Prologue

A/N: Thanks to Raksha the Demon, and Nesta, of Emyn Arnen, for their help with this.

---

They rose as one, turned to face the west. Always before his mind had rested on their lost home, Atalantë that he had watched sink beneath the waves. Today his thought only briefly touched fallen Númenor, instead looking beyond. They have remembered us; or never forgotten, even as we ourselves begin to. He sat down, his mind turning to his absent cousin, who he loved dearly, yet— It was always "yet" with him. He should not go; he must not go. He was called, yes, but not chosen. Why did he even wish to? He had no great love for the Eldar; or even interest in them. There was something—what was Boromir doing? He was never late.

Erchirion, son of Imrahil, could think of a number of places he would rather be—most notably, back home with his family in Dol Amroth. Fishing at the bottom of the Bay of Belfalas was also beginning to sound oddly attractive. It had been three days since the council began deliberating, and if today was anything like the day before, he thought he would run mad before it finished. Or perhaps before it started, if Boromir didn't get here soon.

The other councillors were beginning to murmur. Erchirion bristled. While he personally found his cousin patronising, overbearing, and none too clever, that did not give anyone else the right to speak disparagingly of the Steward's heir, particularly in the presence of said Steward—not when Erchirion was sitting right next to him, in lieu of his elder brother, whose wife had unexpectedly fallen ill. At least Faramir, his favourite relation, was next to him as well, expression coolly inscrutable in the best Númenórean tradition. It was not terribly comforting, but he knew that Faramir was only preoccupied, as was usual since his return from Osgiliath. He had always been a little absent-minded, but he seemed to be walking in another world these days. Not that Erchirion blamed him; receiving direct messages from the Valar was no doubt an alarming experience, not to mention facing the Black Riders.

Maps scattered over the table, tracing the route Faramir, or Boromir, would take, from Minas Tirith to Edoras, to the boundaries of lost Arnor. And from there—west into Eriador, and wandering about until he happened upon Rivendell, or more likely, Rivendell happened upon him. No wonder Húrin, and the rest of the Council, were so unenthusiastic about sending Boromir on the errand. The lord of the Council, however, was still undecided, and the final decision would rest with him.

Boromir must not go. The sure knowledge was sudden but not unfamiliar; a gift, his father said, and sometimes it was. Yet how could he be certain Faramir would be sent? Most of the Council would prefer to send him, if anyone at all, but that would not sway Denethor. Erchirion could not perceive his uncle's thought and would never make the attempt; but in this it was clear enough. It was a dangerous journey, and Boromir was needed in Gondor. Denethor did not wish to risk him on such an ephemeral matter. Yet he wished, as always, to grant Boromir his desire, whatever that desire might be. How may I influence him? I cannot simply say: send Faramir, he is not so valuable and the dreams were clearly meant for him in any case. How does one out-manoeuvre an expert manipulator? The Steward was a spider, spinning his threads so expertly that none could even detect their presence.

Almost none. Erchirion lifted his head, met his cousin's eyes. It must be Faramir, he thought once more, and his mind wandered to Rivendell, and what would be found there. Boromir, in Rivendell, surrounded by Elves and books and ancient artefacts? It boggled the imagination. But Faramir, Faramir with his music and stories and books, he was the perfect one to send—as anyone with eyes could see.

Boromir eventually arrived, limping slightly; apparently he'd had an accident of some sort. Nothing that would bother him for more than a few hours. Erchirion paid little attention to the council, which appeared to be going nowhere (as usual), instead concentrating on his elder cousin. Boromir sat across from him, as usual paying him little note, his expression stern. He was a good, kindly man, for all his faults, and a mighty warrior; Gondor needed him, here. Erchirion glanced at his leg, then at Faramir, and an idea entered his mind.

Very early the next day, Erchirion loitered outside the Houses of Healing, waiting for Faramir to come out. "How is he?" he asked, trying to appear concerned. He had been very careful; he knew that Boromir's injury was not serious.

"He'll be fine," Faramir said, clearly exhausted. Erchirion felt a twinge of guilt, but ruthlessly suppressed it. He had done what needed to be done. It was not what Elphir would have done, had he been here as usual, nor father, and certainly not Faramir, whom Erchirion had always attempted to emulate, but it had been necessary. "He should be walking again in a few weeks."

"Oh, that's good," Erchirion, not accustomed to deceit, managed to mumble. Faramir raised an eyebrow.

"I am to take the errand," he said abruptly. "Since Boromir cannot, my lord father insists that I go in his stead."

In his stead, indeed! "That is good news—is it not?"

"Oh, excellent news. While, naturally, I would not wish any pain on my brother, it was only a mild injury and he should recover quickly. No, it is quite remarkably providential." Faramir's clear grey eyes, identical to his own, rested intently upon his face. Erchirion felt nearly as uncomfortable as the time Denethor and Adrahil had caught him throwing pebbles at the White Tree. Sometimes his cousin seemed to bear an uncanny resemblance to their grandfather.

"Well—coincidences are peculiar things," he offered feebly. "Fate works in strange ways."

"And rarely without assistance," said Faramir.

Erchirion darted a glance at him, certain that his cousin knew exactly what he'd done. He wondered if deliberately injuring the Steward's heir counted as treason.

But he never found the answer. Faramir's expression changed, grew more sober but less authoritative. "When do you leave for Dol Amroth, Erchirion?"

"I—three days hence."

"I am already packed," Faramir observed, "and will leave as soon as I can. You will give Ailinel my best wishes?"

"Of course."

"And please send my regards to your family, and our aunt."

"Certainly." Erchirion eyed Faramir, who suddenly seemed very grave, and very young; he did not look as if he could possibly be Erchirion's age, let alone seven years older. What would he see when Faramir returned, if he returned at all?

"Thank you. Farewell, cousin; I hope we meet again."

"Farewell," echoed Erchirion blankly, wondering just what he had done. "May the sun shine upon your path."

---

Like a blast of cold air, he entered their lives, and left nearly as quickly. They were suspicious, at first, not trusting this pampered southerner with his rich clothing and lilting accent. He was nothing like the men she had known before, dwarfing most of the Riders, and standing considerably above even her brother and cousin. The top of her head barely reached his shoulder. He did not have the sheer strength of her kin, was instead slender and agile, moving so quickly and silently that he seemed to appear and disappear at will.

She could remember her grandmother, a southerner like this one. Even into her nineties, the Queen had stood tall and straight, her hair still dark, although streaked with silver and her face lined but not wrinkled. And when her will was crossed, she looked beautiful and terrible, her clear grey eyes blazing so brightly that the children dared not look into them. Witch some had called her, and they were never certain whether she was or not. In six months’ time, she had aged twenty years before their eyes and died before she could suffer decrepitude or senility.

She had not thought of her grandmother in years, for present griefs occupied most of her mind, but somehow this lord from Mundburg reminded her of the Queen. It was mostly about the eyes, she thought; for this stranger’s eyes were not only the same clear grey as her grandmother’s, but shone like stars in his pale face. She had heard tales of the great Men of the West who had risen up, as it seemed, out of the very sea, the light of the uttermost west in their faces. They were akin to the wizards, some said, for they had wrought works that could only be enchantment, Orthanc where their wizard-ally dwelt, and Mundburg, and staves that returned to their owners. The other southerners did not seem as if they could be heirs of the Westmen, as the tales said they were, and they certainly displayed no skills at enchantment to battle the evil to the East — but she looked at him, and thought of the stories, and of her grandmother, and wondered.

---

“It is good to find a kinsman thus kindly at need*.”

The Lord Faramir did not seem greatly angered by her uncle’s distinct lack of cordiality, or even deeply upset; his voice was cold, but free of any personal rancour. There was a trace of annoyance in his brilliant grey eyes, but also amusement; although what he could find to be amused about what was beyond her comprehension. That didn’t matter, though; what mattered was that he was not offended, would not return to Mundburg to speak of his deplorable treatment by the wild horsemen of the north. They did not dare lose friendship with Gondor; and Faramir was not a mere ambassador, but a son of the Steward.

She had changed her mind about him quickly. At first, she could not help but think he was one of those petty, self-serving aristocrats, the sort who never set a foot out of doors if they could help it. He was much slenderer than her folk, and his skin was far too pale for a true warrior’s; even fairer than her own. Yet when she looked at him properly, she saw that here was one who no Rider of the Mark would outmatch. No, he doubtless had spent many years wielding a weapon; how long, she could not say. He looked a little younger than her brother, about five-and-twenty; but his eyes were older.

Astonishingly, Lord Faramir’s stern words seemed to bring Théoden back to himself. Soon they were exchanging pleasantries, and Faramir was welcomed to take one of their best horses with him on his errand. It fell to Éowyn to take him to his rooms.

“I hope you find them to your liking,” she ventured.

Faramir smiled down at her (for he was a great deal taller than she). “I am certain I shall,” he assured her. Then his brows knit together, and he glanced over his shoulder, almost as if he expected to be followed. “Please forgive my presumption, lady; but is all well in Rohan?”

Éowyn opened her mouth to — she did not know what; she longed to confide in him, as she could not to her brother and cousin, and perhaps she might have — but her sensitive ears caught the small shuffling sound, and her skin crawled. She looked over at Faramir, heart pounding; his hearing was no less sharp than hers. His hand flew to his sword-hilt, but he did not move; indeed, she did not think she had any human being stand so still.

It was somehow no surprise when Gríma, her uncle’s most trusted counsellor, crawled out of the shadows. He always seemed present, offering her assistance and support. She had no real reason to distrust him, except that she could never perceive his true thoughts or feelings. He was eloquent; each word seemed to have been thought-out beforetime. And she did not like his appearance, his heavy-lidded dark eyes that seemed to rest on her too often, his thinning colourless hair, the slight dampness that seemed to coat his skin. It was not his fault he was so unattractive, surely, but—

“Master Gríma,” she said, with a forced smile. “I did not expect to see you.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she could see that Faramir appeared to relax slightly, but he did not move his hand. “My lady,” Gríma said, bowing respectfully, and turning to Faramir. “My lord, please forgive my intrusion. There is a matter I wish to speak on, which may concern your . . . errand.”

Éowyn glanced over at Faramir. His expression had changed subtly; there was no longer any warmth or friendliness in it; or even the grave composure that had first drawn her to him, in admiration (and perhaps a little envy). Now his face looked as if it had been carved in ivory, and he looked at Gríma with icy grey eyes. Gríma perhaps meant to be intimidating, but he looked like a rather pathetic mouse hunting a particularly fierce cat. Éowyn felt laughter bubbling in her throat at the thought, and ruthlessly suppressed it. After a moment of silence, Faramir inclined his head.

“Perhaps tomorrow morning, I can find some time in which to speak with you, Master — Gríma.”

Gríma bowed again, with a lingering glance at Éowyn, and departed. After he was certain to be gone, she let out a breath. “What do you think of him, my lord?”

“Gríma?” Faramir took his hand off his sword hilt. “One of the most disagreeable men I have ever had the displeasure of meeting. He is clever, although doubtless not so clever as he imagines himself.”

Éowyn smiled. “There are some who call him ‘Wormtongue,’ for words are his only weapon, and he can twist them with great ease.”

“Yes, he has some skill with words,” Faramir said. “I would dearly love to see him at my father’s mercy for perhaps ten minutes. He would then learn of his utter lack of consequence, which I daresay would be good for him.”

Éowyn laughed; and was surprised at herself. It was long since she had been able to laugh so freely, and certainly not at Gríma’s expense. These days, his power was such that they did not dare, not even in secret. It seemed that a darkness had fallen on them here; but Faramir did not see it — no, he did, he had noticed earlier — he was unaffected by it, then. She wished she knew why, and that she could feel the same way herself.

---

*Faramir is quoting Eöl the Dark Elf. Doubtless the irony of his choice does not escape him.

Seated between the Mirkwood Elves and the Dwarves was a tall man who Frodo at first mistook for a strange Elf, although he quickly realised his mistake. He bore a distinct resemblance to Strider, both in feature and expression, but his face was young and fair, and his grey eyes were not deep and dark, but clear, and very bright, more akin to those of the Elves on his left. He was cloaked and booted as if for a journey on horseback; and indeed his garments, worn green and brown like Strider’s or Legolas’, were stained with long travel. His black hair was shorn about his shoulders, and he gazed at Frodo and Bilbo in sudden wonder.

“Here,” said Elrond, turning to Gandalf, “is Faramir, our kin through many generations of Men, and I believe a friend of yours. He arrived in the grey morning, and seeks for counsel. I have bidden him to be present, for here his questions will be answered.”

Frodo could not help relishing the astonished expression that crossed Gandalf’s face; he had never seen him really surprised, despite Frodo's and his cousins’ many efforts. The wizard and the man instantly exchanged warm, if brief, greetings, before Glóin began. He spoke of the Dwarves and of Moria and of their Rings; and of the Black Rider who had come as emissary of Sauron. Frodo shivered in remembrance.

Then the Council began in truth, as Elrond stood and addressed all present. (Even Sam, Frodo noted with some amusement.) “What shall we do with the Ring, the least of rings, the trifle that Sauron fancies? That is the doom that we must deem.” The man, Faramir, started.

“That is the purpose for which you are called hither. Called, I say, though I have not called you to me, strangers from distant lands. You have come and are here met, in this very nick of time, by chance as it may seem.” Most of those present looked distinctly sceptical. “Yet it is not so. Believe rather that it is so ordered that we, who sit here, and none others, must now find counsel for the peril of the world.” A trace of uncertainty crossed a number of faces, and Elrond smiled kindly.

“Now, therefore, things shall be openly spoken that have been hidden from all but a few until this day. And first, so that all may understand what is the peril, the Tale of the Ring shall be told from the beginning even to this present. And I will begin that tale, though others shall end it.”

He continued to speak, at such great length that Frodo occasionally felt his eyelids drooping; but he listened eagerly to what was said of Númenor, of the Elven-smiths of Eregion, and of the fates of Arnor and Gondor, the kingdoms of the Dúnedain-in-Exile. Both men stirred, their faces sad and proud, but neither spoke; and then it was time for Bilbo’s story, which was duly told. Not a single riddle was omitted; and all three, Glóin and Bilbo and Gandalf, often smiled in remembrance of events which of course were not at all amusing at the time. It made Frodo’s own story that much easier, although he was interrupted at every turn.

And finally, he was able to discover what, exactly, had happened to Gandalf. Frodo knew but little of Saruman, but by the expressions on the faces of the others, his betrayal was a great thing indeed. Faramir flushed slightly as Gandalf spoke of his chilly welcome by the Steward Denethor in Gondor, but all colour drained from his face as soon as Saruman’s treachery was made clear. Frodo felt rather sorry for him, for it was he who was next, and last, called upon to tell his tale.

“It is from Gondor that I am come,” he said, in a quiet voice that nonetheless carried to all corners of the room, “and I would beg leave to speak somewhat of my people, and of the threat we face. Master Elrond has spoken truly of my people, and our lands; we have changed, declining from Númenor to Middle-earth. We can do no more than fight on, putting off the evil day when darkness covers all the lands from Ithilien to the western shores, unless other help unlooked-for also comes, from Elves or Men. For the Enemy increases and we decrease. We are a failing people, a springless autumn.

“It is not said that evil arts were ever practised in Gondor, as they were in many other lands settled by the Númenóreans, or that the Nameless One was ever named in honour there; and the old wisdom and beauty brought out of the West remained long in the realm of the sons of Elendil the Fair, and they linger there still. Yet ever so it was Gondor that brought about its own decay, falling by degrees into dotage, and thinking that the Enemy was asleep, who was only banished not destroyed.” He smiled grimly. “He is not asleep. He has risen again. The power of the Black Land grows and we are hard beset. This very year, in the days of June, sudden war came upon us out of Mordor, and we were swept away. We were outnumbered, for Mordor has allied itself with the Easterlings and Haradrim; but it was not by numbers that we were defeated.”

He paused, glancing at Glóin, and then at Frodo. “A great black horseman rode with them, one that I daresay some of you have met before. Wherever he came a madness filled our foes, but fear fell on our boldest, so that horse and man gave way and fled. Only a remnant of our eastern force came back, destroying the last bridge that still stood amid the ruins of Osgiliath. Boromir, my elder brother, and I were in the company that held the bridge, until it was cast down behind us. Four only were saved by swimming; Boromir, myself, and two others. But I was not bidden to ask for help—although we need it—but for counsel, and the unravelling of hard words. On the eve of the sudden assault, a dream came to me, and several nights thereafter; it also came once to Boromir.

“In it, I saw the eastern sky grow dark, and there was a growing thunder, but in the
West a pale light lingered, and out of it I heard a voice, remote but clear, crying:

Seek for the Sword that was broken:

In Imladris it dwells;

There shall be counsels taken

Stronger than Morgul-spells.

There shall be shown a token

That Doom is near at hand,

For Isildur’s Bane shall waken,

And the Halfling forth shall stand.”

He paused, and Frodo stared; fortunately he was not the only one. Even Glorfindel looked taken aback. Isildur’s Bane, the Halfling—he felt as never before how small he was, in importance as well as stature, and how great the affairs in which he was caught up. Here was this great man, who had come all these many miles from Gondor in order to decipher the words of a dream; and whoever had sent the dream (Frodo thought he could guess, and his mind shrank at it) had spoken of Frodo. He swallowed, as Faramir continued, a little more easily, speaking of his father the Steward—so that was why he had looked uncomfortable earlier—and of their struggle to comprehend what was meant.

“My brother was anxious to go, as the way was full of doubt and danger, and he is the elder and hardier, but he unfortunately acquired an injury before the day of departure.” This was so abrupt that several of those present blinked rather suspiciously, and Faramir smiled ruefully. “I have a young cousin who is—somewhat inclined towards interference in matters he does not wholly understand.” Frodo almost laughed, thinking of Pippin, and even of Merry. “The journey was long, and hard, and I have guessed at some of what is meant; but not all, and they are still no more than guesses.”

“And here in the house of Elrond more shall be made clear to you,” said Aragorn, standing up. He cast his sword upon the table that stood before Elrond, and the blade was in two pieces. “Here is the Sword that was Broken!” he said.

Faramir stared at it, and his fingers twitched, as if he longed to reach out and touch it. “Narsil,” he breathed, his grey eyes shining in his pale, grave face. “I thought the rhyme must be speaking of Narsil, but—” He looked up at Aragorn. “Who are—how did—” He stopped, his eyes fixed on Aragorn’s, and paled, as if a piece of valuable but unwelcome knowledge had just come to him.

“He is Aragorn son of Arathorn,” said Elrond; “and he is descended through many fathers from Isildur Elendil’s son of Minas Ithil. He is the Chief of the Dúnedain of the North, and few are now left of that folk.”

Isildur? “Then it belongs to you, and not to me at all!” cried Frodo in astonishment, springing to his feet, as if he expected the Ring to be demanded at once.

“It does not belong to either of us,” said Aragorn; “but it has been ordained that you should hold it for a while.”

“Bring out the Ring, Frodo!” said Gandalf solemnly. “The time has come. Hold it up, and then Faramir will understand the remainder of his riddle.”

There was a hush, and all turned their eyes on Frodo. He was shaken by a sudden shame and fear; and he felt a great reluctance to reveal the Ring, and a loathing of its touch. He wished he was far away. The Ring gleamed and flickered as he held it up before them in his trembling hand.

“Behold Isildur’s Bane!” said Elrond.

Faramir’s eyes narrowed as he gazed at the Ring, and he took a step backwards. He looked rather like how Frodo felt: decidedly ill. “So this is the answer to all the riddles,” he said grimly. “The One Ring that was thought to have perished from the world.” He shook his head, and sat down. “The doom of Minas Tirith has come at long last.”

“The words were not the doom of Minas Tirith,” said Aragorn. “But doom and great deeds are indeed at hand. For the Sword that was Broken is the Sword of Elendil that broke beneath him when he fell. It has been treasured by his heirs when all other heirlooms were lost; for it was spoken of old among us that it should be made again when the Ring, Isildur’s Bane, was found. Now you have seen the sword you have sought, what would you ask? Do you wish for the House of Elendil to return to the Land of Gondor?”

“I?” Faramir looked rather surprised. “Yes, I wish that; but I am not the Steward, nor even his heir. I do not have the power, or the right, to challenge the rulings of my forefathers. Yet for myself, I would see the White Tree in flower again in the courts of the kings, and the Silver Crown return, and Minas Tirith in peace.”

“Perhaps you shall,” Aragorn said quietly. “The world is changing once again. A new hour comes. Isildur’s Bane is found. Battle is at hand. The Sword shall be reforged. I will come to Minas Tirith.”

Faramir swallowed. “May the day not be too long delayed,” he said steadily. “Our might is waning. But if I now understand the different parts of the dream, I do not know what it means together, or its purpose in bringing me hither, from my homeland where I am needed. And this Thing—” he looked at the Ring with clear distaste—“what is to be done with it?”

“It is for that purpose that we are gathered,” said Gandalf. “Here we all are, and here is the Ring. What shall we do with it?”

Many suggestions were made. Give it to Tom Bombadil. No, he would not be a safe keeper. Throw it in the Sea; no, it would not be safe there. Send it over the Sea, to the Valar; no, they would not accept it, and it was for the peoples of Middle-earth to take care of in any case. It was decided. It must be thrown into the fire from whence it came; although there were those there who clearly did not like the suggestion. Erestor and Galdor both looked rather sceptical, Glorfindel seemed decidedly melancholy, Glóin was scowling, and the two Men were grimmer than ever.

“The road must be trod,” said Elrond, “but it will be very hard. And neither strength nor wisdom will carry us far upon it. This quest may be attempted by the weak with as much hope as the strong. Yet such is oft the course of deeds that move the wheels of the world: small hands do them because they must, while the eyes of the great are elsewhere.”

“Very well, very well, Master Elrond!” said Bilbo suddenly. “Say no more! It is plain enough what you are pointing at. Bilbo the silly hobbit started this affair, and Bilbo had better finish it, or himself. I was very comfortable here, and getting on with my book. If you want to know, I am just writing an endeing for it. I had thought of putting: and he lived happily ever afterwards to the end of his days. It is a good ending, and none the worse for having been used before. Now I shall have to alter that it does not look like coming true; and anyway there will evidently have to be several more chapters, if I live to write them. It is a frightful nuisance. When ought I to start?”

All looked at the hobbit with grave respect. Only Glóin smiled, but his smile came from old memories.

“Of course, my dear Bilbo,” said Gandalf. “If you had really started this affair, you might be expected to finish it. But you know well enough now that starting is too great a claim for any, and that only a small part is played in great deeds by any hero. You need not bow! Though the word was meant, and we do not doubt that under jest you are making a valiant offer. But one beyond your strength, Bilbo. You cannot take this thing back. It has passed on. If you need my advice any longer, I should say that your part is ended, unless as a recorder. Finish your book, and leave the ending unaltered! There is still hope for it. But get ready to write a sequel, when they come back.”

Bilbo laughed. “I have never known you give me pleasant advice before,” he said. “As all your unpleasant advice has been good, I wonder if this advice is not bad. Still, I don’t suppose I have the strength or luck left to deal with the Ring. It has grown, and I have not. But tell me: what do you mean by they?”

“The messengers who are sent with the Ring.”

“Exactly! And who are they to be? That seems to me what this Councli has to decide, and all that it has to decide. Elves may thrive on speech alone, and Dwarves endure great weariness; but I am only an old hobbit, and I miss my meal at noon. Can’t you think of some names now? Or put it off until after dinner?”

No one answered. The noon-bell rang. Still no one spoke. Frodo glanced at all the faces, but they were not turned to him. All the Council sat with downcast eyes, as if in deep thought. A great dread fell on him, as if he was awaiting the pronouncement of some doom that he had long foreseen and vainly hoped might after all never be spoken. An overwhelming longing to rest and remain at peace by Bilbo’s side in Rivendell filled all his heart. At last with an effort he spoke, and wondered to hear his own words, as if some other will was using his small voice.

“I will take the Ring,” he said, “though I do not know the way.”