Chance Encounter

Disclaimer: No, I don't own Balian, Aragorn, Legolas, Gimli, etc. (unfortunately) I'm just borrowing them without permission but with every intention of returning them, savvy?

Chapter 29: The Board is Set

Aragorn paced restlessly on the steps of Meduseld. His pipe was in his mouth but it was unlit. He kept glancing at the beacon on the mountain, wishing he knew what was going on in the east. Gandalf had been gone for days. He should've arrived in Minas Tirith by now. Why was there still no news? He willed himself to calm down and to sit instead of pace. Gandalf was wise and powerful, and he had Balian with him. This combination should ensure that Gondor would be defended and that the Rohirrim were informed if there was any need. The ranger sighed. No matter how much he reassured himself, he still felt uneasy. The sky was clear and blue now, but who knew when the storm would come? For all he knew, it had already arrived at Gondor's doorstep and was making its way west until all the lands from Mordor to the Grey Havens were under its shadow.


Balian was sworn into service the day after their arrival and sent to Osgiliath. He had seen the city from the balcony once, and had privately renamed it the Broken City. Even from the distance, it resembled an ancient Roman amphitheatre. The young man had more or less gotten his cumbersome armour under control, although it still worried him. He doubted he could survive an actual skirmish with it on. However, he had to admit that a whole army arrayed like this would look impressive. He had been sent to Osgiliath with nineteen other men. They were supposed to be reinforcements. The blacksmith wondered what actual difference twenty men could make. He didn't like the prospect of defending Osgiliath and doubted that they could be successful in doing so.

According to rumours in Minas Tirith, the city's gates had been demolished and the walls were nothing but ruins. No one lived there anymore. The fighting was too fierce. As they drew near the city, Balian felt dismay creeping up on him. The entire city had been all but destroyed by Mordor's siege engines. There were gaping holes in the walls and rubble littered the ground. A sentry halted them, asking them what their business was. "We are reinforcements," said Balian. "Lord Denethor sent us." He produced a letter written by the Steward and addressed to Captain Faramir.

"Wait here," said the sentry. He left, no doubt to find the captain. Moments later, he returned with a younger and slighter version of Boromir in tow.

"You are the reinforcements?" said the man who had to be Faramir. "There are only twenty of you."

"This is as much as the lord Steward can spare at the moment," said Balian. He dismounted, for it seemed impolite to speak to a man of higher rank from horseback.

Faramir nodded. His grey eyes were grave. "I understand," he said, and then he observed Balian with barely hidden curiosity. "You are not from Gondor," said Boromir's brother.

"No, sir," said Balian.

"And yet, despite your dark colouring, you cannot be haradrim, for your accent does not carry the harsh quality of their tongue."

"I am not haradrim, sir." Faramir did not possess the fire and hardness of his brother, although he was just as strong, if not stronger. Boromir was the great tree that towered above all other trees in the forest. That tree would be able to withstand the buffeting of the wind, but the strongest storm would be able to topple it. Faramir was like a blade of grass, indistinguishable from all the other blades of grass unless he was observed very carefully. He would bend at the slightest of breezes, but when the breeze was gone, he would straighten again. No gale would be able to break him.

"Tell me," said Faramir, pulling him from his reverie. "What is your name?"

"Balian," he replied.

Faramir's brow creased. "Balian?" he said. "I have heard great stories about you." It was Balian's turn to be surprised.

"How do you know me, sir?" asked the blacksmith.

"Only from the words of certain travellers," said the captain meaningfully.

"I don't understand," said Balian. "Who?"

"It is a matter of secrecy," said Faramir. "I will speak with you later —in private."

The other men looked at Balian strangely, some even with jealousy. Why would the captain take so much notice of a newcomer, even one who was a friend of the Grey Pilgrim? Their stares made Balian feel slightly nervous. He did not like having too many enemies. One Guy had already caused him enough trouble.

Faramir distributed duties among the men. Balian was posted on the eastern side and was supposed to be keeping watch for orcs coming from Mordor. The water in the river was murky and grey, as if something had befouled it further upstream. Balian was surprised to learn that this was the very same river that had borne the Fellowship south after they had left Lothlorien. 'It looks so different,' he thought to himself, then it occurred to him that the elven boat bearing Boromir's body might have passed this way on its long and lonely journey to the sea. At the thought of his fallen friend, Balian's resolve to protect Gondor hardened. He had failed Boromir once. He would not do so again. So deeply was he mired in his thoughts that he did not notice he was not alone until Faramir tapped him on the shoulder.

"Sir," he said, startled. The man was as silent as an elf. As Balian turned, he armour clamoured. Faramir smiled.

"You don't have to wear that if you don't want to," he said. "I believe that men fight best if they are not weighted down."

"Then we are of the same opinion," said Balian, gratefully removing the heavy outer-wear. His fingers fumbled with the leather straps which held the pieces of metal to his body. After what seemed like some embarrassingly long moments, he was finally free.

"You know, without that armour, you look almost like one of my rangers," said Faramir.

"Your rangers, sir?" said Balian, reminding himself not to mention Aragorn until he was absolutely certain that the captain felt no hostility towards Gondor's future king. Faramir's father had not reacted too well to the name and although this did not seem to be a case of like-father-like-son, the blacksmith felt that it would be better to be careful, just in case.

"We're not real rangers," said Faramir. "Those men patrol the areas outside Gondor, although a few have served under my father and his ancestors. No, we just imitate a group to which the great Captain Thorongil belonged. He led many successful skirmishes against the forces of darkness. I only wish that I could have met him."

"What was this Thorongil like?" said Balian, overcome by curiosity. He might be able to learn a thing or two about successful skirmishes.

"They say he was tall and noble, with eyes as grey as flint and as sharp. There are also stories which say he was strongly opposed to bathing while out in the wilds, saying that the smell of grime masked the scent of man, a most useful thing when hunting agents of the enemy. Even if he hadn't disappeared, he would most probably be retired by now. It is a pity. Gondor has need of men like him at this dark hour."

"He sounds like a great man. I wonder why no one's ever mentioned him to me before."

"You came with Mithrandir, didn't you?"

"Mith— who?"

"Gandalf. Thorongil was a good friend of Gandalf's I'm surprised he hasn't been sharing stories. Usually, the Grey Pilgrim is fond of telling tales."

"I don't actually know him well enough for him to tell me stories."

"No one knows him well enough." Faramir turned his hazel gaze on the blacksmith. "Frodo knows you well, though," said the captain. "And from what he told me, you knew my brother."

Balian nodded. "We were friends," he said. His voice was laced with sorrow as he remembered that fateful day. "And no man could've had a better friend than Boromir. But please, tell me of Frodo and Sam. Are they well?"

"I saw him off from this city, just yesterday," said Faramir. "He seemed quite well, considering the distance he has travelled and the burden that he carries —yes, I know about it. Stop looking at me as if I just grew horns, Balian. I am worried though, for he and Sam travel in the company of a foul creature named Gollum."

"Gollum?"

"Do you know anything about him?"

"Only that Legolas —an elven friend of mine— tried to kill him."

"That's strange. How could an elf fail to kill such a gangly thing? I have heard that Legolas of Mirkwood is the best archer in all of Middle Earth."

"I stopped him from killing Gollum. We were in Moria and I was afraid that Gollum would scream as he died and wake some unknown terror in the deep."

"That's understandable. Was Boromir with you in Moria?"

"He was. He helped to stop Legolas from… hurting me."

"I thought you said Legolas was your friend."

"He is. It's just that I stopped him from avenging his friends whose deaths had something to do with Gollum. He wasn't feeling particularly friendly at that moment.

Faramir smiled. "Tell me the rest of the story," he said. "I suspect it is highly entertaining."

Balian obliged willingly, until he reached the breaking of the Fellowship. He hesitated.

"Go on," urged Faramir.

"I'm not sure you'll want to hear this, sir," said Balian uncomfortably. Faramir looked at him closely, his keen eyes searching and searching.

"It's to do with Boromir, isn't it? Frodo hinted at that." Balian nodded. "Please," continued Faramir. There was a plaintive tone in his voice. "I need to know this. I hate not knowing what happened to Boromir."

"You need to understand that the Ring is a powerful and malignant thing that infiltrates the minds of men, offering them that which they want most and driving them mad by tempting them to take it. Its voice is seductive like a lover's. Although a great man, Boromir was still a man. The Ring was able to put thoughts into his head and control him. It made him try to take the Ring from Frodo. I intervened and we fought. I was wounded, just on the arm. I think the sight of blood brought him back to his senses, for he ceased the attack and begged for my forgiveness, which I gladly gave. And then, during a skirmish with Saruman's Uruk Hai, he took an arrow that was meant for me…" Balian paused, finding it difficult to go on. Faramir gripped his shoulder comfortingly.

"It's alright," said the dead man's brother. "That is exactly like Boromir. He would have done it for anyone. You are not to be faulted for his death."

"Sir, I…"

"Please, call me Faramir. You were my brother's friend. I'm yours."

Balian was touched by Faramir's generosity and kindness. He was definitely nothing like his father. "Thank you…Faramir."

Boromir's brother clapped him on the back. "I shall leave you to your duty, Balian, defender of the helpless."

Balian blushed. Sometimes, he wished hobbits were not so talkative.


When darkness fell, fog crept over the river like a ghostly army, infiltrating every corner of the ruined city. It veiled everything, hiding it from men's sight. Balian doubted that even the keen vision of the elves would be able to pierce this shield of water vapour. The lack of visibility made him nervous. He liked to be able to see where his enemy was coming from, if they were coming at all. Taking deep breaths of the moisture laden air did little to calm him. The shroud-like fog almost seemed to suffocate him in its eerie whiteness. It blinded him and blocked his ears. He didn't like this weather. It reminded him too much of the day his wife had hanged herself; of death.

About thirty paces of his right, he could make out the silhouette of another man, pacing as he kept a look out for the enemy. Only the occasional flashes of red from Mordor pierced this gloom, and it was not a welcome sight. The man suddenly gave a gurgling cry then fell back with an arrow in his throat. "The enemy!" shouted Balian, rushing towards the main group. All the men were armed and ready for battle.

With gestures and whispers, Faramir instructed them to set up an ambush inside the broken gate where the orcs were landing. Balian pressed himself up against the cold stone, sword in hand. He knew what Faramir was trying to do. The captain wanted to cut off groups of orcs from the main force and vanquish them cohort by cohort. The blacksmith was not so certain about the plan. Usually, it only worked if there were enough men and a gate that could be closed. They had neither.

The hardest part, however, was probably watching the orcs splash through the water and into the city. Every man felt the urge to pounce on them and give them a bloody massacre. Common sense prevailed for they knew if they leapt out too soon, it would be the orcs who would do the massacring. They waited for Faramir to give his signal, although when he did finally did indicate to them to strike, they were not fully prepared.

Balian threw himself into the melée, slicing orc heads and limbs. The hot blood was an unwelcome contrast to the bone-chilling water. He was wetter than he had been in Helms Deep and stuck in a much more difficult situation. For the first time since his arrival in Middle Earth, Balian was fighting a battle without the presence of members of the Fellowship. There was no Legolas to aid him with well-placed shots, no Gimli to take on the hordes, no Gandalf to cast spells, and no Aragorn to guard his back and Give him hope. At least there was no Guy. There was only Faramir, and the captain seemed to be losing hope, as well as the fight. To the blacksmith, this was the last stand at Jerusalem all over again; a wet and cold Jerusalem with no Salah al Din to treat with. He supposed they were lucky in a strange way. These orcs were not half as competent as Saruman's. Evidently, Sauron favoured quantity over quality. He conveniently forgot that a large army of ants could vanquish an elephant. This was not the time for such thoughts. Continuous fighting took a lot of energy and by the time dawn came, the men were exhausted.

The worst was yet to come. A loud ear-piercing screech in the sky rent the cold grey morning. Balian fought the urge to protect his ears and continued to fight. One small mistake could mean his life. He saw, rather than heard, Faramir telling them to take cover. Not really understanding, he finished off the orc he was dealing with and did as he was instructed.

Great black winged beasts, which resembled dragons from Hell, dived down and grabbed men in their swooping talons to fling them into the air. Men dropped to the ground, bleeding and broken. The spectral riders, cloaked in black, shrieked in triumph atop their fell steeds. The sound hurt Balian more than any weapon. Faramir was shouting something and signalling for the men to retreat to Minas Tirith. They did not need to be told twice. All the men, rangers and soldiers alike, mounted their horses and urged them at the quickest pace possible towards the relative safety of the White City. The terrible black riders continued to pursue them, killing more men. Just as they thought there was no hope, a white rider came out of the city to meet them.

Gandalf brandished his glowing staff like a beacon of hope, warding off the dragons and their riders with the pure white light. Balian's heart soared at the sight. Angels truly did exist, and he was certain that Gandalf was one of them. The wizard escorted them inside the city, protecting them with his mere presence. Now that the uproar of battle was over, Balian noticed that everything was strangely quiet. In fact, it was utterly silent. He frowned in confusion. Men were speaking, horses pawed at the ground, chomping at their bits. Yet, he could not hear them. Someone tugged at his sleeve. He looked down to see Pippin. The hobbit's lips were moving, but he could register no sound. Then it struck him, like a sword between the shoulder blades.

Pippin was worried when Balian did not answer his question. The man looked as if his insides had been turned into ice. The frightened hobbit ran to find Gandalf, the one who had all the answers. "Gandalf!" he said. "You've got to come. Something's wrong with Balian!" Concerned, both Gandalf and Faramir followed the hobbit to where the blacksmith stood like a statue, looking down at the flagstones.

"Balian?" said Gandalf. There was no response. The wizard touched the man's arm. He looked up. The empty expression shocked Gandalf.

"I can't hear," said Balian flatly.


A/N: Mwahahahahaha!!! What's going on??? Balian's lost his hearing! Love it? Hate it? Reviews! But don't kill me.