For Evendim, Sue W, Linda and all who have so kindly reviewed! THANK YOU!And to those who said they like Garad (thanks!) you ain't seen nothin' yet! G>

Chapter Eight: Denethor and the Palantir.

Garad galloped excitedly up and around the first level, then the second, the third, and on, The Steward's banner flying high. He shouted joyfully again and again, "Great news! Great news! The Lord Boromir is returned!" Voices cried out behind him, and the joy spread like a wave creating a sea of gladness. This was a wondrous day for Minas Tirith.

At last, with his brave horse tiring, he reached the seventh level and charged through the Citadel archway. The sentries stepped aside and he called the news to them, heard them too repeat it joyfully. He thundered on across the open expanse of green sward and by the dead Tree with its mournful fountain. At the steps of the Great Hall he jumped from his sweating mount, gave over the reins and the banner, and hurried up and through the door. Here, he slowed a little. For all its magnificence he'd never much liked Gondor's Great Hall. It was for him too empty a place, full of echoes, shadows and coldness. But today, he smiled proudly up at the statues of Elendil and Isildur. Looking forward however, he saw that the Steward's throne was empty.

A citadel guard hurried forward, resplendent in the silver and black livery of the Tower Guard, but wearing a scowl on his thin face. "The Lord Denethor is in his tower chamber and left strict instruction that he was not to be disturbed. You may leave your message with me."

Garad laughed. "Not to be disturbed? Even to hear that Boromir is come home to him?"

"Boromir is home? Truly?" Garad nodded and the man's sour face suddenly lit with hope and joy.

"Yes, man," Garad urged. "Now let us hurry. Boromir asks that I deliver this news personally. Take me to the Steward!"

Together they climbed many a narrow winding stair going higher and higher above the Hall only to emerge on yet another landing or balcony that led to still more stairs. Garad had thought that the uppermost spires of The Citadel were no longer used, but apparently he had been mistaken. For ahead now, at the narrowest point of one final curving tunnel, a strange light could be seen flickering from about the edges of a heavily draped and screened doorway. On either side stood black robed and hooded shadowy figures. At first Garad thought they might be Dunedain Rangers, so silent and menacing did they appear. But Denethor he knew had long been hostile to the Men of the North.

The two stepped very smoothly, almost stealthily forward and Garad saw that, whoever they were, they had rarely seen the light of day. Their skin was flawless white yet sickly in its pallor, their eyes sunken and shadowed their cheeks hollow and bodies terribly thin. Surely such were not strong enough to guard the Steward? They were armed with halberds and their swords did not carry Gondor's mark. From where had they come? Meeting their eyes sent a sudden chill through Garad – here lay power, not that of flesh and muscle and bone, but a power that may easily surpass it.

The taller of the two came closer still, his voice a sibilant hiss as he asked Garad's companion, "What do you here? And with a stranger! You have been told…"

"I bring word," the Tower guardsman found courage to interrupt. "A messenger, Captain Garad, with great news!"

"None may enter here," the second creature said flatly. "Save the Steward."

"Move aside!" Garad had lost his patience. "Lord Denethor will want to know his firstborn is returned to him!" Right hand gripping the hilt of his sword, Garad pushed at the curtain and stepped inside. It was a gloomy, stuffy and windowless small round chamber with a low wood rafter and tiled roof. Only a single candle burned, giving off less illumination than smoke. Someone was weeping, and the sound tore at Garad for its grief was that of one who had long abandoned all hope.

Denethor – if indeed it were he -- appeared inconsolable, sitting hunched over something that lay in the middle of a small, circular table. On its far side lay Boromir's cloven horn. In this setting it seemed even more forlorn than it had when it was first found it floating in the reeds by the Great River. The Steward was whispering to himself, sobbing, "He is dead, then. Or dying. Ever the same. Ever the same."

Swallowing hard against the miasma of despair and fear that permeated the chamber, Garad stepped closer. He saw that between Denethor's now parted hands, was a strange black orb of stone or glass that gleamed with swirls of red and orange light. It was oddly beautiful, and he stared at it a moment, mesmerized.

"My Lord Steward! A messenger!" the guard who had followed Garad announced harshly.

Denethor jumped and almost guiltily, threw a dark silk cloth over the stone. "I told you I was not to be disturbed! And no strangers are ever to enter here!"

The ferocity of the snarled rebuke staggered Garad. He stumbled back and caught at another low table for support. His sight cleared as the strange orb let go its grip, and he realized cold sweat was running down his back and dampening his brow and hair. All the joy and warmth of his message had somehow died in the impossible chill and gloom of this awful, airless room. Denethor's piercing eyes pinned him suddenly from within the shadows, and Garad blurted out, "My Lord Steward, I come to tell you, your son, Boromir is returned. Your firstborn is home!"

"Returned? Dead?"

"No!" Garad gasped. "My Lord, Boromir is alive! He is wounded, yes, but already his strength returns. A wagon carries him closer through the Circles as we speak."

"Boromir? Alive? Surely it cannot be?"

Garad frowned in confusion for this persistent doubt. Given long enough in this hated room he may even come to believe such nonsense himself! "I swear, it is true! I left him bare moments ago. Please, my Lord, come, follow me and I will take you to him. He is eager to see you again."

"Yes," Denethor drew a deep breath and stood. He stumbled a little and Garad steadied him. "Yes!" he repeated more strongly. "Take me to my son!"

They hurried all the way back through a maze of stairs and landings, then, having apparently followed some secret, more private route, Garad found himself suddenly stepping out into the night onto a colonnaded gallery that ran the length of the eastern side of the Great Hall. He breathed deeply of the sweet, fresh air. The night for all its darkness seemed full of life and light by comparison to that awful tower chamber high above. Flickering torches lit their path as they hurried on to the far end of the gallery, turned a corner, and entered through a plain arch that gave access to a smaller, carpeted hall. This was, as near as Garad could make it out, the area in which more private interviews were held. On the far side stood another arch, open to the night and through it, with great relief, Garad saw the green sward where stood the wagon and its team of horses. Faramir had climbed out and seemed to be arguing with the driver about whether or not they should deliver Boromir back to the Houses of Healing, just beyond the Citadel Gate, rather than first proceeding here.

Insert Illustration by Skye

Completely ignoring Faramir, Denethor rushed forward, his long cloak billowing behind him. "Boromir! My son! " He called. "Are you indeed come home to me? Say it is so!"

From inside the wagon, Boromir replied, "Father!" He came into sight, propping himself up to peer through the open canvas side. He flashed a broad grin and stretched out an arm to beckon his father into his embrace. "I am home at last!"

Denethor leapt up to the wagon bed with a nimbleness Garad would not have credited for the broken man he had found high above. The Steward caught his elder son in a fierce hug that must have hurt Boromir, but he returned it nonetheless delightedly. Denethor could not speak, but rested his brow against his son's and wept silently for several long moments.

"Father?" Garad could see the expression on his friends' face, saw how much this disheveled and grief-torn man had shaken Boromir. Denethor was not the stern leader he had left behind all those months ago. "It is all right! It is all right. Do not weep!"

Finally, Denethor drew back and Garad saw his face was transformed. He was smiling now, and his eyes gleamed only with tears and with love. That earlier strange cold light had left their depths. "Boromir!" he cried and laughed all at once. "I knew you could not be fallen! I knew you would not fail me!"

"Never!" Boromir said firmly in return. But he could no longer hide his weakness and pain, and was unable to remain seated. He lay back to the litter, and gave Faramir who stood behind their father, a somewhat bemused, sad and wry smile.

"You are wounded!" Denethor cried in anguish as he saw the bloodied bandaging that all but covered Boromir's chest and shoulder. "How badly?"

"I will soon be well." Boromir looked again to his brother and drew him closer with a glance. "Faramir has done much to aid my return of strength since my arrival in Osgiliath today."

"Indeed?" Denethor stepped down from the wagon to regard the younger man. Both his tone and expression lost all their warmth as he continued; "Yet it is only now that I learn of this happy news?"

"My pardon, father," Faramir 's face fell, and Garad glimpsed a heart wrenching sadness before a calm mask cloaked Faramir's deeper emotion. "Osgiliath is under attack. The Nazgul are ever watchful. A single messenger may have been captured. And there was none to spare from those needed to guard the other wounded who travelled close behind us."

Boromir shook his head angrily. "We sent Garad as soon as we might."

"Osgiliath is under attack, you say?" Denethor had not removed his sharply cold eyes from the younger son. "Then surely, Faramir, as the senior commander of all our forces along the Anduin your place is there? Are you not sworn to protect the city your brother so recently returned to us? Go. Get you back to the garrison."

"Father! No!" Boromir cried. He tried again to sit up, wincing and pressing one hand to his ribs. "I would have Faramir's company a while longer!"

Denethor turned to Boromir with a flat smile. "You know where duty lies, Boromir. It is time your brother learned the same."

Boromir spat an ugly, furious curse that made his father blink surprise and take a step back. Boromir glared bright anger at Denethor and snarled, "My brother has fought as long and hard as I to defend Gondor! Longer! Harder! I have not been here these long months when we have been so constantly hard-pressed! He has held the borders better than I could have wished! I will not hear him so rebuked!" Breathless and fighting pain; he steadied himself and turned to his brother. "Ignore him, Faramir. There will be time enough for war come the morning."

"I thank you, brother." Tears of pride and affection for his brother's fierce defence gleamed in Faramir's blue eyes. "But, I must go." He smiled sadly and shook his head. "I will see you soon. Rest. Regain your strength. Our Captains will look for your return to the fight, as will I." Not giving his father the satisfaction of any protest, he merely turned his back and walked away, toward the Tower Guard stables.

Dismissing Faramir as if he had never been present, Denethor looked back to Boromir, took his hand, and asked, "And what of the gift I asked you to carry home to me?"

Boromir would have eased himself wearily back but for the grip on his arm. "This is not the place for such news," he said tiredly.

Denethor gasped and leaned eagerly forward. "I know you found it! Where is it?"

"It was lost to me, and I'm glad of it."

Denethor's grip tightened so hard that Boromir flinched. "It cannot be so! You would not fail me! And I have seen it, seen this mighty gift. Seen that it has come to Gondor! You must have it!"

"I do not." With the last of his strength, Boromir pulled his arm free and fell painfully back to the litter.

Gimli, who must have seen and heard the entire exchange, suddenly leapt clear of the wagon. He hefted his battle-axe in one hand, and gave Denethor a fierce glare, startling the guards who hurried forward.

"Friend! Friend!" Garad said quickly and stepped between them. "Gimli is a friend."

"Friend to some here and not to others," Gimli growled and did not leave off his glaring at Denethor. "Tell me, Steward," he said scathingly, "how is it that you can see so much that does not concern you from so far afield?"

From inside the wagon, Garad could hear Boromir either cheering or laughing. Denethor cheeks flushed with anger, stepped closer to sneer, "And who are you, Dwarf, that you dare question me?"

Knowing Boromir's patience and strength had been well exhausted, Garad intervened. "This is Gimli, son of Glóin, and our honoured guest, for it was he who cared for and returned Boromir all the way from Rauros."

"Rauros?" Denethor whispered, "Yes, Amon Hen, that is where I last saw it clearly. Yet I know it was closer, much closer, only today."

"Saw what? How?" Gimli demanded.

"You are brazen as all your kind," Denethor spat. "It is long since Minas Tirith has tolerated such as you in her lower streets, let alone her Citadel!"

"Father! Enough!" Boromir exclaimed, and groaned as he struggled to again push himself up.

Gimli stepped to the wagon's side, and reached up to pat his friend's arm. "Leave it, laddie. It's not worth you hurting yourself further. And I am going anyway."

"Going? Where?"

"To Osgiliath. For I will not see your brother return alone to battle."

Boromir heaved a sigh of gratitude. "I would be glad of that. Thank you, Gimli. Watch his back for me."

"I will, laddie, I will. And I ask that you take care of yourself, too. The sooner you can rejoin the fight, the better." He patted Boromir's bare arm once more, smiled and said, "Rest, regain your strength. Looks like you're going to need it."

Faramir had reappeared leading a horse. Boromir called, and he came to the wagon to embrace his brother and say farewell. Then he swung into the saddle, and bent down to haul Gimli up behind him. "Return to me, soon, little brother," Boromir called. "My thanks, Gimli! Return to me safe!"

Garad, watching, was appalled as he saw the brothers take their leave. This was far from the joyous homecoming he'd expected. He'd long known of, and sometimes witnessed, Denethor's coldness toward Faramir, but never had he dreamed it had become so much worse. He shook himself and stepped forward, signaling the guardsmen to help him with the litter. They too were subdued. But as Garad and three others carefully lifted Boromir free of the wagon, he cheered them with a ribald remark and a grin despite his evident exhaustion. It was those innate qualities of good humour; courage and natural leadership that had long since won for Boromir the admiration, loyalty and love of every soldier of Gondor. Garad took command, turning them toward the Citadel arch and the Houses of Healing, only to have Denethor snap, "Not that way! I will have my personal physician tend my son. Follow me!"

Garad frowned and obeyed. He had not known there were any healers other than those who lived and worked on the sixth level. When had one been singled out and given such an exclusive honour? It had never been done before. The much loved and greatly mourned Felenthis had been the senior Healer, and all had assumed he would attend Denethor if ever such was needed. Garad grew wary as one of Denethor's dark-robed guards joined them as soon as they re-entered the building. The stranger whispered to The Steward and Denethor nodded, said nothing, but his shoulders drooped and his back hunched in an attitude of extreme weariness.