My Sword Weeps
by Agape4Rivendell
Chapter 8: In the Wizard's Den
“What manner of place is this, Estel? I
too had
wild dreams. Let us be away from here, and quickly. We do not need the
wizard.”
Elladan nodded his agreement, his eyes still haunted by the force of
his dream.
“Three days we have waited, my brothers,” Aragorn bemoaned, “and still
Curunír delays our audience, makes excuses not to welcome us. It
is
time we left here. I too have dreamt these last nights, and none were
pleasant.”
As soon as Aragorn’s words left his mouth, a knock sounded on their
chamber’s door. The man standing before them was definitely a
Dunlending. Aragorn noted the surly smile. A shiver ran down his back.
“You will follow me. The master will see you now.”
They walked for quite some distance, over bridges that traversed
depths without end, down myriad corridors, and up stairways
interminable. Aragorn wondered if they would exit on the very top of
the edifice. The man stopped before a huge door and waited.
After a few moments, Elladan asked, “Might it help to knock?”
The man never moved.
At last, the doors parted, opening onto an almost empty cavernous room.
At the far end, a chair, more like a throne, stood upon a raised dais.
The wizard, his white robes flowing about him, sat in silence.
Their escort motioned them forward, then turned and left. The doors
closed soundlessly behind them. Elrohir raised an eyebrow. Aragorn
smiled and moved forward, the Elves on either side of him.
The wizard’s eyes were closed, but as they approached, he opened
them. For a moment, they appeared cold and calculating. Aragorn knew
caution was needed. He steeled his mind, using the techniques Elrond
had taught him years ago. Bowing, he introduced himself. Some sense
made him use his Ranger’s name. He introduced Elrohir and Elladan, who
bowed slightly.
The wizard smiled, but once again, Aragorn was disturbed by the feel of
that smile.
“Welcome to Isengard, sons of Elrond Half-elven. Long has it been
since your father graced my halls. The last meeting of the White
Council, I believe. That was many years ago.” And the frown that
accompanied this statement, though ringed with honey, left no doubt as
to the wizard’s displeasure at the slight.
Elrohir, angered that the wizard did not acknowledge Aragorn, said
simply, “Longer still since your eminence has graced the halls of the
Last Homely House.”
The wizard’s brow shot up, then his face returned to the cold mask
that had greeted them. “The sons of the master of Imladris now travel
with beggars?” His voice, a purr, held disdain.
Elladan spoke before Elrohir could stop him. “He is a Ranger, not a
beggar, and a friend to our father and all Elves.”
“All Elves?” The mocking tone in his voice only exacerbated Elladan’s
anger, but Elrohir stepped forward.
“The Ranger escorts us to the Fords of Isen. Some of our people are
meeting us there, however, we will not be returning this way. We did
not wish to pass without greeting the head of the White Council and
offering good wishes from Lord Elrond.”
~*~
Theodred sat in the buttery of the Third Guard. Targon sat next to
him. Both boys held honeyed bread in their hands, but neither ate.
“I should have kept him with me, not listened to the others. He was
safe here,” the cook’s apprentice whispered.
“Sometimes when we listen to the adults, it seems things go from bad to
worse. I felt the same way. We should have stayed on the mountain and
waited for my father.” Théodred pulled worriedly at his lip.
“Sometimes, no matter what we do, things will go awry.”
Both boys looked up, then stood quickly as Éomund entered the
room. His
towering presence filled the small chamber; the boys stepped back.
Targon dropped his bread.
“It is bitter medicine we swallow these days. Sit. I would speak with
you both.”
After they had settled and Éomund had lathered a large chunk of
bread
with honey, he bit into it and chewed. Targon took a quick sideways
glance at Theodred, but the boy from Rohan just watched his uncle.
“Foresight has not been given to me, nor, I think, to either of you.
Hindsight is dangerous. It breeds fear, discontent, guilt.”
Éomund
looked around for something to drink.
Targon noted and ran to the kettle, quickly bringing back a large mug
of sweetened tea.
Once the lad sat, Éomund thanked him and continued. “A wise
friend once
told me that should ‘ave’s, could ‘ave’s are useless for a warrior.
And,” he smiled at Targon, “probably for a cook’s apprentice, too.”
Targon smiled.
“I should have put in more thyme does not mean the lamb is spoiled. I
should have stood there in battle and my comrade might be alive today.
Do you see what I mean? No matter what we do, bad things can happen.
Bad things do happen. What we deem wise today might prove to be folly
tomorrow. But we cannot live our lives being worried at every step, at
every decision. If I had not been wounded, I might have been able to
save Boromir, but I was wounded and nothing will change that. If you,
Targon, had kept Boromir here in the buttery, Amandil’s men would
probably have been found him anyway. Better he was found by friends and
reunited, if only briefly, with those he loved. If you,
Théodred, had
stood at his side with sword in hand, perhaps you would have taken the
blow meant for Boromir and he would live. None of that happened. And so
we must be content with the choices we made, even in the heat of battle
or the heat of the oven,” Targon’s smiled had broadened, “and know that
Boromir died as he wished, in battle.” Tears glistened in the warrior’s
eyes. “All those raised as warriors hope for death in battle. He is
content. He is with his father.”
Tears fell from Théodred and Targon’s eyes as Éomund
spoke the
last. ‘It us true,’ Théodred knew. How often they had battled in
play
and always, when one of them fell, the other gave a great war whoop,
acknowledging that a warrior had fallen in honour. How many times did
not his father say how glorious it was for one of the Riddermark to die
in battle? Sniffling a few times, he turned towards his uncle.
“So Boromir is with his father? And his grandfather?”
“That is what I believe. Can you imagine, Théodred, how
wonderful
it was for him to open his eyes and see his father before him, waiting
with open arms?”
“And his mother,” Targon added.
Éomund smiled. “And his mother.”
Théodred sat for a moment, his brow furrowed. “I will see my
mother when I die?”
Sadly, Éomund nodded. “You will see her, at last.”
“Do you think she will be happy to see me, Uncle?”
Éomund stood and walked across to where Théodred sat.
“She will
probably have made you a new tunic or a horse-hair ornament for your
helmet. She will be very happy to see you.”
Théodred stood. “But what of Faramir? Would Boromir leave him
alone? Even with battle glory offered to him?"
“He did, Théodred. He disobeyed and went into the fray. He did
not
have armour nor a sword that fit him when he charged. He chose.” He put
up his hand to stop the furious protests that he saw coming. “True. He
tried to save Indis, thinking she would be killed, but there were
others about her who could have stepped in and saved her, others who
were closer. His heart called him to battle. And so he followed his
heart.” He sat between the two. “It does not mean he loved Faramir any
less, but sometimes, battle lust o’ertakes even a grown and seasoned
warrior. This was Boromir’s first battle. I am not surprised at his
response.”
Théodred leaned his head against his uncle’s side and sighed.
“Then
the others, the adults, should have known better and kept him away from
the battle.”
Eomund gave a strangled laugh. “You speak foolishly, my dearest
nephew. Boromir was ever ready to join any fray and ever hard to
control. How many times have you and he been in trouble? How many times
have you done things you knew were not quite right, but did them anyhow
because it was an adventure? Siriondil did not have children. He did
not know how quickly Boromir could move and what passion flowed in our
friend’s blood. Boromir is at peace. Let it go.”
Théodred suddenly put his arms around Éomund’s waist and
hugged
with all the strength in him. He sobbed quietly but would not let go.
Éomund’s arms held him tightly. Targon put his hand on the lad’s
shoulder.
“Faramir will live, Théodred, and your oath will have been
fulfilled. You have been a good friend to Boromir.”
