II

Boromir followed his Elven escort along a path strewn with golden leaves.  If his mood had been better, he might have found it pleasing to behold, but the Captain of Gondor scowled at everything around him, unable to shift the uneasy feeling in his chest. 

Finally the elf, who spoke not a word of the Common Speech and so had said nothing to Boromir for an hour as they walked, darted over a copse and down into a ditch below.  There they found the Lord of Lórien kneeling on the leaves with his back towards them.  The escort whispered something in his native tongue, then left, giving Boromir a wary look as he passed.  Though the elf disappeared from sight, Boromir hoped he had not gone far, since he would be needed to get them back to Caras Galadhon once this meeting was over.

As Boromir approached, Celeborn glanced up with a distant, mournful look in his eyes, echoing Boromir’s sentiments precisely – a resigned expression of one who knows evil is coming his way and that he can do nothing to stop it.

‘I hope I am not disturbing you,’ Boromir began warily.  ‘I was told you might give me counsel on a matter which has troubled me these past few days?’

‘In these unsettled times, my advice may prove of little use, for I no longer see the path as clearly as I once did.  Yet I will try to help you if I can,’ said Celeborn.  Something tugged at Boromir’s heart to look upon the Elven lord.  For a moment he remembered his father, years ago when he and Faramir were children, and Denethor had sat upon his bed with his head low just as Celeborn’s was now, two days after Finduilas breathed her last.

Shaking off the memory, Boromir paced around Celeborn.  ‘When I left Rivendell I knew what I must do.  My loyalty to my country and my city guided me, as did the advice of Elrond and of Gandalf.  Yet Gandalf has fallen, and now we no longer have that purpose which Elrond entrusted to us.  Now I am not sure which way to turn.’

‘Which road does your heart prefer?’

‘In my heart I long to return to Gondor,’ Boromir told him.  ‘I dream each night of the White City and with each dream, my sleep grows ever more disturbed.  I see visions that are the stuff of nightmares, but hold more terror for they seem real.  I see my city burning, my father and brother slain, my land nothing more than a field of corpses over which the orcs of Mordor trudge on their way to conquest.’

‘Now that Lórien holds the power of the Enemy that may come to pass,’ Celeborn admitted quietly.  ‘For the Dark Lord will surely look to us now as his adversary, and will be set upon besieging us until his treasure is back in his possession.  Before Gandalf and his company slew the dragon of the Lonely Mountain and brought some safety to the northern lands, Sauron would have used the drake to attack us and Imladris.  Now he must rework his plans.  He will most likely travel north out of Mordor with his host, and will perceive Gondor as an obstacle in his journey to war, a land he must conquer if his armies are to reach this realm.  He may also bring in Men from the East, therefore Gondor and Rohan shall be in greatest peril.  I hold no hope for either land.’

‘The men of Gondor will not surrender.  Till the last of us, we shall fight.’

‘And the last of you may fall.  Sauron knows he faces an enemy of wisdom and power.  He knows that the line of Finwë, which battled his master Morgoth, lives on and now challenges the Shadow again.  The old ways of Beleriand have returned to us, and if the North unites, he will be defeated by his own power.  Therefore he will stop at nothing to attack Lórien before the northern kingdoms can be fortified.’

Boromir stared at the Elven Lord.  ‘You speak so calmly of all this, yet what you describe is the annihilation of my people!’

‘I speak calmly because you sought advice, not to know my innermost fears.  Those, though sincere, would be of no use to you now.’

‘Yet it is not your land that will be squashed like an insect underfoot.  While the Elves sit safe, with Sauron’s power to guard them, what care you for fragile Men?    Why must Gondor fall so that your people can rule supreme?’

‘We seek no such thing, Boromir, son of Denethor!  Gondor would be in danger no matter where the ring went or who bore it.  Sauron has long desired the destruction of Men.  His plans have not changed since Galadriel’s decision, they shall merely be expedited.’

‘But given time and warning we might have prepared…’

‘True, yet that reasoning is also of little use,’ said Celeborn, rising.  ‘His attacks on Gondor have most likely begun by now.  He will not waste time.’

‘Then I cannot delay either,’ said Boromir after a pause.  ‘I must go to Gondor.  I must go to my people.’

‘Even if it would mean death?  You would be welcome to remain here if you chose.’

Boromir glowered and shook his head, then turned and climbed back to the copse.  He did not think Celeborn had been serious in that suggestion, yet he wished to make sure his reply was clearly felt.

‘Do not think,’ Celeborn called after him, ‘that I am pleased with this outcome.  Do not think that I am apathetic to your plight or to your people’s danger.  Yet there is little now that I can do to change the course of things.’

‘Perhaps there is little I can do,’ replied Boromir, turning to look back.  ‘Yet I will not sit here idle while my city is ravaged.’

~*~

Faramir grabbed the roots of a tree to haul himself a little farther along the ground.  His bones ached, his leg was a flaming mass of pain, yet he kept moving, yard by agonising yard, without knowing where he was headed.

Though he no longer heard fighting, the clamour of battle still rang in his ears.  So many of them, coming so swiftly across the river!  Yet even if they had spotted the orcs in time, the outcome would have been the same, for they were outnumbered at least twenty to a man.  Never since the bridge was broken seven months before had Faramir seen such a force sent out of Mordor.  Orcs leapt at him from every direction.  His body was splattered with blood both black and red, and he had soon lost sight of his men in the chaos.  The world was a mass of flailing steal and inhuman cries.

How he had escaped, he did not know.  Perhaps he had been left for dead.  But Faramir had awoken in the mulch on the riverbank, his clothes sodden and his body broken.  He had been able to twist around enough to catch a glimpse of his legs and saw bone pierce the wounds; it hurt to breathe and he tasted blood on his lips.  But he was alive and therefore only one thought came to him.  He began to crawl, hoping to make it, somehow, back to Minas Tirith to raise the alarm, in case he truly was the last survivor.

Somewhere in the distance, he heard creatures screeching, as terrifying as an eagle’s cry, yet harsher and more piercing.  Slowly, as he crawled, he heard those cries grow louder and nearer, though whatever made them did not appear as yet.

He had no idea how far he had travelled, but after only a short time he was exhausted.  He clawed at the earth and pulled himself across the dirt, but then his strength gave out and he lay, catching his breath.  All manner of nightmares crossed his mind, as if they had been waiting for him to pause before attacking.  What if, he thought, the enemy had not been delayed by the rangers’ efforts, and now pushed on towards the heart of Gondor?  Was Minas Tirith under siege?  He did not know how long he had been unconscious.  There was a chance the battle could be over and Gondor lost.  The thought of it sickened him and made his heart pound. 

With renewed effort, he dug his fingers into the soil and pulled himself along, gasping as his injured leg scraped across a stone.  Again he halted, frozen for a second by the pain.  He had no hope of reaching Minas Tirith in time, if indeed he could manage to stay alive, but he had no choice.  At least this way he would die for a purpose.

As he fought to control his breathing and readied himself for the next assault, however, Faramir heard the leaves rustle behind him.  A moment of silence followed and he waited, but no blow came.  Instead he felt a pair of strong hands on his shoulders and heard his own name spoken in a whisper.

‘Lie still,’ said Damrod, ‘and do not make a sound.’

Both men stayed immobile, whilst in the distance, harsh voices barked across the air.  At least five or six orcs, Faramir thought.  The voices grew louder and he heard the creatures thrashing through the trees, but soon the noise faded again as they passed by.  Only when there was silence though did Damrod move again.

‘I thought you dead,’ he said, tearing a strip from his green cloak to bind up Faramir’s wounds.  ‘I thought us all dead.’

‘How many survived?’ asked Faramir, rolling onto his back once Damrod had done his work, though it took a great effort.

Damrod shook his head.  ‘I know not.  I saw some of our people heading north, and I tried to go with them, but the orcs kept coming.  I managed to kill those who attacked me, but by then I was alone.  I have found corpses, but you are the first living soul I have seen.  Osgiliath and Ithilien must be lost.’

‘Do not say so,’ Faramir replied. 

‘I say so, for I cannot see that it could be any other way.  There had to be ten thousand of them in that attack alone.  The Enemy has finally made his move.  In the months since the bridge was broken he has built up an army to sweep over Gondor and finish what he tried to do when Elendil was king in Arnor.  Now is the reckoning for the Dúnedain.’

‘Only if we surrender to that fate,’ said Faramir breathlessly, as Damrod helped him to sit up and offered him a water skin.  ‘We must make for Minas Tirith and warn them, finding any survivors we can along the road.’

‘If Minas Tirith still stands.’

‘So long as there is life in me, the White City shall not go unguarded.  And so long as but one of us still breathes, Gondor shall not fall.’

‘We have known this day would come.  He hates our kind, and will not rest until we are destroyed.’

‘Then we cannot make his task easier by our submission,’ said Faramir.  ‘Let me rest a moment, then you must help me make it back to the Citadel.  They must be warned, if they do not already know of the danger we face.’

The two men struggled to stand, Faramir leaning heavily on his companion, but they travelled less than a yard before Damrod flung them both back to the ground, yelling out a warning.  The cry from above drowned out his words and seared through Faramir’s brain as though something inside his head had broken.  The beat of monstrous wings sounded in the skies and a thick shadow swept over them.

The Nazgûl’s beast swooped so low they might have reached up and touched its belly, but it paid them no heed.  Once it had flown past, Damrod lifted Faramir once again, and both watched as the creature overtook them.  Looking upwards, they saw three more, circling in the distance.

‘Osgiliath,’ said Damrod.  ‘I knew it.  The Enemy moves like brushfire over the land.’

‘Then we cannot afford to delay,’ Faramir told him.  ‘But I rely on you to get us home.’

~*~

The messenger from Dol Amroth walked up to the Steward’s chair and all but collapsed at Denethor’s feet.  He bowed, pulling the rolled up parchments from his satchel while he caught his breath, having run from the lowest tier to the Citadel.

‘What news?’ asked Denethor, leaning forward and watching the messenger’s every move.  His noble brow was furrowed yet he remained composed, and even when he read the contents of the letters he showed no signs of panic, unlike some of the advisors and officials lingering around the hall.

‘Imrahil has his fleet ready?’ asked the Steward.  ‘I cannot send any more men to his aid.  The Enemy has crossed the river, and Gondor’s armies must be ready to hold them back.  Already I am told that Ithilien is overrun, and that the Southrons have massed on the borders of Lebennin.  Imrahil must hold the coasts against the Corsairs, for if we are forced to do battle on three fronts, we are lost.’

‘My Lord,’ muttered the messenger, bowing.

‘Have this man taken to the guesthouse and given food before he returns to Dol Amroth, but understand you must leave by morning with these orders,’ Denethor instructed as the messenger left.  ‘What reports come from Osgiliath?’

‘The battle continues on the west bank, but orcs are moving southwards through Ithilien and will soon join the battle,’ replied one of the courtiers.  ‘They are coming down from the Ephel Dúath, and crossing the river unchallenged now, holding all the lands around Cair Andros.  And Sauron’s black riders have now been seen with them.’

‘Send out our messengers across the land.  I want reports from all quarters, that all our able-bodied men are mustered, and ready the city’s defences. I wish to be ready to hold Minas Tirith against the enemy by the morrow.’

‘But My Lord…’

‘Once the realm of Gondor was taken by surprise with the armies of the Dark Tower spilled from Mordor.  Never again shall he have that advantage.  Obviously he intends to bring war to our doorstep.  Well we shall be waiting for him.  Ready the army.’

‘My Lord.’

Denethor considered his court gravely.  ‘And my sons?  There is no sign of either of them?'

After a pause, the courtier replied, ‘There has been no news, My Lord.  We know nothing of Boromir, and as for Faramir, so far no survivors of that battle have been found.’

Denethor nodded and sank into a sombre meditation.  Then with a sudden flurry of movement he swept out of his chair and strode off past the empty throne and into the stairwell on the northern side of the Tower Hall.  Snatching a torch from a holder on the wall, he climbed the spiralling steps into the upper chambers, then took to the central stair for the arduous journey to the very top of the tower. 

Waiting for him there, in the uppermost chamber, were a chair and a lone table draped in black cloth.  Denethor sat for a while considering this table before he finally pulled off the covering and revealed the object beneath.  The stone sphere sat in the middle of the table, showing nothing but his distorted reflection on its polished surface.  But then as Denethor concentrated and set his palm upon it, he felt the palantir’s power in his mind, like a sudden, overwhelming fear.

He closed his eyes for a second, focussing his thoughts on the task at hand, then let his mind look over the realm, grimacing as he received the images of battle.  All Ithilien seemed ablaze with fighting, the land black with orcs, while to the south, he saw the Haradrim swathed in dark greys, trudging over the countryside of Lebennin, amidst fires and screams.  In Dol Amroth, the lighthouses smouldered, reduced to blackened stumps sticking out of the ocean, while fire still raged in the town itself, ships burning in the harbour and fiery arrows darting across the night sky. 

‘Gondor is no more,’ said a voice within his mind.  ‘It is finished, Caretaker.’

‘By the might of Elendil were you cast down,’ Denethor rejoined.  ‘And by the swift thought of Isildur was your power taken.  Men have bested you before and we shall do so again.’

‘Gondor will fall.’

‘Your armies will never breach the walls of Minas Tirith.’

‘You have no army that can contain the might of Mordor.  Dotards hiding behind crumbling walls…’

‘I will destroy you,’ thought Denethor.

‘You will perish.’

‘With my last vestige of strength I shall fight you.’

‘Your sons will perish.’

Denethor hesitated, but then redoubled his concentration.  ‘You cannot break our will.  For we believe in our fight.  While we know we are on the path of righteousness, we have hope, and while that hope remains you cannot subdue us.’

In his mind, Denethor saw the White City, yet the surrounding plains seemed to be covered in an ocean of deep greys.  Only as he concentrated did the Steward see that it was an army of orcs, moving ever closer to Minas Tirith, which lay in ruin and flame.  Denethor winced at the thought, but held steady and forced one idea to pass through the channels of the palantir.

‘It shall not come to pass, so long there is but one of my line still alive.’

The stone then showed him the Citadel, and an overwhelming sense of mockery hit Denethor.  Orcs filled the courtyard of the fountain.  Some hacked at the white tree, while the rest busied themselves with the slaughter of the Citadel guards.  A small group huddled over something near the edge of the courtyard.  They worked amidst the chaos for a long time, then finally stepped back and lifted a wooden frame until it was vertical, looking down over the city. 

Denethor’s eyes widened.  Lashed to the frame was a bloodied mess, unmistakably a body, in the armour he had commissioned for his son.

‘Boromir…’

‘The age of Men has ended,’ rasped the voice, much as Denethor fought to block it from his mind. 

He pulled his hand back from the stone and immediately was alone.  For a long while he sat trembling, a cold sickness in his belly.  Each time he visited the chamber, it grew harder to push aside the vile thoughts seeping through the palantir.  Each time he found himself more exhausted than the last.  How long before he was too old and too weak to battle any longer?

He took a moment to convince himself that the visions had been nothing more than taunts.  They were not true predictions and they meant nothing.  Boromir was safe in Rivendell.  And the White City would not be taken.  It could not be taken.

Dejectedly he sank back in the chair and stared at the wall.  He had not found Faramir, nor had a hint as to his fate.

Yet he had gleaned a little of the Enemy’s intentions, even if it was only a vague impression.

Something had changed.  There was no time for planning or slow invasions out of Mordor.  Something had forced the Enemy to move. 

Sauron needed Gondor.

Once the aftertaste of his ordeal had faded, Denethor left the chamber and headed downstairs to the Hall once again, only as he reached the doorway, he spotted one of his guards, a man named Beregond, hurrying across the tiled floor towards him.  From the look in the man’s eyes, there was no good news on the way, the Steward thought.

‘What is it?’ he asked as he came out to meet the servant in the Hall. 

‘My lord,’ replied Beregond with a bow.  ‘Faramir and…’

‘Faramir?  Where?  He has returned?’

The attendant looked grave.  ‘The Houses of Healing, My Lord.  Ioreth said…’

Denethor swept past him and strode out of the hall, a few of his aides following along hesitantly behind.  Though once they had descended to the lower tier and reached the door to the Houses of Healing, Denethor curtly dismissed them all and headed in alone. 

Inside, all was dark and warm, torched flickering along the corridors.  Ioreth, eldest of the women in attendance there, stood by one of the many doorways, looking into the room.  She glanced up as Denethor closed the outer door and she offered the Steward a faint smile.

‘My Lord,’ she said quietly, coming to meet him.

‘Where is my son?’ Denethor demanded.

Ioreth gestured towards the room she had been standing by and then stepped aside to let him enter.  At the far end, Denethor saw a group of healers gathered around one of the beds, and with them stood a man in the green raiment of the Ithilien rangers.  On seeing the Steward, this man hurried forward and bowed.

‘My Lord Denethor,’ Damrod began.  ‘We have…’

Denethor jostled past him and went to the bedside, gazing down with a troubled scowl.  Faramir’s dark hair was caked with sweat and blood, his face ashen and his eyes tightly closed.  The healers subtly nudged Denethor out of their path as they worked, but Ioreth stayed by his side.

‘He has been too long in the cold and his wounds have bled unhindered,’ she explained.  ‘Though kept warm and with some rest, he ought to recover.  His leg is the gravest concern.  The bones are smashed, and much of the wound has grown poisonous.  If the flesh has rotted too deeply, it may be necessary to remove the limb.’

‘There must be some other way,’ said Denethor.

‘Believe me, My Lord, we shall try all within our power.  Yet it may come to that, if we are to save his life.’

Denethor breathed deeply.  This was good news, he told himself.  For days he had expected to see his son brought back to the city as a corpse.  But Faramir lived.  Whatever injuries he might have, whatever ill fate might linger over him, he was alive.  If only Denethor could have been sure that he could now protect his son.

‘Do whatever you must,’ said the Steward.  ‘But do not let him die.’

He withdrew to the door and stood there in the shadows, watching the healers with a dark expression.   He wished he could drag a stool to the bedside and remain there until Faramir awoke, like any other father.  But as always, duty would soon call him away.  So many times, he had stood by the door of Faramir’s room, watching the nurse as she tended his cold, or his fever, or whatever illness afflicted him.  So many times Denethor had watched his children, staying there as long as he possibly could, before returning to his advisors and his councils.  Strange how, when the world was on the brink of such chaos, some things remained forever consistent.

After a while, Ioreth broke away from the others and came to his side.

‘Will you stay, My Lord?  I can have a chair brought in for you, something to eat perhaps?’

Denethor sighed and shook his head.  He felt the last seconds slipping from his grasp.  ‘I must return to the Citadel.  You will inform me if there is any change…’

‘Of course.’

As Denethor left the building, he saw a group of soldiers pass, and felt the city’s bustle all around him.  Already Minas Tirith was making ready for war.  Denethor returned to the uppermost tier and wandered to the parapet to look down upon his city and, in the distance, the fields of Pelennor.  Across the river the land looked darker than before, though it took a moment to realise that the shadow there was moving.  Just how many of the Enemy’s forces were gathered at the feet of the Ephel Dúath, Denethor could not be certain, but there were enough to send a chill through his bones.

So long he had planned for an attack of this scale.  With Boromir and the lieutenants, he had plotted the best positions for Gondor’s armies and thought of every possible situation.  Yet somehow the day seemed to have come unexpectedly, creeping up on them like an assassin in the dark.

So much history lay in the stones of the city, history bought by blood and courage.  Could this truly be the end of it all?  Would the name of Denethor be remembered as the last ruler of a forgotten realm?

With a deep sigh, the Steward returned to his Citadel, as all around him, weapons were brought out of the armoury, smiths kindled their forges and the White City prepared for what might be its last siege.