awake with a start, his arms flailing as he fought off the fireball in his dream. He opened his eyes and stared round wildly.

He was in the cave at Henneth Anun. It was dark, although a cold grey light stealing into the tunnel where his Rangers and he had their secret headquarters showed that it was dawn in the outside world.

Faramir sprang to his feet, and as he did so a horn, cloven in two, fell from his lap and clattered to the floor of the tunnel.

Standing in front of him was one of his Ranger lieutenants, Breag. Like many of the Rangers of Ithilien, he was a tall, dark-haired man with piercing grey eyes who bore himself proudly. Now he stood before his leader with an anxious and uncertain look on his face. Faramir spoke quickly;
‘Breag, do not concern yourself. Nothing is amiss; I was dreaming, that was all…..’

Set beside Faramir was a brazier, lit to ward off the chill of the damp cave. It had blazed up as Faramir dozed, and was burning brightly. The heat on his face had woken him up….

Breag hesitated, not convinced. He picked up the two pieces of the cloven hunting horn and handed them respectfully to Faramir.
‘Since you found the Horn of Gondor on the waters of the Anduin, my lord, you have known not a single moment of peaceful sleep.’ he said quietly. Faramir ran his hands over the two halves of polished horn as if caressing them, and said nothing.
‘Boromir your brother is not coming back, is he?’ Breas asked gently.

Faramir walked to the entrance of the tunnel. A chilly dawn was streaking the sky with red and gold. Far away in the East Minas Tirith, his city, was preparing for attack, and his father was ordering its defence, believing that Boromir would bring reinforcements to aid them. But since Faramir had some nights before dreamed of his brother, laid in an Elven boat as if dead, and had found his broken horn on the bank of the river, he knew his brother was dead. For the heart has ways to know the fate of those it loves…..

But whence, then, had come this last night`s dream in which Boromir brought the Ring to Gondor? Faramir shook his head with a sigh of grief. More than anything, he had wanted his brother to return alive. His heart had brought him back alive to Faramir, but only in a dream.
‘No, Breag….’ He replied at last.

‘Boromir is never coming back…..’

‘Merry!’ the voice seemed to come from another world, and yet it was familiar.
‘Merry! Can you hear me?’

Meriadoc opened his eyes with an effort. Of course he knew the voice, it was Pippin!

‘Pip!’ he mumbled, with a great effort opening his eyes. He looked about him, vaguely realising that he was still in a room in the Houses of Healing. Figures swam into view, one clad in a long white cloak and holding a white staff……

‘Gandalf?’ said Merry, blinking and confused. ‘How did you come to be here?’
‘Yes, Meriadoc, it is me.’ Said Gandalf, laughing. ‘and I could just as well ask how YOU came to be here, but I do not think you could recall it all yet, all that befell you after you struck the Nazgul and were cast into an evil sleep. Your arm was made useless by contact with that accursed King and his evil steed, and you were overcome by the dark dream that falls on all who suffer the Black Breath….’

Merry sat up, helped by Pippin, and stared round, bewildered. The Nazgul? The Black Breath? Merry could remember Airdeall and Faramir and the sunken garden of the Houses of Healing; he could remember his own torture at the hands of the servants of Denethor…..

But already these memories had begun to recede like a dream at dawn and other memories, as if from the past of someone else, came flooding back to take their place. He suddenly remembered offering his sword to King Theoden in Edoras. Edoras! Now he remembered the Golden Hall, and the muster of Rohan, and he and Eowyn riding to the battle of the Pelennor in disguise.

Then with a sudden pang of grief Merry remembered the death of Theoden and the king`s parting words to his loyal hobbit squire. And Merry remembered Eowyn bravely attacking the Witchking and he himself, Meriadoc of the Shire, striking the creature with his sword, and the weapon burning away in his hand. And he remembered pain, his arm useless and aching and Pippin finding him wandering dazed on the field of battle………

Merry passed a bandaged hand over his eyes. So all those other memories, Boromir seizing the Ring and bringing him and Pippin to Minas Tirith, and all that befell as a result, were just a dream…?

Someone stepped up to the bed on the other side, and he saw it was Aragorn.
‘Aragorn!’ he gasped. ‘I have had the strangest dream…!’

Aragorn did not look perplexed. He said softly;
‘Meriadoc, I have striven to help you heal you by my touch, a gift given to those of the race of kings. It is no credit to me…’
There was a snort from Gandalf. Aragorn smiled and went on;
‘But in the deep sleep that came on you when you smote the Nazgul, there may have come strange dreams. I pray you, Meriadoc, do not ever speak of these dreams. Let it be as if they had never troubled you, or the world……’

`But Aragorn…!`protested Merry. `In my dream Boromir yet lived, and returned the Ring, and did great deeds of arms that gained him back his honour…`
But even as he spoke, Merry felt suddenly tired, and grew drowsy again. A look of pity come over Aragorn`s face and he heard Gandalf say;
`Let him sleep all he wants, Aragorn. Soon dreams born of sorcery will trouble him no more….`

Boromir opened his eyes in darkness, jolted awake by the rough motion of the cart in which he was travelling. His side ached, a deep throbbing pain, and his clothes were stiff and cold where the blood had dried on them. But he was alive!

He struggled to remember what happened. He recalled the fight on the bridge, and falling to the ground, and the Easterling champion advancing on him. He remembered the crowd yelling for his death. Then he had looked up as they ran towards him and he saw the champion salute the Easterling chieftain and shout something at him in their strange tongue.

‘Remember your promise, Lord Garbh!’ the champion had called. ‘The prince of Gondor is mine!’

Garbh hesitated; the Easterlings were running towards Boromir now, their swords drawn.
‘Do not break faith, Garbh’ cried the champion. But still Garbh made no move.

In one movement Taise raised a hand to the gilded champion`s helm and removed it, releasing a cascade of long, glossy black hair that streamed out in the cold wind. Then she pulled off her mask and long black veil and threw them away. She shook her head and raised her sword as the Easterlings reached her.
‘This prize is mine!’ she shouted, and brandished the scimitar in their faces.

The Easterlings, fearing the champion`s speed and skill with a sword, stopped in their tracks. At that moment, Garbh shouted out;
‘The prize is yours, ghost fox! Take him, alive or dead. Just make sure he never troubles our armies again….’

Boromir twisted about and tried to feel his wounded side, but his wrists were bound with coarse, thick twine. When he moved he could feel there was a dressing on his wound, some kind of poultice held in place with strips of cloth.

His movements drew attention; he heard voices and a rough, dusty covering which smelled as if it was made from hides, was untied and pulled back.

The sudden daylight, strong and slanting, blinded Boromir. He could not see anything, but he was aware of a white glare as if from snow, and a biting cold wind; wherever he was, it was far to the North of where he had been taken, and far from Gondor. He struggled to see his captors, and made out a circle of faces regarding him with curiosity, as hunters would examine a bound wolf. Boromir kept his eyes closed and pretended to still be unconscious.

Although weak, Boromir`s mind worked quickly; he had been taken prisoner! The Easterlings might mean to kill him slowly later, for sport, but they might intend to keep him alive. But how could he ever be rescued when no-one knew he had been taken captive? He was lost forever!

For some time Boromir gave way to despair, but then another thought came to him. He had attained that which he had promised; the Company of Gondor had been sent safely on their way to Edoras. He had kept his oath. If, in after years, there were halls still standing in Gondor and harpists still living to sing in them, their lays would be of Boromir the faithful, who perished on the White Bridge fighting to allow his companions, and his betrothed, to reach safety and bring aid to Gondor. All the shame he had brought on himself and his house by taking the Ring from Frodo would be forgotten. His body would never be found, and he would be a hero to his people, among whom his name would be redeemed……

But he could never go home, he could never return to Minas Tirith. He must never break the spell by revealing he was still alive.

And he could never see Eowyn again….

At that thought, a grief deeper than any sword wound raked Boromir`s heart, and his resolve to never return weakened as he remembered his oath of betrothal to her. Then he shook his head;
`She was always meant for you, Faramir, not me…`he thought sadly. `…may you both find joy and healing in each other`s arms….`

Taise pulled up the coarse felt coverlet to protect the captive from the cold. Boromir lay still in the wagon, his eyes closed, but Taise knew he was feigning unconsciousness. She had dressed his wound carefully and believed he would live, even if he was lame. Gently, she touched his shoulder with her gauntleted hand and despite himself, Boromir flinched. Taise suppressed a smile; she would have done the same herself. No matter, even if he freed himself, there was nowhere for him to go…..

Just then a band of Easterling warriors gathered round to look at the captive.
One whistled and exclaimed;
`Well, Ghost, you have won the prize of prizes, a prince of Gondor. But what will you do with him? His armour is too heavy for you, and his sword is too big. You can sell them and use him to fetch and carry and rub down your horse, but what good is a crippled slave? Let us use him for our sport!`

At times such as these, Taise hated her own countrymen. What did they know of the princes of Gondor! When she was no more than a child, sitting hugging her knees under the feast-table in the great hall, she had listened as the harpists sang of the great war of old in which the Easterlings had slain a king of Gondor and his son in battle. But another king had soon arisen who had defeated the Wainriders of Rhun, and the old songs told of how he piled the golden chariots of the Easterlings in a great mound, and their slain horses likewise, and burned them, and the smoke from that fire blotted out the sun and was seen even in the East…..Taise looked scornfully at the men and said;

`Do not underestimate the men of Gondor, for they are at their most dangerous in defeat.
The old stories do not lie……`