The Ring will come to Gondor

by Varda


Chapter Thirteen: The Rebels

The next morning came sullen and slow, under a thick canopy of cloud spreading from the East, from Mordor. When the bell rang for the end of curfew the people of Minas Tirith crept out into the streets and hurried down to the square behind the great gates, to watch Faramir and his Rangers ride out to their doom.

It had been announced throughout the city that all those who were under Faramir’s command were to ride with him on his fatal mission to retake Osgiliath.
But it was not enough for Denethor to send the Rangers to their deaths; he wanted also to send all those who held Faramir in their hearts; he decreed that;
‘All those who are loyal to Captain Faramir should take up arms and report for the sortie against Osgiliath…’

It was near to dawn when Boromir had fallen asleep, lying fully clad on his couch in the White Tower. But he felt as if he had barely closed his eyes when he was woken by Gandalf;
‘Boromir! Get up! Faramir and his men are about to leave the city…’

Boromir sprang from the bed, blinking in the pale morning light; the Wizard stood inside the door, his white robes hidden under a tattered grey mantle; how he had slipped past the guards Boromir did not know, but he said in a desperate voice;
‘Faramir will not speak to me, Gandalf, and father will not listen to me! What can I do?’
Gandalf shook his head but put a comforting hand on Boromir’s shoulder and said;.
‘I have no idea…yet. Come, let us go at once to the City Gate…’

In the great square behind the Gate of Minas Tirith Faramir sat on his bay mare Rua, his face pale and set, not showing the feelings that tore his heart. That his father had ordered him to his doom he could understand, however much it hurt him. Denethor had ever thought little of him and had always placed obstacles in his path, hoping to reveal what he thought were Faramir’s weaknesses to the people.

But Boromir….!

Faramir bent his head and bit his lip. He knew his brother had fallen to the lure of the Ring and had taken it from the rightful ringbearer and brought it here to Minas Tirith. But why had he not acted when he saw the what it was doing to his city, and to their father?

Faramir shook his head and thought to himself;
‘I will just have to trust to fate, and hope Boromir can help our city in time. It is too late for him to help me….’

Faramir looked up. His Rangers were filing down the narrow winding street from the barracks stables. Those who had a place in the garrison wore armour, the others were clad in their green cloaks. In every face, grim and resolute, Faramir saw the loyalty and devotion of his men. He angrily brushed away a betraying tear….

When Boromir and Gandalf rounded the corner, approaching the square from the far side, Boromir went to approach his brother but the wizard laid a restraining hand on his arm.
‘You cannot go to him now, Boromir, not even to say goodbye….’

Boromir went to protest, then looked and saw the wizard was right; Faramir was alone at the head of his troops, his face stern and white, lost in thought. Boromir, himself a captain, knew his brother was intent on the approaching attack and would not welcome words of farewell from one who had brought the Ring to Gondor..

‘Boromir!’ cried Gandalf, seizing his arm and pointing. Boromir looked and to his astonishment saw, walking out on the battlements of the postern gate on the next level above the square, his father Denethor.

Those townsfolk who had gathered to see Faramir and his men ride out looked too, and were amazed to see the Steward in the black armour and bearing the long black and silver-inlaid sword of his fathers. Over his richly decorated armour he wore a long silver-embroidered cloak but he had no helm on his head.

‘He has come to see his own son, my brother ride out to his death!’ said Boromir in despair. But Gandalf replied sharply;
‘No! He has come to see who is loyal enough to go with Faramir….’

And so it seemed; Denethor favoured his youngest son with a mere glance, but looked beyond him to count who had turned out to accompany him. He ran his gaze over the ranks of Rangers, then counted the guards who waited mounted alongside them…

On and on he counted; more and more horsemen filed down the winding street to take their places behind Faramir. Soon the square was crowded and the mounted men spilled over into the streets beyond.
‘What is happening?’ said Boromir to Gandalf, but the wizard smiled and did not reply.

Now it was impossible to move in the square, but still men on horseback came. And then others, stable hands on old warhorses, kitchen boys on mules. Any man or boy that could bear arms and any horses that could bear men, all packed into the square as best they could.

Boromir looked round and a fierce pride assailed him. He smiled;
‘All that are loyal to Faramir….’ He said grimly to the wizard. ‘well, now my father knows who is loyal to Faramir….’

On the wall above the square Denethor gazed out at the multitude, his face white with rage. Slowly, stiffly, he made his way down a flight of stone steps into the open space and threaded through the ranks, the horses and men parting to let him pass.

At last he stood in front of his son Faramir, who quickly dismounted and bowed to his father. Denethor said in a cold, hard voice;
‘You have wrought this treachery against me. You have raised the city in rebellion against the Steward….’
‘No, my lord!’

Denethor looked round sharply; beside him stood Beregond, Captain of the Citadel Guard. He bowed and said.
‘My pardon, Lord Denethor, but you must give me leave to speak! This is no-one’s doing but your own; when the order went forth for every man loyal to Faramir to take part in the sortie, the whole city took up arms.’

And Beregond turned and swept the vast crowd of men and horses with his gaze and said in awe;
‘Never have I seen or heard of such a thing before….’

Faramir too gazed round at the crowd. He could find no words to say, but at last asked;
‘What is your will, Lord Denethor?’.

Denethor stared out at the host of armed men. A shiver ran through his frame, even in the hot sun. A thin, nagging voice tugged at his mind; he is your own son, leave this madness…but then a hot rage surged up in him, sent by the Ring, and he narrowed his eyes against the sunlight and said to Faramir;
‘If you want to lead these your loyal subjects to battle with you, do so. The order still stands!’

A murmur of anger and disappointment ran through the crowd, and Faramir, raising his head, realised the mood could turn against the Steward at any moment. He said in a loud voice;
‘Men of the city! I accept your loyalty, and as Captain of Gondor I order you now to disband and return to your homes and barracks. All hail Denethor, Steward of Gondor!’

Unwillingly at first, but then loudly, the soldiers and Rangers raised a shout in reply, then slowly, as slowly as it took for such a vast concourse of men and beasts to disperse, they left the square. At last it was empty, except for Faramir and Denethor and the Steward’s guards.

‘After raising my people against me, how can you deny your treachery?’ Denethor said to Faramir in a cold, angry voice. Faramir stared at him for a moment then said;
‘The only way I can show my loyalty now is by obeying you, father….’

And turning Faramir mounted his horse, and alone and unaccompanied, he guided his mount towards the City Gate, which the guards opened hastily.
‘This is madness!’ said Boromir to Gandalf. ‘He won’t stand a chance…’

Once outside the city Faramir breathed a long sigh of relief. He touched spurs to Rua’s flanks and the bay broke into a trot, then a gentle canter. Out here on the Pelennor it was utterly silent; even the wind seemed to have died away. Faramir’s long fair hair streamed out behind him and he felt suddenly exhilarated; at last he was away from his father and his anger. Ahead of him the domes and towers of Osgiliath rose from the river mist. Soon he would be free, and Osgiliath, and even Minas Tirith itself would matter not at all to him…

On the broken battlements of the city once known as the Dome of the Stars an orc captain peered towards the East at the solitary horseman approaching the walls and kicking a sleeping Uruk sentry he snarled;
‘Get up you pig! Draw your bow! We will feast on manflesh tonight…’

Gandalf gazed in dismay as Faramir passed out of the massive arch of the great gate.
‘Do not throw away your life so rashly, Faramir…’ he said under his breath. Boromir interrupted him;
‘Can’t you do something, Mithrandir…?’ he asked desperately.
‘No..’ Gandalf shook his head. ‘I can advise, and counsel. But I cannot intervene, or use my power to alter the events of this life….’
‘But Faramir will die!’ said Boromir. ‘surely you can do something…’
‘I cannot, Boromir’ sighed Gandalf. ‘If I changed the course of this day, even a little, I would break the frame of the world, and through that breach who knows what danger or evil might enter…’

Boromir stared at Gandalf and said in a bitter voice;
‘It is ever so, Mithrandir, is it not? You counsel men, and speak great wisdom. But in the end you allow us to die, even those who love you, like Frodo and my brother Faramir…’

Gandalf looked sadly at Boromir; the words had hit their mark and there was pain in his eyes. He said;
‘I can only use my power to help men. I would be a rebel to my order if I used it to change the course of events...if I intervened, I would be no better than Saruman…’
‘If you don’t intervene’ said Boromir ‘..you will be no better than Sauron….’

Merry thought the passages with their twists and turns and arched doorways would never end. His guard lit the way with a torch that flared and dimmed and he heard rather than saw others coming behind him, their breath on his neck.. His wrists were bound tightly, cutting into his skin, but he scarcely thought of the pain. He was wondering where he was going, and if Pippin would be there. He tried not to think of what was about to happen…

At last the guards halted in front of a great stone doorway. Long ago it was built, when the stonemasons of Gondor had been instructed by the Elves, but now this deep underground edifice had been given over to more terrible usage. Never before had any Steward given permission for such practices, but now Denethor had decreed it a place for torture for Gondor’s enemies….

With a deep rumble and a screech of hinges the great oaken door was hauled open and Merry was shoved inside.

He found himself in a high, arched hall, but despite the lofty stone ceiling the room was hot and stuffy, for in the centre was a great furnace, like a smithy. Two men in black hoods stood waiting beside it, and in front of them was a tall, thin figure clad in a long grey habit. He stepped forward when he saw Merry enter and said in a calm, almost friendly voice;
‘At last, Master halfling! Welcome to the fiery heart of the mountain on which Minas Tirith is founded. Here you will learn the truth about yourself, and we will learn the truth about you …’

A cold feeling seized Merry’s heart as the man spoke, but he said nothing. He looked up at the figure and was surprised to see a bland, even benign face, softening to a smile as the man studied him closely.
‘I never ….attended… to a halfling before’ he said, almost to himself. ‘this should be interesting….’

The figure moved to pull off Merry’s cloak and his long, bony hand brushed the Elven leaf-clasp given to Merry in Lorien.

At once he sprang back with a cry; a red weal on his hand showed where he had been burned by contact with the Gift of Galadriel. Merry looked up into his eyes, and for a heartbeat he saw the face disappear and a mask take its place, a bony, scaly visage more like a reptile than a man. The burned hand for an instant was grey and ribbed with tiny plates like a sea creature. Then the vision was gone, and Merry blinked up into the face of a man once again….

‘This is some beast of Sauron’s clothed in the semblance of a man!’ thought Merry in horror, but the creature would not allow him to think more on it.
‘Unfasten the cloak yourself!’ he snapped and Merry obeyed, taking off the cloak and his jacket and yellow waistcoat as well. He folded his clothes neatly, patting them with affection, knowing that he would never need clothes again. The smoky light from the furnace flickered red on his skin as he turned to face his tormentors.

One of the executioners walked to the fire and taking hold of a handle poking out he stirred the hot coals vigorously then withdrew an iron whose tip glowed orange-red in the dim room. The man smiled under his mask. The tall figure looked at Merry and said;
‘Now you must tell us all you have learned, little one…’
His voice shaking slightly, Merry replied;
‘I don’t know anything…’
The figure replied in a chill voice;
‘Halfling, you know everything….’

‘Very well!’ said Gandalf with a heavy heart. ‘I will do as you ask. But remember, Boromir, if I put forth all my power to save Faramir, I might not have enough strength left to save Merry…’ and he looked at Boromir searchingly. In a voice as dead as his heart was at that moment, Boromir said;

‘Save Faramir..’