Thank you to my wonderful reviewers, several of whom managed to spot glaring errors (Rivendale? What was I thinking?). Special thanks to Calenlass Greenleaf, my awesome new beta, who has been struggling manfully to pull me from the pit my inattention to all things grammatical has left me in.
Disclaimer: If none of this is mine, I've done my job properly. If I haven't, then it's mine anyway, so you've no right to complain.
June, 3018
A pale light streamed through a high window, falling on Faramir's dark hair as he stood before his father in the great hall of the citadel. Boromir stood beside him, impatiently rubbing the hilt of his broadsword as his brother talked.
"In my dream," Faramir announced to the steward, "I saw a shadow grow in the east, darkening the sky, while a faint light remained in the west. Thunder rolled loudly, yet from the west I heard a clear voice crying out:
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.
"Yesterday I too saw the dream," Boromir interrupted. "Exactly the same. It was so vivid. I saw the sky grow dark and heard the voice as clear as I now hear yours – only it was distant, as if it was borne on the wind from some far off land..." His voice trailed off, filled with wonder, and he stepped forward eagerly. "What do you make of it, father? Of what use is a broken sword in such times as these? And what is Imladris?"
"Imladris is a valley in the north, the home of Lord Elrond Half-elven. It is commonly known as Rivendell," Lord Denethor said, absently tapping his fingers on the black marble of his chair.
Faramir, who was standing quietly behind his brother, lifted his head at that, and recognition dawned in his eyes. His father glanced at him piercingly for a moment before he spoke again. "As for broken swords, they are not wanted here. It is sharp weapons and strong men to wield them that we are in need of here."
"But the rhyme, could it be referring to the sword of Elendil?" Faramir asked. "For that was broken. Mayhap in some way it is – or is – connected to Isildur's Bane, whatever that may be. Have you heard of this thing?"
"I know not," Denethor said shortly, but his eyes moved to rest on the tall marble statue of Isildur, standing tall and proud between the columns at the end of the hall, and he frowned in deep thought. "Indeed, it would seem a strange coincidence that both my sons should dream such a dream."
"It is very strange," Boromir agreed, "and I know not what to make of it."
"Nor I," Faramir said, then, encouraged by his father's apparent interest, went on eagerly, "Father, if you will it, I will go to Imladris and seek out tidings of these things. My heart tells me this is a message we should heed."
Denethor turned his eyes thoughtfully to his youngest son. "You are far too inclined to listen to your heart; it would be of a lot more profit to you should you use your mind for such things."
Faramir took the rebuke in silence, but his eyes did not leave his father's face. Boromir at last broke the silence. "Such a road is long and hard, and methinks it is the responsibility of the elder son. If you allow it, I will find for you the meaning of these riddles."
A half smile touched Denethor's lips. "It seems I should find it hard to keep you here," he remarked. "You both seem very eager to leave me, though the shadow grows deeper and raids on our lands more common. It was only ten days back the enemy attacked Osgiliath, and barely were you able to hold the west bank against them. Many of our best men were lost, and the enemy will attempt to seize it again."
"Indeed, our need is sore, yet this is why I believe we should seek this thing now. Such things will only grow worse in the days ahead," Faramir said gravely. "I believe that this dream was given to us for a reason, and if this sword could bring Gondor aid, now is the time to find it, as we are tottering on the brink of one of the greatest wars Gondor has ever known."
"Indeed, you speak the truth. Mayhap it would be wise to discover the meaning of this riddle. Yet, I think your brother also speaks rightly – he is the eldest, and such an errand should fall to him," the steward stated, pausing for a minute, his eyes fixed piercingly on Faramir before he addressed his eldest. "I know I can trust you, Boromir, to do my will in this matter. If you have made up your mind to go, you should leave immediately before the snow falls block the passes, as it will be a long journey of many months."
"I have," Boromir said positively.
"Go, then, and make ready your affairs. I will procure maps for your journey."
"Am I to leave right away, then?" Boromir asked, a little taken aback.
"I see no reason to delay now that you have made your decision," Denethor stated. "The sooner you leave the sooner you'll be back. There is nothing of urgency you must accomplish before you leave? For I see nothing to hinder your departure within a week."
Boromir pondered this for a moment, then at last he nodded slowly. "Be it so, father, if this is your will."
Denethor laughed shortly. "It is your quest. Do what you wish."
Boromir nodded slowly and turned to leave, but halted before his brother, seeing the disappointment in his eyes. "Do not begrudge this to me, brother. You know I am far more in need of practice in Sindarin than you are. Should you go, you would no doubt learn all there is to be known of it, and I could not allow that. I am, after all, the eldest, and must need at least to appear more learned," Boromir said, trying to lighten the mood.
Faramir laughed lightly for his brother's sake, although in his heart he wished more than anything to go himself to Rivendell – Imladris – to see its famed libraries and halls, to meet heroes from the ancient legends and lore he had studied and dreamed of from before he could read. But it was not to be. "I do not begrudge you this honor, you have earned it tenfold," he said generously, clasping his brother's arm, "I only wonder how I am to fill your shoes while you are away. Methinks our father will miss you sorely before the year is out."
"Indeed I will," Denethor commented. "But I am sure I can make do without you for a little while. Go now and ready yourself."
The brothers strode together out of the great hall, lost in talk of Imladris and the elves, but Denethor sat alone in his stone chair for many hours, pondering what he had heard. He knew far more of the riddle than what he had revealed to his sons, but still many things were beyond his understanding.
So Isildur's bane was found. And the sword of Elendil was in Imladris. Fruitlessly he wondered if Thorongil possessed it, or if some other 'Heir of Gondor and Arnor' had arisen. It would be so easy to investigate with the palantír, but instead he had to send his son on a dangerous journey to find out, and then wait months for news. Curse Elrond's mist…
Thorongil had always been a slightly mysterious figure. He had arrived in Gondor with an eored of King Thengel's knights, and had immediately offered his services to Ecthelion for as long as he should remain in Gondor. None knew how long that might be, yet Gondor's forces were depleted from years of wary skirmishing with the orc hordes of Cirith Ungol, and at the recommendation of the Rohirrim king, the Ranger's help was gratefully accepted.
Indeed, as the man's height, dark hair and gray eyes proclaimed him of Dúnedain decent, he was immediately made welcome as one of kin of the steward, however distant, and was assigned a place in the tower guard, a rare honor indeed for a stranger. He seemed to have a way with men and in less than five years he was promoted to captain of the first watch. From thence he became a favorite of the steward, growing in popularity until within a space of twenty years he had become a Captain of Gondor and one of the steward's closest advisors.
Denethor, however, while welcoming of the stranger at the beginning, grew deeply suspicious of him as he rose so swiftly in power and the esteem of all. Maybe it was that which led him to investigate the ranger's origins, and the strange ring which he bore… Denethor smiled at the recollection of their conversation so, so long ago. It had been largely one sided, yet effective nonetheless…
September, 2980
"I know who you are." That was how it had begun, and with that simple statement Denethor immediately captured the man's full attention.
"Of what do you speak?" Thorongil asked warily.
"You know well. I know who you claim to be."
"I am only your father's servant."
"Do not trifle with me," Denethor snarled. "That is no servant's ring you bear. Do you think I do not know its origins and history? It is the ring of Barahir, given to him by king Finrod for his loyalty, and passed down through Beren One-hand and all his line to Elros Tar-Minyatur and his descendants, then to the Lords of Andúnë, till at last it fell to Elendil and passed with him over the sea, escaping the drowning of Númenor and from thence down through the lines of Isildur's heirs. It is one of the oldest treasures of men. Why then do you bear it?"
"You know well your history," Thorongil commented dryly, "So far, you are almost entirely correct. One thing I will tell you, the ring is my own, my birthright. More than that, my business is my own."
"But not yours alone. You birthright, you say? As such, you are claiming to be the heir of Isildur. What then? Do you also claim the kingship of all Gondor and Arnor? Your ancestors lost their kingdom over one thousand years ago, and have since wandered, homeless in the north. And now you have come to Gondor, worming your way into my father's favor, leading and gaining the loyalty of Gondor's troops, earning yourself the regard and esteem of all men. Not all eyes here are blind. Why do you come hence? Do you perhaps hope that when you reveal your lordly lineage they will crown you king? What can you offer my people?"
"I offer them my sword and my counsel. I expect nothing in return, but to keep my own affairs. I do not wish for Gondor's throne," Thorongil answered quietly, but his eyes flashed.
"Indeed? It seems a strange coincidence. My father is old, his time of stewardship is almost over, and then we shall see the truth of your words. You have done your work well, and should your lineage be made known at such a time – by the Grey Wanderer, mayhap? – you know as well as I who the people would desire to reign over them. Yet with you at her head, Gondor would fall, under the shadow that rises to the east. What do you know of the ruling of a city? You are a wanderer, a ranger, not a king."
"I tell you, I desire no such thing. I am a ranger; I bear the title proudly, and I desire naught else," Thorongil quietly cut in, meeting the gaze of the steward's son squarely.
"Then what do you desire?" Denethor asked, dropping his voice. "Are you but the wizard's pawn? Do you see so little?"
"I have come to help Gondor, the city of my ancestors and home of my people. I came of my own choosing and I will leave when I will. I came here unnamed for a reason – I do not wish for Gondor's throne." His voice dropped a little, and he finished more gently, "I am not trying to rob you."
"But do you not see, you already have. If you had not come, who would be leading the armies to victory? Who would be now acclaimed as the savior of Gondor? And have you not also the entirety of my father's love? But you do not also desire my throne?"
"I do not. Indeed, it is not yours to take. You are heir of the steward, not the king."
"Oh, so this is how you will reason. You shall not be supplanting me, as you shall generously allow me to continue as steward of your affairs," he laughed coldly. "You know as well as I that that is not the truth. For one thousand years the stewards have ruled the white city. So we do not wear crowns or sit on thrones? They are but trifles. Arnor fell long ago due to the weakness of Isildur and his heirs, yet because of the stewards Gondor still stands. And it will continue so for many ages. Gondor has no king, Gondor needs no king."
"My lord," Thorongil broke in, his gray eyes hard and sharp as his now renowned blade, "I have told you of my intentions toward Gondor and yourself, yet as you will not accept what I say as truth, I can have nothing more to say to you. Please understand that I meant you no ill, and I apologize if I have caused you injury, it was not intentional. Yet I have told you more than I am inclined of my purposes here, meaning to set your heart at peace, and you seek only to insult my honor and my heritage. As such, you are wasting my time. Now if you will excuse me, I have much to see to before morning." He turned, and strode from the room, shutting the door firmly behind him and leaving Denethor alone to his brooding thoughts.
June, 3018
The steward chuckled grimly as he recalled their discussion. He had been blunt and rather lacking in tact and subtlety, yet the message had been sent and received with clarity.
It was later that month that Thorongil sailed after the fleets of Umbar and burned them, then disappeared into the north. The entire city seemed to mourn his loss, and none seemed to know the reason for his abrupt departure. Ecthelion was later told he had received an urgent missive and responded immediately, though none knew who it was from and whence he was called. Whatever his reasons or purposes, he passed from Gondor, and was not seen again in that land for many a long year.
I wanted so much to make Aragorn slam the door just then, but I decided it would be a little out of character, so I restrained my wicked urges and had him just 'shut it firmly'. Aren't you proud of me? You'd never believe how much self-control that took...