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by Linaewen » Sat Jan 19, 2019 9:36 am
Here are the latest chapters, so we're now up to date!
LoG 53 -- All Is Lost
Imrahil sat in Denethor's antechamber with his head in his hands, only looking up when he heard the scrape of footsteps near by -- it was Dûrlin bringing a tray of food and drink. Imrahil smiled in spite of himself.
"I have been told many times by both Boromir and Faramir that your meals work wonders for the weary warrior, and that plying food is your way of influencing the battle."
"I do what I can," replied Dûrlin. "It has been more than a few years since I myself stood on the battlefield, but I remember well the strength that is needed, and what it takes to renew that strength daily in order to be able to face adversity." He lifted a thick piece of bread and spread it with a generous helping of fruit preserves. "You have faced great adversity today, not to mention despair and a bad shock; food will restore you so you can face what comes next. Eat this first, I have found that something sweet is best after such an experience."
Imrahil took the bread, then hesitated. "What of the young Halfling, who now attends Denethor as his Lord? He performs his duty admirably, even now standing at attendance in the inner chamber; yet, he, too, must be full of fear and despair, seeing Faramir so wounded. He does not know Faramir well, but he was close to Boromir, I hear, and that would surely cause him to care for the welfare of Boromir's brother."
"It is so," Dûrlin replied, shaking his head. "He is saddened by Faramir's wounding, and no doubt afraid for Faramir's life -- for not only does he care for him as Boromir's brother, but they have had some converse together, and he esteems him highly in spite of having only recently met him. But fear not! I bade him eat and drink a little, though he was loath to do so against orders. He takes his duties most seriously! I will keep my eye on him, to make certain he remains well and is not too often alone."
"That is well," Imrahil answered, reassured. He motioned Dûrlin to sit beside him."You also have had a shock, I know, and look as if you, too, need restoring. Please join me, you have brought enough food here for the two of us. It will comfort me to have someone with me as I try to make sense of all that has happened today."
"I am honored to serve you in any way I can, Prince Imrahil." Dûrlin sat and reached for bread and preserves. "Speak of what is on your heart if you wish, or remain silent: whichever is most helpful to you in your distress. I am here to listen and support you, and to gain comfort for myself as well."
Imrahil was silent for a time as he ate and drank. Dûrlin watched him with concern, waiting patiently.
"You know much of what has transpired, I am certain," Imrahil said at last. "But perhaps you do not know all that your heart desires to know. Therefore I will speak of this day from the beginning as I saw it unfold so that you are informed of all that has led up to our current sorrow.
"Faramir was sent by the Lord Steward to defend the Rammas and the River passage. He was, as I feared, overmatched, and his retreat became a rout. The field of Pelennor was already overrun by the enemy, and Faramir could not lead his remnant through without battle. Horsemen of the enemy were there, followed by innumerable Orcs and a horde of fierce Southrons. As few as they were, and wounded, they might have held true to their course and made it safely to the gate, but for the Nazgûl. The men could not bear that terror, and their will was broken. Even Faramir could not hold them in place."
"You witnessed this?" Dûrlin asked quietly.
"The lord Denethor had prepared a sortie to bring Faramir's troops safely into the City should the retreat from the Rammas approach the walls; I was there to lead it, hidden in the shadow of the outside Gate, awaiting the signal. Even I felt the fear that blanketed the Pelennor at the arrival of those dreadful creatures! But when the signal came to advance, we threw our fear aside and rode to Faramir's aid. Mithrandir went before us, and that was well, for his power was needed to turn back the Nazgûl and allow the company to find their courage once more. We drove the enemy back long enough for the men to gather once more and make their way to City. But Faramir..."
Imrahil's voice wavered briefly, and he sighed deeply.
"Yes, Faramir... " Dûrlin repeated. "You came too late, then?"
"We were too late to prevent his wounding, but at least we prevented his death at the hands of the Southrons after he had fallen. Yet I fear his wound is deadly! It seems likely to me that it came from a dart of the Nazgûl as it flew overhead. Faramir was holding at bay a mounted Southron so that his men could flee, and he was open to such an attack. I came too late to defend him, I could only bear his wounded body to his father. Alas!"
"Alas!" Dûrlin echoed. "I know the tale from here, all too well. I helped make a bed for Faramir in my lord's chamber, and tended him somewhat, until I was sent from the room and the Steward ascended the Tower. Truly, I fear for him as much as for Faramir; I cannot read his mood at all. Where has he gone, I wonder? What errand does he have that takes him away from his son's side, so sorely wounded?"
"I know not," answered Imrahil heavily. "I, too, sense a strange mood in him. They did not part on good terms, I fear. Perhaps he regrets sending his son away to undertake such a hopeless task -- though regret is not a word I would often associate with my brother, the Steward!"
"No, he is not one to regret his decisions, made with confidence after much thought and the gathering of knowledge. Yet it is possible that even the most decisive of men who commands even his sons without regret will reach that point where he breaks. Boromir has not returned, and he deems him lost forever; now he is about to lose Faramir, as well, perhaps. That is likely how he sees it."
Imrahil gazed at Dûrlin thoughtfully. "I have heard it said that you believe Boromir will yet return, is this so?"
"I do believe that," Dûrlin replied. "I cannot say why I believe it so firmly, but it is true. I have no proof that he lives, but I also have no proof that he is truly dead, and because of that, I refuse to despair. My heart tells me he is not dead, and may return at any moment, and therefore I have hope."
Dûrlin's glance strayed towards the closed door of Denethor's inner chamber where the wounded Faramir lay, and Imrahil followed his gaze.
"I do not know what to think concerning Boromir," Imrahil said, "but if he does return, may it not be to the news that his brother is lost!"
***
Denethor's hands dropped to his lap and he bowed his head in despair until the cold hard surface of the palantÃr pressed against his forehead. He had come to the Stone once again for guidance, but what it had revealed to him had left him with no hope.
He had searched above all else for Boromir, for any sign that he might yet live, that he might be on his way home -- but he knew in his heart it was hopeless. No matter how he turned the Stone, he could see nothing but the vast might of Mordor gathering against him. Northwards, Orcs and evil Men with axes moved across the plains into Anórien. If they reached the North Gate of the Pelennor and moved onwards towards the Great West Road, the Riders of Rohan would be cut off from the City. If they were even coming! No word had come from the West, and none of his errand riders had returned. For all Denethor knew, Théoden had refused the summons.
Cair Andros had fallen and a multitude marched southward to join the immense army that poured out of Mordor and advanced on Gondor from the East. The palantÃr showed a limitless stretch of seething black shapes like a dark sea flowing towards Minas Tirith. There was no hope for the City against such a force!
Denethor shuddered. It is obvious the Enemy has obtained the Ring, he thought. Why else would he empty his land and send his forces with such abandon? The whole might of Mordor is being thrown at us, and we cannot stand against it! How? How did he obtain it? I cannot say, but it must be so... there is no other answer... If the Ring is back on the Black Hand, then we are lost. Lost! There is nothing we can do against him that will not result in horrible death... Why did I send Faramir into such a hopeless situation? What is the point of defense if the Ring has been found? All is lost...
Denethor rose slowly, stiffly, and covered the palantÃr once more with its cloth. Little use the Stone had been to him in the end, when he needed it most. The wisdom and vision he had gained from it in the past which had aided him in determining the course of his City and his people had all been for naught. In the end, he had failed -- failed the free peoples of the West, failed Gondor, failed his people, failed even his own sons. He had sent them to their deaths when there had never been any hope of success against a mighty Enemy.
"I shall go to Faramir and wait with him until the end," Denethor said to the empty room. "At least he will not be alone during his final moments. Perhaps... perhaps we might even leave this world together..."
***
Imrahil had returned to his men, in order to prepare them for the battle that was surely coming. Dûrlin returned to Faramir's side, tending him as best he could. The wound he had received had been cleansed and wrapped, but Faramir was beginning to burn with fever, and Dûrlin was concerned.
"Dûrlin, sir?" Pippin spoke from the doorway where he stood at attention, awaiting Denethor's return. "Faramir doesn't look well, does he? Should we call healers to come? Not that you don't best know how to tend him, I didn't mean that..." He stammered in embarrassment.
"You are right," Dûrlin agreed. "He is not well. I fear he has a fever now. I have some knowledge of healing, of course, and I have seen Faramir through many a fever and illness, but this is beyond me. He should be in the Houses of Healing. But I cannot move him without the consent of his father. Perhaps when he returns, I can convince him to have Faramir moved there."
"Where has the Lord Denethor gone?" Pippin wondered. "He just disappeared without saying a word. Is he all right?"
"I do not know, Pippin," Dûrlin sighed. "I fear he is not all right. What father would be, in such a situation? We must wait for him to return, and then we shall see how he fares, perhaps."
They did not wait long. The door of the chamber opened, and Denethor entered. Dûrlin and Pippin stared at him, aghast at the change they saw. The stern, proud man in command of the City was gone, replaced by a broken, defeated old man. Denethor looked back at them, his gaze unseeing. After a moment, he moved slowly on past to a chair set beside Faramir's bed. He sat down beside him without speaking a word, staring at his son's face with bleak, empty eyes and a face as grey as death.
LoG 54 -- Time Grows Short
As Merry readied himself for the summons to march, he remained on the watch for Boromir. He was not certain Boromir would be able to meet with him again before they departed, but he hoped he would be able to manage it. The Riders of Rohan were preparing to set out in search of the secret road the Wild Men had revealed to Théoden; it seemed it was now the only hope they had of reaching Minas Tirith unhindered by the enemy. They had learned that the main road to the City was taken, and the enemy had cast trenches and stakes across the way to hinder anyone coming from the West. But the hidden road would take them safely past all that; they just had to follow the lead of the Wild Men.
"Are you watching for your friend Boromir?" asked Dernhelm. "I am certain he will do everything within his power to meet with you before we begin our march. It is likely he will ride with the King, so this may be his last opportunity to spend time with you. He knows you wish to keep your presence from becoming known to the King, at least for now, so he will only be able to come if he is unwatched or unaccompanied."
"Yes, I was thinking just that," Merry confirmed. "Boromir will do his best, I'm sure!" Merry shook his head. "I do feel bad about keeping secrets from the King, but I don't want to upset him at this important time. He has so many decisions to make now before that battle, and I don't want to distract him. He'd be unhappy that I disobeyed him! I know he thought he was protecting me by telling me to stay behind, but I just couldn't do it, even if it means disobeying and risking him being very angry with me when he finds out I'm not safe in Edoras!"
"Yes," agreed Dernhelm in a firm voice. "It had to be done. This is not a time for safety, all who are willing to serve are needed. He will need us with him, I deem, before the end."
"I hope so," Merry sighed. "That is what I want most, to be needed and to serve well."
"That is also my wish."
Merry shook his head again, still amazed at what he had heard and witnessed from outside the tent during the council between the headman Ghân-buri-Ghân, and Théoden and his advisors. Ghân-buri-Ghân had known Boromir! He had acknowledged him as a lord of the Stone-city and honored him as a great killer of Orcs. It made sense that they would know of him, as they seemed to be a very observant people, and anyone who was an enemy of Orcs would be someone they would notice and honor. Boromir had been as surprised as the others to hear of the hidden way through the forest, but once he knew of it, he understood immediately how well it would serve their need. Knowing the history of how his own city had been built, he realized the road had been used to transport stone from quarries in the foothills to Minas Tirith. That meant the road would be as direct a route and as level and hard-surfaced as possible -- an excellent path for horsemen wishing to travel swiftly. Once the quarry stones were no longer needed for Minas Tirith, the road had been abandoned, the entrances overgrown and forgotten by all but the Wild Men of the Drúadan Forest.
Merry turned at a sound behind him, in time to see Boromir coming towards him out of the darkness.
"There you are, Boromir!" Merry said happily. "Dernhelm and I were just wondering when you'd be able to come. I'm glad you were able to manage it!"
"I cannot stay long, alas! But I could not go forward without taking proper leave of you, Merry." Boromir turned to Dernhelm. "This is Dernhelm, of whom you have spoken so highly?" He bowed low, hand upon his chest. "My thanks, Dernhelm, for your kindness and care for my friend. Because of your willingness to bear him, we have been able to meet again, where a meeting might not have otherwise been possible. Seeing Merry whole and well-cared for has encouraged me mightily, more than you can know!"
Dernhelm ducked his head and turned away shyly. "Nay, it is both duty and pleasure to serve you and Master Merry," he muttered in a gruff voice.
"Please continue to serve us both by watching over him, to keep him safe from harm -- as far as you are able! I entrust him to your care, Dernhelm."
"I will guard him well, lord. You may rely upon me."
Boromir nodded his thanks, then looked at Dernhelm thoughtfully. "Have we met before, Dernhelm?" he asked suddenly. "You have a familiar air about you..."
"It is possible, lord," Dernhelm replied, stammering slightly. "You have traveled in our lands and to Edoras, you may have seen me there... going about my duties..."
"Indeed, that is a likely possibility," Boromir answered. "Fare well, then, Dernhelm. May we meet again in my City!"
Boromir turned to Merry and kneeling, held out his arms. "Merry, I must go. The King awaits. Take great care of yourself, and do as Dernhelm advises. May the Valar grant us more time together, when we can sit at peace and enjoy one another's company at our leisure!"
"I'll be waiting for that time, Boromir!" Merry's voice was muffled as he buried his face in Boromir's shoulder. "And may Pippin be there, too! And all the others!"
"Indeed," said Boromir softly. "Pippin must be there, as well, and all the others..."
He gently pulled himself away, and with a wave of his hand to Merry, walked away into the darkness.
"Take care of yourself, Boromir!" Merry called after him. "Fare well!"
***
Aragorn stood on the deck of the great ship, looking out across the water where the Anduin met the harbor basin of the port city of Pelargir. Legolas and Gimli were at his side. The River was wide and deep, quiet in the dark hours before dawn. The noise of the harbor below them seemed strangely stilled and distant, and the sound of gulls keening strove with the sound of creaking masts, the thud of ships' keels against the docks, and the shout of men as they readied those ships for sailing. It had been a long day, full of fear and battle, death and victory, vows fulfilled and vows taken. The brief quiet after a night of hard, desperate labor was welcome -- but they could not tarry long. Aragorn would soon give the order to depart, for time was of the essence. Dawn approached and with it, a new day of fear and battle.
Aragorn turned, beckoning to his companions. "Come, it is time. We are needed in Minas Tirith. I fear the City will not stand long on her own, so we must go swiftly to her aid."
"'Tis a pity the Dead cannot help us now, when the real battle is about to begin," Gimli muttered.
"You surprise me, Gimli!" Legolas exclaimed. "Before this, you wanted nothing but to see them gone!"
"Aye, it's true, I wanted nothing to do with them," Gimli confessed. "But I cannot deny the effect they had on the fierce men of Umbar -- terrorized they were, we barely had to lift a finger to fight! The battle here at the docks was over before it started!"
Aragorn smiled. "The Dead did their part and fulfilled their vow. They cannot help us now, nor do they need to. But there are others here who are willing to join us, now that the Dead are gone. And we need them, for the coming battle will not be over so quickly as this one was!"
"What news have you had then of the coming battle?" Legolas inquired.
"Before ever we reached Pelargir, I knew through the palantÃr that Minas Tirith was assailed," Aragorn replied, "Sauron has thrown open the gates of Mordor and his armies move against the White City. Time grows short. We must reach her on the morrow or all will be lost."
"And Boromir?" Gimli asked, hope in his voice. "Was there aught of Boromir to be seen in the Stone?"
"Alas, no new word of Boromir," Aragorn sighed. "But he lives, and that continues to give me hope until I learn otherwise. I am eager to see him again!"
"Well then, what are we waiting for?" Gimli grumbled. "Give the order so we can be on our way. The sooner we get to Minas Tirith and deal with the Enemy's armies, the sooner we can see Boromir!"
LoG 55 -- 'Do Not Lose Heart'
The healer who had been called from the Houses of Healing confirmed what Dûrlin had suspected, that Faramir was feverish and needed tending by expert healers. But Denethor would not allow Faramir to be moved.
"Do not move him. If you must tend him, then do so, but he must stay here... with me..." No amount of urging from Dûrlin or the healer could make him change his mind; Denethor was determined to stay where he was and his son with him.
With a heavy sigh, the healer did what he could to make Faramir more comfortable, making certain his wound was well-bandaged and clean, with herbs and healing draughts at hand to help with fever and pain. As he left, he gave instructions to Dûrlin.
"I must return to the Houses of Healing, to prepare for the wounded who will soon come, as well as tend those who are already there. You are well-equipped to care for Faramir, but you may call us at need if he takes a turn for the worse or if you feel his needs are beyond your expertise. I fear this fever may worsen, so do your best to keep him cool. I will check on him as I am able, but that may not be possible once the battle begins."
"Thank you for what you have done," Dûrlin reassured him. "I will do everything in my power to tend Faramir well."
"Watch closely and care for the Lord Steward, as well, if he allows it. It is a grave blow to have his son so ill, and I fear he will also fall ill if he does not take care."
"Fear not, I will not let him fall into illness or despair!" Dûrlin vowed. "He and his sons have been my charge for many a year, and I will not fail when the hour seems darkest."
Pippin watched the door close after the healer, then turned to Dûrlin.
"Will Faramir die?" he asked, unable to keep from expressing the fear that was foremost in his mind.
Dûrlin laid a comforting hand on Pippin's shoulder. "Did you hear my vow to the healer just now? I meant every word. Faramir will not die, for we will do everything we can to keep him from death. We will also strive to keep his father from despair; I fear his spirit is broken, but perhaps it can be restored when Faramir recovers and Boromir returns."
Pippin smiled in spite of his worry. "You are always so positive with how you look at things! You speak as if you know Faramir will recover and Boromir return. That encourages me!"
"I feel it is always best to remain hopeful in the face of fear. What is the use in expecting the worst when nothing has yet been confirmed? Many likely consider me a fool that I remain so certain in the face of what seems to be reality, but a positive outlook is a strength against all manner of difficulties. Denethor believes all is lost, that is written clearly on his face -- but we must do what we can to change that for him, and to do that, we must look forward in hope. You have joined me in my belief that Boromir still lives; can you also share my confidence that Faramir will live, as well?"
"Somehow it seems easier to believe in Boromir's return than to believe Faramir will recover, seeing how sick he looks -- but I'll do my best, Dûrlin! Just tell me how I can help."
"I will see to Faramir and his needs. As his page, your duty now is to watch over our lord Denethor and keep him from losing heart. It will not be a simple task, but it is the best way you can serve him now."
"I'll do it, whatever it takes," Pippin vowed.
***
Word spread throughout the City that Faramir was wounded, perhaps nearing death, and the Lord Steward had fallen ill in his despair at the loss of his sons. The thought of their strong and decisive Steward being unable to lead was frightening to the people of Minas Tirith, but before long, the rumor that Denethor had given over leadership for the coming battle to Mithrandir was confirmed, as the wizard strode about the City, giving orders as well as encouragement to those manning the walls. Prince Imrahil accompanied him wherever he went, upholding Mithrandir's leadership.
"Do you think the Rohirrim will come?" Imrahil asked as they walked the walls and made plans for the defense of the City.
"Ingold reports that they cannot come," replied Gandalf, shaking his head. "He led the guard stationed at the North Gate of the Rammas, so he would be in a position to see the strength of the enemy there. He and his men were the last to return within the walls before the siege began; according to him, the road west to Rohan is blocked by the enemy, so Théoden is cut off. He would encounter a fierce battle on the road before he can even get close to the City. It is my belief that the Rohirrim are coming, but whether they will reach the City in time or in numbers sufficient to aid us, I cannot say. Even so, I will not lose hope just yet, for the future is not set and we cannot know what fortune may yet come to us."
"I hear the rumor has already gone forth in the City that Rohan cannot come," Imrahil sighed. "We must keep the fighting men encouraged so that they do not fall into despair at the enormity of the battle before us. Let us hope Théoden finds a way to reach us before it is too late! Whether aid comes or no, we cannot lose heart before the battle has even begun!"
"It is as you say," Gandalf agreed. "There is much we can do to oppose the enemy, while we wait for aid to come, and keeping hope alive is not the least of our weapons of defense!"
***
The Riders of Rohan had broken camp in the early morning darkness, picking their way slowly and carefully over rough ridges and through thick woodland, seeking paths down into the hidden Stonewain Valley. Once they reached the forgotten wain-road, they made steady progress. The road was broken and thick with fallen leaves, but wide enough that the long files of Riders could move forward side by side. All was quiet under the trees, and the air grew steadily dimmer as they slowly drew closer to Minas Tirith. There was no sight or sound of any enemy, and the Wild Men who accompanied them kept watch before and behind to make certain no Orc scout or spy of evil Men might learn of their movement and thwart their progress.
Though they were now nearing the edge of the wood, they made camp in the late afternoon, in order to rest and receive reports from the scouts Éomer had sent to spy out the road ahead. Wild Men also came with reports of a large contingent of the enemy encamped near Amon Din to the northeast, no more than an hour's walk away from where the Riders rested, hidden among the grey trees. However, southwards along the road and straight ahead from their camp, there was no enemy to be found between them and the walls of the Rammas Echor. Ghân-buri-Ghân reported with a strange gurgling laugh that many Orcs were present at the North Gate walls, but they were heedless and not keeping watch, as they busied themselves with breaking down the walls, assuming no enemy could pass to disturb them.
Éomer was delighted with this news. He had feared the out-wall would be held against them, but now their way forward was unimpeded and the enemy was open to attack. They would be able to sweep through, thus reaching the open road and the grassy plain beyond where they would be able to ride more swiftly.
Yet Éomer's scouts also brought news that was not so good: the errand-riders of Gondor had been found dead along with their horses, not far from the edge of the grey wood where the Riders of Rohan were encamped. They had been struck down and their heads hewn off. One of the riders still clasped the Red Arrow that had been sent as the signal to call Rohan to the aid of Gondor. It was evident that the riders had found the enemy already on the out-wall, and had been forced to turn back without reaching the City.
"Alas!" cried Théoden. "Denethor has heard no news of our riding to his aid! He will despair of our coming!"
Boromir buried his face in his hands, mourning the loss of these good men of Gondor who had been unable to bring hopeful news to the City. He groaned at the thought of his father's despair.
"This is unfortunate," Éomer said regretfully. "The need to reach the City swiftly seems ever more urgent now, knowing they have not heard of our coming. Yet it is unwise to move forward without rest to regain our strength. Do not lose heart! We will rest now, but if we move forward tonight, we will reach the fields at first light and ride like the wind to the City. Then, at the sounding of the horns of Rohan, shall the lord Denethor hear of our coming!"
LoG 56 -- Breaking Through Despair
Long hours passed as Pippin waited on the Steward in the dark, unlit room. Denethor sat heedless, stroking Faramir's hand, ignoring all who came and went. From time to time, Dûrlin would pass through to check on his two charges, and to give an encouraging word to Pippin. The hobbit needed that encouragement, for it was a dismal time, waiting to serve a lord who did not need him and who did not even seem to realize he was there. Several times, Pippin opened his mouth to speak words that might bring some hope back to the Steward, but the sight of tears on Denethor's face stopped him. Denethor was no longer the stern, proud lord of the City; his spirit was broken.
Finally, Pippin could bear it no more, he felt he must speak.
"My lord!" he said haltingly. "Please don't weep! Faramir is very ill, but he may still get well. If you would just let the healers care for him..."
"No," Denethor shook his head. "He cannot leave my side. He must stay with me, his father, though I have failed him. He may still speak before the end."
"He may not die, sir! If you don't want him to leave your side, then call for someone to come here to tend him; Dûrlin is doing what he can, but Gandalf maybe could do more. Gandalf might know how to help Faramir in a way the healers don't!"
"Speak not of wizards to me! It is because of his foolish plan that our hope has failed. The Enemy has it and is now strong beyond all imagining. He sends the full might of Mordor against us, and we can do nothing to stop it. We are doomed to defeat! Faramir will die, and my line will be at an end."
The Enemy has it? thought Pippin. What does he mean? Is he talking about the Ring?
Fear gripped Pippin's heart at the thought that Frodo might have failed in his Quest and that the Ring might be back on the hand of Sauron. But how would Denethor know that? And if it were so, wouldn't Gandalf had known, as well? Gandalf still held out hope that Frodo would succeed, so perhaps it wasn't true, no matter what Denethor said. The Steward was obviously grieving and had lost all hope, so maybe he was just assuming the worst...
Pippin's thoughts were interrupted by a messenger coming with the news that the first Circle of the City was burning with fire from the Enemy's siege weapons, and that men were abandoning the walls.
"Why tell me this?" Denethor responded. "Let Mithrandir deal with it, though his hope has failed. It would be better to face the fire and burn sooner rather than later, for we will all burn when the Enemy comes."
Denethor turned away, then turned back to the retreating messenger as if he had come to some sudden decision. "Yes, go now; leave me to my own burning. The Enemy will not touch me nor will my son's body be dishonored. I will protect him from being defiled by the Enemy... we will burn together and thus go to meet Boromir..."
Pippin, horrified at Denethor's words, barely heard the Steward speaking to him, bidding him farewell and thanking him for his service.
"Nay, Lord," he stammered. "I wish to stay with you, to serve and protect you if it comes to that. Besides, there is still hope -- do not speak of burning and death!"
"Nay, the end is near. Go meet it in whatever way suits you. I will do the same, for my life is over. Send for my servants!"
Pippin fled the room.
I do not know what he has in mind but it sounds bad! he thought as he ran. Where is Dûrlin? I must find him, he will know what to do. The lord Denethor said to call his servants, but I'm afraid of what he is planning. Dûrlin is his chief servant, though, and knows him better than anyone; Dûrlin has to have a chance to talk to him before anything else! If anyone can break through the lord Denethor's despair, it's Dûrlin!
***
Sam tried to be quick in his search for Orc gear to disguise himself and Frodo so they could enter Mordor, but it was difficult to find things small enough to fit a hobbit-sized frame.
"I've got to hurry and get back to Mr. Frodo," he muttered to himself. "I don't like leaving him alone in this horrid place. Not just because of the bad time he's been through, what with getting poisoned by that wretched spider and then being captured and tortured, no doubt. He's got the Ring back now, and it's sure a burden for him to carry! I could see it weighing him down straight away after handing it back to him, even though I know he was relieved to have it back. I just wish I could've kept it and carried it for him, to ease his trouble. But I guess it's too late for that now, he can't let no one else take it!"
You could take it anyway, a thought niggled. He'd be lighter for it, once he got used to the idea. It's for his own good to take it from him, it's such a heavy burden...
Sam quashed the thought before it went any further. He knew it was the Ring trying to get at him, and he knew better than to believe its lies. He'd only carried it a short time, but that was long enough to realize what a powerful force it was on the will and the desire, and how it could twist thoughts and perceptions.
"It may be a burden for Mr. Frodo, but it's his burden to carry, and I won't stand in the way of that. I can help him in other ways, and I will, whatever it takes! I ain't gonna listen to those lies, or be tricked into thinking having the Ring myself is going to help anybody. Boromir got tricked like that, and look what came of it! Poor Boromir, I guess I know a bit what it was like now, having that Ring whispering at you all the time! I sure do wish I could tell him so..."
***
Denethor looked up as Dûrlin hurriedly entered the room, followed closely by Pippin.
"Where are my attendants?" he asked with a frown.
"Am I not your attendant, my Lord Denethor?" Dûrlin said gently, stepping forward to stand before the Steward. "I have long served you and your sons, have I not?"
"Yes, yes," Denethor replied impatiently. "Of course you have, and you have served us very well. But you cannot lift Faramir on his bier alone, can you?"
"Why do you speak of his bier, my lord? Faramir yet lives! Where is it you wish to take him? Are you ready to release him to the healers in the Houses of Healing?"
"Nay, not to the healers!" Denethor objected. "What more can they do? It is too late!"
"As long as he has life, it is not too late..."
"Nay!" Denethor interrupted. "What use is living now if it only brings us to death and mutilation at the hands of the Dark Lord's evil creatures? No, we go now to Rath DÃnen to meet our fate together and prevent just that. I will not allow my last remaining son to be dishonored in death by the minions of the Enemy. I shall take him where no evil can reach him, and I shall go with him!"
Pippin gasped in fear, as Dûrlin took a long deep breath to steady himself.
"My lord Denethor!" he implored. "I am under oath to Boromir to see to your good health and that of Faramir, also. I am happy to call your other attendants if your desire is to allow Faramir the healing attention he needs -- but I will not allow you to even contemplate a plan such as this, bringing harm to yourself and your own son simply because you have lost hope! How does an act such as that honor anyone?"
"You will not allow it?" Denethor scowled. "I am your lord! You must obey me!"
"You are indeed my lord, but I cannot obey you in this. No lord of Men takes himself out of the battle in such a manner, leaving his people destitute, conceding defeat before the victory or loss is even decided."
"My people..." Denethor's shoulders slumped. "I have already failed my people. All I have done for Gondor has been for naught! What else is left but to concede?"
"You have not failed Gondor," Dûrlin objected. "But you will indeed do so if you go forward with this folly. What will Boromir say when he comes to find you making such decisions that harm yourself and Faramir, leaving Gondor leaderless, open to the whims of the enemy?"
"Boromir!" Denethor sighed heavily. "He is gone and will not return. Why do you speak of him as if he lives and will be affected by what I do?"
"I know he lives and he is coming to us!" Dûrlin declared boldly.
Denethor straightened, looking at Dûrlin as if seeing him clearly for the first time. "How... how can you know this? I have seen nothing... nothing! Have you -- have you seen him? How do you know, in truth?"
"I have not seen him, but I believe it to be true."
"You believe!" Denethor scoffed angrily, looking away in disappointment. "Always you are so certain, even when all others despair. It is impossible!"
"Have I ever been wrong in my strong belief, my lord?"
Denethor hesitated, then shook his head. "No... no, you have not. But it is foolishness! I cannot accept this, it is not enough to sway me. You have no proof. I need proof!"
"Then I will give it to you," Dûrlin said resolutely. "Let me send for Mithrandir. You may doubt his intentions towards you and this City, but you cannot deny that he has power, and sight that allows him to see that which others cannot. Let him look for us to see if Boromir comes."
Denethor frowned. "I, too, have sight, and I have seen nothing -- nothing, though I have searched and searched..."
Dûrlin laid a gentle hand on Denethor's shoulder. "It is true, my lord. You have great insight and see more than any man in Gondor, and it has aided you in your rule of Gondor's people. But no longer; you are not yourself! You are broken and your wisdom is lacking. This is not the time to be making decisions that bring harm to you and your son -- nay, to all of Gondor and the West! Can you tell me truthfully that what you now contemplate is a course the Lord Denethor, Steward of Gondor, would take -- that Lord Denethor whose goal has always been to do whatever is necessary for Gondor's protection and success and best good, even at great cost?"
Denethor hesitated, then hung his head wearily. He said nothing for long silent moments, gazing at Faramir's pale face. Faramir, in his fever, moaned faintly and shifted slightly on his bed, his hand brushing his father's knee as he sat close beside him. Denethor grasped Faramir's hand firmly, blinking away tears.
"Is that a course the Lord Denethor would take?" he repeated slowly. "No... no, it is not. The welfare of Gondor and her people has always been my charge and my great desire, no matter the cost. Yet that cost has been great! Would that I had considered my own sons as highly as I have my people! Perhaps I would not have come to such grief..."
Denethor stroked Faramir's hand gently, then sighed deeply. "Very well, then. I will wait. Send to Mithrandir. We shall see if his sight is greater than mine. My heart tells me he will see nothing, if he even deigns to look on my behalf, I who have opposed him for so long!"
"You do Mithrandir an injustice if you believe him an enemy, my lord," Dûrlin replied. "He honors you and your sons highly! I have no doubt whatsoever he will look on our behalf, and do so gladly. To see Boromir living and coming to Gondor's aid would encourage him, as well, I deem!"
"Yes, yes!" cried Pippin, who had been breathlessly watching the exchange between Denethor and Dûrlin. "Gandalf has great power and sight, I know he has looked with eyes of power in such a way as this, to see what might be coming. He loves Boromir greatly and honors you, my lord, I heard him say just that! I'm sure he will be happy to help us find Boromir, especially if it will help relieve your despair."
"So Dûrlin has convinced you to hope, as well, has he?" Denethor said, regarding Pippin thoughtfully. He sighed again, but his face seemed less grey and drawn. "Go, then -- I submit to your hope, at least for now! But if it should prove false..."
"I have faith that it will not prove false," Dûrlin responded. He turned to Pippin. "You have heard what has passed between us; my lord Denethor needs something to rekindle his hope. Perhaps Mithrandir can provide that spark, if he is willing. Seek him now swiftly, and put this request before him, if you will. You know him best of all who are here in the city, save Faramir; may he heed you and come to our rescue and encourage our hearts with fresh hope!"
"Of course I will" Pippin agreed. "I'll fetch him now, I'm sure he'll come. We'll be back before you know it!"
*****
"Have you ever been called Home by the clear ringing of silver trumpets?...One day, our paths will lead us there." -- Boromir, Lord of Gondor
