The Ring will come to Gondor
by Varda
Chapter Nine: The Trial of Faramir
Faramir lay on his bed in his chamber in the White Tower, gazing at
the ceiling and listening to the sounds of the bustling city below his
window. It felt strange to be resting when the day was almost at noon;
the Steward of Gondor had given his sons to military life early, and
Faramir had never lain late in bed in his life, except when he was sick.
Now his throat was dry and his head ached but not from fever; he had
had nothing to eat or drink since the previous day. Not that his guards
meant to be inconsiderate, but the confusion caused by the arrest of
the Steward's youngest son had made the soldiers forget Faramir’s
needs, and he was too proud to ask.
Faramir wished Boromir would come. He had not had enough time to tell
his brother all he knew, and he was tormented by the thought that
Boromir had not believed him about their father’s plan to execute the
hobbits.
It was hot and airless in the room. Faramir rubbed the sweat from his
face with the back of his hand and listlessly watched a fly crawl up
the wall. It was joined by another, and another. They were large,
monstrous even. Faramir raised his head with a sudden feeling of
revulsion; in the last few days the city had been plagued with hordes
of huge flies, and large flocks of crows, hovering over the city
calling endlessly. Despite the heat Faramir shivered; it was as if some
great evil had taken up residence in Minas Tirith and was attracting
all manner of foul thing to it. A dull weight settled on Faramir’s
heart; a great evil had indeed come to Gondor; the Ring.
Faramir crossed his arms on his chest as if suddenly fearing an
assassin’s knife; no horror was impossible now his father had the Ring.
How Denethor had changed! Although in many ways the Ring seemed only to
confirm what he had always been, even Faramir, his unloved younger son,
could not believe that this was really his father any more….
A sound came to his ears louder than the sounds of the city; the tramp of boots along the hallway outside.
In a heartbeat and with the speed and agility of a cat Faramir sprang
from his bed and stood beside it, ready. Without realising it he
clenched his fists and set his jaw as the door was unbolted from the
outside. It swung open and an officer of the Tower Guard not known to
Faramir strode in and with a bare excuse for a bow and a direct,
insolent stare he said;
‘Come with me, the Steward commands your presence in the Hall…’
Faramir looked at the man, anger kindling in his eyes. He said;
‘Until my father commands otherwise, I am a Captain of the army of
Gondor and your superior. You will address me as such, prisoner or not.’
Faramir thought he heard a snigger from the men crowding the hallway
outside, among whom he recognised the faces of soldiers loyal to him.
The officer, a tall man with a bony face and strange grey-amber eyes,
said with a snarl;
‘I beg your pardon, my lord, but whatever titles you once bore will not
avail you now, your friend the halfling has been taken in an attempt to
kill the Steward…’
Faramir made no attempt to hide his shock and dismay.
‘Halfling? What halfling?’ he demanded. The soldier grinned, showing large, uneven yellow teeth.
‘Well, all halflings look alike to me, but it was the taller of the
two; he escaped from us last night, then today he was seen crawling
along a roof towards the Great Hall, with a dagger in his hand. He was
bent on murder no doubt, but his luck ran out and he lost his grip and
fell off the roof….’
And the man began to laugh loudly. Faramir stepped up to him, his face white with anger and asked;
‘What happened? Is the little one dead?’
‘Dead?’ asked the officer. ‘No, not dead, although he might yet be
sorry he isn’t. He fell onto the thatch of a bower in the Steward’s
Garden and it broke his fall. Now he only has to worry about being
executed for spying and attempted murder…’
And the man broke off to laugh again. Faramir fell silent, his heart sick. At last the officer turned to him and said;
‘Now, my lord, that is enough questions. Come with us, and be quick about it….’
And before he could reply or protest, the guards seized Faramir's arms
and clapped manacles on his wrists, and thus shackled they led him to
his father...
The walk from his quarters to the Steward’s Hall had never seemed so
long to Faramir. He was aware of people peering round corners and
vanishing into side ways, and whispers, always whispers, behind closed
doors. The city he loved had become a strange place, and he wondered
where Boromir was but feared to ask this boorish, hostile officer.
At last he reached the doors, and they were swung open and Faramir
walked in from the blinding sunlight into the deep gloom of the
Steward’s Hall. Hardly had the bolts fallen into place behind him when
a high, querulous voice was raised in anger;
‘So they bring you at last, Faramir, my son and my enemy!’
Faramir walked quickly forward, outstripping his guards. He said hotly;
‘I do not know what you have been told, father, but I am not your enemy!’
Denethor sat in the throne of Gondor. He had forsaken the Chair of the
Stewards, occupied by him and his ancestors for centuries. Now he had
taken the royal seat of Gondor itself. But Faramir gazed on his father
and was shocked at his appearance; Denethor’s face was grey and gaunt,
as if he had neither eaten nor slept for many days. His eyes burned
with a feverish light and he constantly put his hand to his breast, and
with a cold feeling Faramir realised he was touching the Ring.
Just then the doors swung open again with a crash and Faramir looked
round and saw, striding swiftly down the hall, his brother Boromir.
‘Thank heaven!’ thought Faramir. ‘All will now be well; Boromir will not let this mockery of a trial continue….’
After he had seen Éomer and Théodred safely out of the
city with Pippin, Boromir had walked slowly back up the streets towards
the Citadel. In the turmoil of the past few days it was a thing to be
glad of, that one hobbit at least had been taken to safety. Now he had
to find Merry before his father did…..just then he heard running
footsteps and looking up saw a servant in the livery of the Tower
flying down the street towards him.
‘My Lord Boromir…!’ the man gasped as soon as he got his breath back.
‘Well, what?’ asked Boromir, although fear had already fallen on his heart.
‘Your father…Denethor…he orders you to come at once. Faramir is to be judged…’
‘Judged!’ exclaimed Boromir. ‘On what charge?’
‘High treason, my lord….’
Boromir ascended the city streets slowly, despite the urgency of the
message. All he could think was this was his doing; had he not taken
the Ring from Frodo and brought it to Gondor, had he not given it to
Denethor, none of this would have come to pass.
He went through the gateway of the second level, saluting the guards
and making way for a string of packhorses. It was not his fault,
though. Not really. He had only wanted to do the right thing for
Gondor, and to find favour in his father’s eyes, and Denethor was after
all Steward of Gondor.
He mounted the steep narrow street leading to the third Gate. If only
Faramir had tried harder to please their father! But Faramir had always
been a dreamer…
A sentry called a challenge and Boromir replied absently and passed
through the Fourth Gate. It was really Faramir’s own fault that their
father was hard on him. He should be more stern, more forthright. It
was no good at all listening to people and trying to please them. When
you are in command you have to make hard choices and not everyone will
like it. That sort of thing was more his talent, not Faramir’s…
The fifth Gate loomed up and Boromir went through, walking rather more
quickly, mindful of the servant’s haste. Now Faramir was in another
mess and he, Boromir, would have to get him out of it. He was getting
tired of looking after his brother. After all, Minas Tirith was his
real care. That was why he had taken the Ring in the first place…
The Ring….he ascended the sixth level almost at a run, outstripping the
servant and hurried the last long square to the Steward’s Great Hall.
The Ring…why on earth had he ever given it to his father….?
‘Boromir, my loyal son!’ Denethor’s thin yellow face lit up when he saw his eldest enter the hall and approach the throne.
‘You are just in time to hear me pass judgement on this traitor of a son….’
‘Father!’ shouted Boromir, and the whole hall seemed to freeze at the sound of his voice.
‘Stop this madness! Faramir is no traitor but your loyal and loving
son! Free him, and let him show you how much he cares for you and for
our city…’
There was a murmur of approval and hope in the crowd of officials and
black-clad guards thronging the hall, for Faramir was beloved of the
people and all there grieved to see him in chains and accused of high
treason..
Boromir halted in the middle of the white marble floor as a hush fell
on the crowd. He glanced at his brother, and his heart was wrung to see
Faramir standing alone before the throne, manacled and clad only in a
simple brown linen tunic, shorn of all badges of high military rank and
noble birth. He could have been no more than a common thief, only that
a light of affection came into his eyes when he looked upon his brother
Boromir…
‘Madness?’ shouted Denethor, and Boromir looked towards the throne and
saw that his father had risen to his feet and was shaking with anger as
he held something out before him. Boromir looked and saw it was a
curved hunting dagger, of ancient design. He realised with horror that
it was one from the tombs of Rath Dínen. Denethor saw his face
pale and laughed harshly;
‘Yes, well may you go white. This was taken sacrilegiously from the
tombs of our ancestors, in hopes that it might send me to my own tomb!’
A few of the new soldiers and officers who were not known to Faramir
gave a murmur of amusement at the crude joke but Denethor was not
smiling. Boromir asked in a carefully calm voice;
‘Who took it from the tombs?’
‘Your precious halfling!’ barked Denethor, and Boromir looked round and
saw for the first time that one of the guards was holding Merry firmly
by the arm. The hobbit appeared bruised and dishevelled but uninjured
and he was looking at Boromir with entreaty in his eyes; stop this, he
seemed to say…Boromir looked away quickly, his heart in turmoil…
He wanted to help Merry; he wanted to free his brother, but at that
moment Denethor, holding him with his hawklike gaze, leaned forward and
something bright, like a cascade of sunlit water, slipped from inside
his black velvet tunic and hung, swinging gently, from his father’s
neck. It was the Ring…
Boromir felt the blood pounding in his ears. Sweat broke out on his
face, and he did not hear his father speak again. The Ring….if only he
had it now, he could end all this, free his friends and his brother. If
only he had never given it to Denethor…if only….
The agonised silence stretched on. Faramir looked at Boromir and felt
hope fade in his heart. For himself, he had no desire to touch or own
the Ring. But he saw now that his brother was still under its power,
even though he had given it up to their father…
‘Stop!’
The voice was shrill and everyone looked round in surprise; it was the halfling accused of attempting to kill the Steward…
Tearing himself free of his guard Merry ran forward to the throne and threw himself down on his knees before Denethor.
‘Stop this now! If Faramir is brought here for judgement on account of
what I have done, let me be heard before you decide your verdict!’
The guards started forward but Denethor motioned them to stay back. Then he gestured to Merry to rise. He said;
‘Very well, Halfling. Tell us how you came to be in the Citadel bearing
arms, and why you came…and remember, your life depends on your reply.’
Merry looked around; all the nobility of Gondor stood in the hall,
their faces solemn. The guards fingered their pikes as if hungry to
slay him. He drew a deep breath and said in a strong loud voice that
echoed in the Hall of the Stewards…
‘You are right, Lord Denethor. I did intend to kill you..’
The crowd gasped in horror. Faramir closed his eyes and hung his head. Boromir thought to himself;
‘You have condemned us all, Meriadoc of The Shire….’
