Teitho Challenge Prompt: Circles. This story received third place.

Summary: Only once did Denethor ever seek Gandalf’s council.

In Darkness Bound

"Denethor looked indeed much more like a great Wizard than Gandalf did, more kingly, beautiful, and powerful; and older."~ The Return of the King, The Lord of the Rings

“The Númenóreans answered: 'Why should we not envy the Valar, or even the least of the Deathless? For of us is required a blind trust, and a hope without assurance, knowing not what lies before us in a little while. And yet we also love the Earth and would not lose it.'” ~ Akallabêth, The Silmarillion

3017th Year of the Third Age, Stewards' Reckoning: 

“Circles within circles,” Denethor muttered as he leaned back in his chair, the mail hauberk beneath his sable robes clinking softly.

The study was small and sparsely decorated. No more than ten paces square, it was dominated by the large recessed window set into its eastern wall. The faintly rippled glass caught enough of the dreary midday light to read the document in the hand of the Steward of Gondor. There was a small fire in the hearth behind him to ward off the unseasonable chill. Denethor watched the shadows the flames cast upon the walls, his fingers tracing the scared surface of the wooden desk

“Circles within circles,” he repeated.

It had been a saying of his father’s, referring to the notion that everything was related in some fashion to everything else. The weather for instance. It was only a few weeks until Midyear's Day yet, gazing down at the White City beneath the Citadel, one could see that the seven circles were shrouded in fog—as they had been for much of the last few months. The price of wood and charcoal had already risen as folk sought to heat their houses in addition to their cooking fires.

Yet that would not be the worst of it. The persisting cold would mean that the fruit harvest would likely be poor, come autumn. The price of olive oil would rise and therefore the City would be forced to purchase less than was usual. This would result in fewer lamps lit in the lower circles at night which, in turn, would increase crime. In order to ensure the safety of people and property, men would be pulled from their garrisons along the marches of Mordor to patrol Minas Tirith.

Thus endangering them all because of a spell of cool weather.

“How many circles do you touch, I wonder?” Denethor asked as he placed the carefully copied scroll back on his desk, breathing in the familiar scents of iron gall ink and sealing wax.

His father had taught him that a good ruler could discover where the circles intersected and thus prevent many tragedies from occurring. His father had been quite skilled in this. However, in his thirty-three years as Ruling Steward, Denethor had found that discovering these intersections seldom led to the prevention of anything. More oft he was forced to watch as events he was powerless to control loomed before him as a wave does before it crashes against the shore.

The silence was shattered by a knock at the door. “Enter,” Denethor called.

The door opened and two Guardsmen in the livery of the Citadel escorted an elderly man dressed in a grey robe into the room. He looked quite cross as he was ushered into the leather chair next to the window, scowling at the unfortunate Guardsman who looked as if he would rather be anywhere else. The other guard bowed before Denethor and presented him with a scabbard and a gnarled wooden staff with a queer twist of roots at its tip.

“He bears no other weapons, my Lord,” The guard reported.

“Where was he?” Denethor asked.

 “In the vaults of the Archive, my Lord.”

“Leave us,” Denethor commanded, leaning the Wizard staff’s against the wall next to him, taking care not to touch it longer than was necessary.

“Mithrandir,” He said, nodding to the Wizard as he placed the scabbard on the desk.

“What is this about, Denethor? Never before have you taken issue with me visiting the Archives,” The Wizard said testily, his arms crossed. “They did not even allow me to retrieve my hat!”

“Resulting in the considerable improvement to your appearance,” Denethor replied dryly, rather having disked the ridiculous hat the Wizard always wore.

Mithrandir snorted and eyed Denethor speculatively as he withdrew the Wizard’s sword from the scabbard.

“Where did you find this? Never have I seen the like,” Denethor wondered, marveling at the weapon’s craftsmanship.

“Nor would you,” Mithrandir stated. “That is an Elf-wrought blade I found it in a Troll's cave, if you will believe.”

Denethor returned the sword to its sheath, quite certain the Wizard was telling the truth. He was used to Men who refused to speak plainly. Yet the Wizard’s deception lay in what he did not say, for he had never known Mithrandir to utter a falsehood. Denethor had once suspected the Wizard of advising his father to supplant him with Thorongil. The anger he had felt at the betrayal had since dissipated but the mistrust of the Wizard remained.

And he now had proof that his suspicion was warranted.

“What do you wish of me, Steward of Gondor?” Mithrandir asked softly, yet there was an undercurrent of authority in his words that made Denethor’s hackles rise.

“I would seek your council,” He replied calmly, keeping his ire hidden, sipping watered wine from a goblet.

 “Never have you done so before, my Lord,” The Wizard snorted.

 “Indeed,” Denethor smiled thinly. “Yet you gave my Father council when he desired it and I would seek the same.”

The Wizard cocked his head. “Never have you trusted me as Ecthelion did.”

“Should I trust one who is not as he appears?” Denethor asked, watching Mithrandir closely. “You cannot claim to be Mortal with all the years you have endured.”

“You think me an Elf, then?” Mithrandir chuckled. “Never before have I been mistaken for one of the Fair Folk!”

 “Nay, you are no Elf. Yet you are no Man. Two thousand years ago, you told the Fifteenth King of Gondor that you were an emissary of the Lords of the West,” Denethor gestured to the scroll on his desk. “Or so King Hyarmendacil the First writes. Do you deny this?”

Mithrandir sighed looking very much like the elderly man Denethor knew he was not.

“I, and the others of my Order, were sent to assist the peoples of Middle-earth against Sauron,” The Wizard said gazing out of the window where, on clearer days than this, one could glimpse Minas Morgul.

 “Then you are truly an emissary of the Powers?” Denethor queried, feeling grimly satisfied. 

“Indeed,” Mithrandir said and turned from the window, giving Denethor a measuring look. “Yet knowing this, you still do not trust me.”

“Trust you? When those of Middle-earth have heard such claims before? You speak of trust, emissary of the Valar?” His words were dry and mocking.

 Mithrandir’s eyebrows rose at the accusation. “You know well your histories.”

“Those who do not know of the follies of their ancestors shall be doomed to repeat them,” Denethor declared. “The Elves of Eregion were fools to trust one whom was not as he appeared. Should I do the same? Why should I trust the Deathless?”

“Yet you desire my council,” The Wizard observed.

“Indeed. How the mighty have fallen,” Denethor replied, tone laced with grim amusement, his lips twisting into a wry smile.

He looked out the window himself, seeing nothing but the grey clouds that hid the City below.

“The strength of the Enemy grows with each passing year. His might will soon surpass ours, if it already does not,” He said softly. “If Gondor falters, Middle-earth falls.”

He turned to look at the Wizard. “How might I save it ere I am forced to depart from here? It may be Men’s lot to flee the Circles of the World, but not to be torn asunder. We cling to what is marred for love of the Earth and I would not lose it.’

“The Earth is marred,” Mithrandir agreed. “Yet should this not make it easier to lose?”

“And who has marred it? It is torn from us by one of your kind!” Denethor replied fiercely. “The Elves have respite from these fading lands. Mortals have not even that. Why must the pain of our mortality be increased by the pain of unending battle? We face darkness and ruin knowing even if we succeed we must eventually fail.”

“You envy the Elves even as you speak of the follies of your ancestors?” The Wizard’s voice was piercing, though soft.

Then Mithrandir sighed heavily, looking grave. “Even those who dwell in the West do not possess the Unmarring you desire, Denethor. Yet if you have read your histories, you know what is required of you. You must have hope in what will be.”

 “Hope? What hope do you speak of?” Denethor asked bitterly. “Hope that your kind shall take pity upon us and stay your kindred’s hand? Hope is how you mask your power to save or harm. Yet you would have us think it our own fault when darkness overwhelms us. I give my love to Gondor and seek to save it. I place no hope in rumors of what may be.”

“You are a fool if you give all your love to this Earth, Denethor. Trusting Sauron was not your people’s greatest folly. That was the pride and envy that drove them to attempt to take that which was never theirs. Love not too well the works of your hands and the desires of your heart.”

“Fool you name me, yet you wish us to have hope against what you yourself fear,” Denethor remarked sharply.

“Indeed. I have no other counsel to give you.” The Wizard replied.

 “And if Sauron prevails?”

“Then we shall all be in darkness bound.” Mithrandir said grimly.

They stared at one another for a long moment, the only sound the crackling of the fire in the hearth and the wind outside. Then Denethor called for the guards. As they entered the room the Wizard stood and the Steward of Gondor silently returned his sword and staff to him. As one of the Guardsmen was escorting him out the door, Mithrandir paused. He look back at the desk where Dethethor sat, fingering the enameled emblem of the White Tree on his goblet of wine.

“There is hope beyond your sight, my Lord,” The Wizard said softly. “Though it is not for you to bring it.”

With those words he departed with the guards. As soon as the door closed, Denethor stood and began pacing. How could it be wrong to love the Earth? To fear losing it? Yet it was clear to him that the Powers cared naught for Gondor, save as it served their designs. What shall be saved from their downfall? What the Powers willed. What they chose to protect was safe from the cruel fate that snared the rest. He stopped pacing and called the Guardsmen in once more.

“What was Mithrandir doing in the Archive vaults?” he asked.

“Master Parmandil said he was reading all the material that Isildur wrote during his time in Minas Tirith after the War of the Last Alliance, my Lord,” one of them answered.

“Bring me everything he touched,” Denethor ordered. The guards bowed and left the room.

The Wizard thought him without hope and he was correct. Denethor placed no hope in the Powers. There was no room in his heart for beings that used Men as pawns, nor for anyone whom would cast their lot with these creatures. Yet he had hope. Hope that Gondor would persevere as she had for three thousand years. He would find a way to save Gondor himself, if he must. Denethor returned to the desk, took the scroll and laid it in the hearth. It was soon alight.

“Circles within circles,” he said softly.