Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairstiona and Estelcontar I offer my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairstiona for the beta.

A/N  This story was one of the first tales I ever wrote; long before meckinock’s fabulous ‘Truce’ appeared at this site. Any similarity in plot is entirely coincidental.

Chapter 10:  The Ring of Barahir

Therefore later, when all was made clear, many believed the Denethor, who was subtle in mind, and looked further and deeper than other men of his day, had discovered who this stranger Thorongil in truth was, and suspected that he and Mithrandir designed to supplant him.

Appendix A                                                                                        The Return of the King

   Young Hallas stood nervously outside the door to the Citadel. He was rather afraid of the Steward’s son and wished he had not been given the task of bringing this message to him. Unfortunately, as the newest recruit to the Houses of Healing, he had been the obvious choice to run this errand as the healers were all very busy at the moment.

   “What do you want lad?” asked the guard, standing forbiddingly in the entrance.

   “I must take a message to the Lord Denethor,” said Hallas who, for all his tender years, was doing his best to sound important. “It is most urgent.”

   “The Lord Denethor is a very busy man, especially with his father being away. What is it about?”

   Hallas hesitated before telling the guard his business, but he feared he might be turned away if he did not speak up promptly.

   “It’s Captain Thorongil, sir,” he said at last. “He’s been hurt really badly.”

   “The Captain hurt? And badly, you say?” The guard was clearly dismayed, his tone mellowing immediately on hearing this news. “You had better come along at once, then.” He ushered Hallas through the Great Hall to the Steward’s study beyond.

   Hallas waited patiently outside until he was told to enter. Once inside the unwelcoming room, he stood nervously in front of Ecthelion’s huge desk with his head bowed before the Lord Denethor. He kept his eyes firmly fixed on the floor.

   “You have a message for me, I understand,” said Denethor, without looking up from his work.

   Hallas struggled to find the right words now that he was standing before the man himself.

   “It’s Captain Thorongil, my lord. He’s been hurt,” he mumbled, “and badly at that. The Warden of the House has asked that you come.”

   Denethor’s eyes shot up in disbelief at the news. Then he cursed under his breath; something like this would happen now while his father was abroad. Still, he jumped up immediately. If the captain died, he did not want there to be any accusations that he had not done all he could for him.

  “All right, lad, you had better take me to him right away.”

  Hallas was only too relieved that his mission had been successfully accomplished. He briskly led the way back to the Houses of Healing and took the Steward’s son to a room which overlooked the gardens. It was quite small, with was just the one bed. Three people, including the Warden of the House, were busy tending the wounded man lying upon it.

   As Hallas and Denethor entered, the Warden glanced up from his patient.

    “My lord Denethor, thank you for coming so promptly,” he said, putting down the bowl of water he was carrying and bowing his head respectfully. “I felt sure you would wish to see for yourself the situation regarding Captain Thorongil.”

   Denethor nodded his acknowledgement and moved towards the bed.

   He was shocked by the sight that met him. He had become so accustomed to hearing of the captain’s exploits that he had, like just about every one else, almost begun to think of him as invincible. He had always appeared so hardy and strong and never seemed to have even a day’s sickness, that the sight of him lying there now, looking more like a corpse than any living man had a right to, rocked him to the core.

   Thorongil was deathly white, his dark hair slick with sweat, and he seemed to be barely breathing. He was only covered by a thin sheet and this was folded back to his waist as the healers continually bathed him in cold water to try to reduce the effects of the fever. There was a blood stained bandage on his shoulder, but other than that he was unmarked.

  Denethor unexpectedly found himself moved to pity at the sight of his rival brought to this. Without thinking he reached out and touched the man’s cheek with the back of his hand. Thorongil’s skin was on fire.

   “What happened?” he asked.

   “The Captain took an orc arrow in the shoulder two days ago, whilst scouting in the Ephel Dúath,” said the Warden. “Apparently it proved very difficult to remove in the field. There were none in his company other than himself with the skill to do this and he could hardly be expected to pull an arrow from his own shoulder. His men rode non-stop to get him here and although the wound in itself is not serious, I’m greatly afraid the dart was poisoned and the delay in getting him the proper treatment has allowed the poison to enter his body.”

   “Will he live?” Denethor was surprised at how strange his voice sounded.

   The Warden hesitated. “To be truthful, my lord, I do not know. He is very weak and his fever does not lessen.”

   Denethor felt sick. He did not know how he was going to break this to his father.

   “Is there anything you need?” he asked at last.

   “No, my lord, but thank you. It is really out of my hands now. We have done all we can.”

   “Well, let me know at once of any change in his condition,” said Denethor as he turned to leave.

   “Yes, my lord,” said the Warden, bowing his head.

   “Oh, there was one other thing,” the Warden suddenly added as he fumbled for something in his pocket. “When we removed his clothes, we found this ring on his person. It is most unusual and I expect dear to him, if not valuable. I would not wish for it to be mislaid so I wonder if I could ask you to hold it in your safe keeping.”

   “Of course,” said Denethor, holding out his hand to receive it. He stuffed the ring into his tunic and left the healers to their ministrations as he walked slowly back to his study.

~oo0oo~

   Shutting the door behind him, he slumped into the armchair by the fire and stared blankly at the flames. The sight of the stricken man filled his thoughts. For all his rivalry with the captain, he would never wish this upon him. He had never known any man to recover from as near death as Thorongil now appeared to be. If he died, and Denethor really failed to see how he could not, the effects would be felt throughout the city and far beyond. His father would be devastated; he would probably order an official day of mourning. Denethor absently wondered how they would inform the man’s kin when so little was known about him.

   Denethor sat on, alone, brooding on this unfortunate occurrence. After a while, he remembered the ring and retrieved it from his pocket. He gasped out loud at what he saw in his hand. The ring was unlike anything he had ever seen before. It glittered with the green of emeralds as its jewels caught the light of the fire. As he looked at it more closely, he realized the jewels were the eyes of serpents. There were two of them whose heads met below what appeared to be a crown of flowers carved out of gold. Denethor was sure it was Elvish and very, very old. He was also sure the Warden of the House was right about it being valuable. The piece of jewellery fascinated him in its own right, but what intrigued him even more was how Thorongil could possibly have come by it.  He had never seen him wear the ring, of that he was sure. That fact alone begged the question why.

   The shadows were lengthening in the room and Denethor suddenly remembered how much work he still had to get through. He put away the ring for now and concentrated on other tasks. He also sent a servant to find the men who had brought Thorongil back to the city as he felt he ought to get a full report on the events in the Ephel Dúath prepared for his father.

~oo0oo~

   The next day there was little change in Thorongil’s condition. The Warden was hopeful that the fever was slightly less and was encouraged that they had managed to get some water down the captain’s throat. Denethor popped in briefly to see him, but to his eyes, he looked as awful as he had the day before. Walking back to the Citadel, a thought suddenly struck him about Thorongil’s ring. Something that old and unusual might just be recorded somewhere in the archives. Someone might have seen it before in the long history of the city.

   He was less busy today, so he made his way down to the vaults of the Citadel where all the old parchments and scrolls were kept. He really did not have any idea where to begin and the entire vault was in something of a muddle. He fumbled aimlessly, thinking he really ought to employ someone to sort through all these papers; no one had been near them for years.

   In the end he decided to work methodically starting with the oldest scrolls first. There were copies of some of these, many of them made in the time of Minalcar. Even these were very brittle now and he handled them with great care. He found documents written by Anárion and Isildur, undeniably interesting in their own right, but not getting him anywhere. He was about to move on when a piece about Elendil caught his eye. The writing was indistinct and in places illegible, but it seemed to be a description of the great king made during one of his visits from the North kingdom. There was mention of a white jewel on his brow, the Elendilmir, and it said that he carried a huge sword, the name of which was now unreadable. It also said that he wore a ring on his left hand and there followed a brief description of it.

   ‘For this ring was like to twin serpents, whose eyes were emeralds, and their heads met beneath a crown of golden flowers, that the one upheld and the other devoured.’ [1]

   Denethor felt himself start to tremble and his face to flush. He took the ring out of his pocket and studied it carefully. It fitted the description perfectly. There could be no doubt; this was that ring, the ring worn by Elendil himself. It was a priceless heirloom of Gondor. He could not believe he was holding such a thing in his hand. He quickly turned back to the scroll to see if there was anything more written about it, but there was nothing. He would have liked to have known something of its history, such as how it came to Elendil and whether it was indeed Elvish as he guessed. Perhaps it had even come from Valinor itself.

   But right now he had a more pressing riddle to solve. What on earth was Thorongil doing with it? It was possible, he supposed, that he had come by it honestly; bought perhaps from someone who had no clue as to what it was they sold. He could have found it or even stolen it, although for all his distrust of the man, he did not think Thorongil was a thief.

    But deep down Denethor knew there was really only one explanation for why Thorongil had this ring. He kept denying it for he could not bring himself to confront this possibility, but too much fell into place if he allowed himself to believe the unthinkable. Reluctantly he began to accept the obvious answer.

   Thorongil was a descendent of Elendil and possibly even his heir.

   If Denethor was trembling before it was as nothing to the shake in his hands now. His blood chilled at the very idea. If this was true the implications were enormous. But could Thorongil claim the crown of Gondor? Denethor steadied himself for a moment, taking deep breaths as he tried to remember what he knew of the history of the North Kingdom. He was sure there had been no word of their northern kin for over a thousand years. Arvedui had been the last king and he recalled he had married Fíriel, the daughter of Ondoher. When Ondoher and both his sons were slain in the battle with the Wainriders, Arvedui had then tried to claim the crown of Gondor as well. It was Denethor’s own ancestor, Pelendur, who had thwarted his ambition, giving the crown instead to the victorious general, Earnil. When the Witch-king had invaded Eriador, Eärnil’s son, Eärnur, had gone to the aid of the North Kingdom but, although he had been the victor at the battle to retake Fornost, he had been too late to save Arvedui or the Kingdom.

   But Denethor could not remember if, when Eärnur eventually returned to Gondor, he ever recorded whether Arvedui had sons who survived the assault of the Witch-king. He had assumed, as he was sure all in Gondor had, that the line of Elendil and Isildur had just died out in time, and if any Dúnedain survived they were few in number and of no consequence. But this could change everything. If Arvedui had a son who was the ancestor of Thorongil, then Thorongil would be able to claim descent from Elendil both through Isildur in the North and through Anárion in the South.

   He could claim both crowns.

   Denethor was sweating. He turned the ring over in his hand again and again, his thoughts racing. He was suddenly afraid; the old certainties of his life had just vanished. If Thorongil decided to reveal his true self, Denethor had no doubt he would be welcomed, such was his popularity in the City.

   All the mysteries surrounding Thorongil, or whatever his name was, all suddenly made sense; his friendship with Mithrandir; his extraordinary skills; that air of Numenor that he had; the secrecy about himself. And there was something else about him that set him apart, that made him, Denethor had to admit, such a great leader of men; but it was less easily defined. It was almost as if the man had been chosen for a special purpose and everything in his life touched with grace. Life worked for Thorongil. Even now, he should be dead from his wound but, against all reason, he still lived.

   The thought drew Denethor out of his musings. He hurriedly packed up the scrolls and carefully returned them to the right place in the vaults before he hastened back to the Citadel. He never normally went to the vaults and he did not want questions asked, not now, not with this secret to conceal.

   For he had reached a decision; no one must know of this. Quite what he was going to do with his new found knowledge, he had yet to decide, but he would trust it with no other.

~oo0oo~

   The following day he returned to the Houses of Healing. To his surprise and relief, Thorongil was awake. He still looked awful, but at least he had regained consciousness. Hallas sat in a chair beside his bed. He had been assigned the task of watching over the captain as he slowly emerged from his fever. The young man felt it was a great honour and responsibility to care for this particular patient. He had met the captain a couple of times when he had come to the Houses to treat his injured men. Hallas liked him enormously as he had taken the time and trouble to explain to him all about the herbs he used, telling him of their various effects and uses. Now he had gladly sat beside him and held his hand as the last of the fever left him.

   Denethor immediately told Hallas to leave as he wanted his conversation with Thorongil to be a private one. As the lad closed the door behind him, Denethor sat down next to the injured man who was looking at him curiously through half opened eyes. The Steward’s son did not make visits to the Houses of Healing.

   “How do you feel?” Denethor asked, knowing it was a ridiculous question.

   “I have felt better,” said Thorongil, his voice hoarse, though he attempted a smile.

   Denethor could think of nothing else to say so he came straight to the point, producing the ring from his pocket. He noted how Thorongil’s eyes opened wide with alarm.

   “The Warden gave me this to keep safe for you,” said Denethor. “I thought perhaps you might be missing it by now.”

   Thorongil reached out a shaky hand and Denethor dropped the ring onto his palm.

   “Thank you,” said Thorongil, as he immediately enclosed the ring in a feebly clenched fist. He appeared most unhappy that Denethor had it in his possession.

   “It is a beautiful ring,” said Denethor, trying to keep his voice casual, “though I have never seen you wear it. Might I inquire about its history?”

   Thorongil was silent for many moments. He felt terrible. He had a raging headache; he was struggling to hold down the medicine he had just been given and now he had to deflect an inquisitive Denethor. He just wanted to escape into sleep. When he answered, he did as he always did and stayed as close to the truth as he could.

   “It belonged to my father,” he said, and trying to stop Denethor from questioning him any further, he added, “and to his father before that.”

   “I see,” said Denethor. “Do you know who made it?”

   At Denethor’s persistence, Thorongil became more alert.

   “I do not,” he said. It was the truth, after a fashion. It was made by a Noldor smith in Valinor, that he did know, but he did not know his name. He almost smiled at the absurdity of it all. The ring had been made at least seven thousand years ago. He doubted there was even anyone in Rivendell who could answer that question.

   “I thought it looked Elvish,” continued Denethor.

   Thorongil was by now seriously considering abandoning his efforts to hold down his medicine as his only means of getting rid of Denethor.

   “I believe it is,” he replied, wearily.

   Then he summoned what little strength he could muster and looked Denethor straight in the eye and Denethor suddenly saw that a light was kindled in the depths of his grey eyes. It was keen and commanding and Denethor knew it was a challenge.

   “Is there anything else you wish to know?” asked Thorongil.

   Denethor shook his head.

~oo0oo~

   There King Finrod Felagund would have been slain or taken, but Barahir came by with the bravest of his kin and rescued him, and made a wall of spears about him; and they cut their way out of the battle with great loss. Thus Felagund escaped, and returned to his deep fortress of Nargothrond; but he swore an oath of abiding friendship and aid in every need to Barahir and all his kin, and in token of his vow he gave to Barahir his ring.

Of the ruin of Beleriand                                                                               The Silmarillion

[1] Of Beren and Lúthien                                                                            The Silmarillion