A Heart for Falsehood Framed
by Soledad
Disclaimer:
The characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I'm only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun.
Rating: PG – 13, just to be on the safe side.
Chapter Four: One Ring to Rule Them All…But none of them could give much thought all these recent events, for the bell called them back to the Council again. All were gathered there already when Boromir arrived and took his seat, and the older of the Halflings was asked to finally tell the story of the finding of the Ring.
And tell he did, at full length, reconing his adventure with one foul creature called Gollum, and from the surprised, even a little angry looks the Dwarves cast him Boromir guessed that he must have told them a different story earlier.
On and on he went, and Boromir grew increasingly bored, for the scratchy voice of the little goblin cut into his already tortured mind, not letting him at least think of something else.
Like mending fences with Elladan?, the cruel little voice from inside inquired.
Finally Elrond took pity on him and raised his hand.
''Well told, my friend'', he said to the Halfling, ''but that is enough at this time.'' With what Boromir whole-heartedly agreed. Another five minutes and he would have strangled the little thing. ''For the moment it suffices to know that the Ring passed to Frodo, your heir. Let him now speak.''
The little fellow with that innocent, Elvish face and deep blue eyes stood less willingly than his kinsman, yet he did it nonetheless, and told all of his dealings with the Ring from the day it passed into his keeping.
Boromir listened to him with rapt interest, and could not help feeling sorry for this troubled little creature who so clearly did not want to do anything with Rings of Power and wars and weapons. And yet on he went, leaving behind anything that was dear to his little heart, hunted by the same nameless horror that touched him under the ruined bridge of Osgiliath, and reached his goal against all odds.
How could a born warrior like Boromir not admire the little one? Such selfless bravery deserved respect, for at least.
After the young hobbit finished his tale, the silver-haired Galdor of the Havens, who sat nearby, wrapped in a grey cloak against the cooling weather, turned to Elrond in askance.
''The Wise may have good reason to believe that the Halfling's trove is indeed the Great Ring of long debate, unlikely though that may seem to those who know less. But may we not hear the proof?''
A few of the others nodded in agreement. Boromir did so, himself, though he had seen more than enough proof of things he did not want to learn, for not only one day but for a whole lifetime.
Do not think about that now, he warned himself, forcing his mind to listen to the council. He could not let himself miss aught. The fate of Minas Tirith might have been at stake by every morsel of tidings these people offered so very reluctantly. His city, no matter who might be called King over her one day. No birthright would make Isildur's Heir bound to her every stone the way the Heir of the Stewards was bound to her – through countless centuries of love and faithful service his father's fathers inherited upon him.
''And what of Saruman?'', the grey-cloaked Elf from the Havens added. ''He is learned in the lore of the Rings, yet he is not among us. What is his counsel – if he knows the things that we have heard?''
What, indeed?, Boromir thought grimly. Is there more behind the wizard's treachery towards Rohan than the hunger for even more power? If Curunír knows about the Ring, then mayhap his moves in the Mark are but preparations for a much bigger war. And if Théodred's guess is right and Isengard is now in league with the Dark Tower, then we are truly lost. Tarrying here instead of preparing for war is folly. One that we might regret deeply, ere the day of battles shall dawn.
Yet he said naught, waiting for these oh-so-wise people to finally tell what they truly knew. This was something he needed to learn.
''Some, Galdor'', said Mithrandir, ''would think the tidings of Glóin, and the pursuit of Frodo, proof enough that the Halfling's trove is a thing of great worth to the Enemy. Yet it is a Ring. What then? The Nine the Nazgúl keep. The Seven are taken or destroyed…''
At this Glóin stirred, but did not speak, and Boromir silently wondered what might have become of the Rings the Dwarf Kings were given. There, he suspected, lay another dark tale, full of blood and sorrow, yet he doubted very much that he would ever hear of it. Dwarves were no more forthcoming when it came to share tidings about themselves then Elves were.
''The Three we know of'', Mithrandir continued, not giving any details, to Boromir's dismay. ''What then is this one that he desires so much?''
Mithrandir went on, telling them how he had searched for tidings about the Great Ring, facing even the newly-awakened Enemy in his lesser dwelling, the black tower of Dol Guldur in Southern Mirkwood, and how he made the White Council to put forth its strength for one last time and drive Sauron out of there – in the very year of the finding of this Ring.
Which, as Boromir himself new all too well, happened already too late. For it was his father, the Lord Denethor, who had to face both Minas Morgul, where the Nameless Fear dwelt, and the Dark Tower itself, to where the Enemy returned shortly after fleeing from Mirkwood, and the lands of Gondor had been suffering savage attacks from the East ever since.
Yet though the White Council knew that the Enemy was seeking ever more eagerly for the One Ring, they let themseles be lulled by the words of Curunír, who kept repeating that the One would never again be found in Middle-earth.
The fools. Trusting a shrewd old wizard, just for he was once part of their Council. Little, indeed, knew the Elves about the hearts of Men. The young Third Marshal of Rohan, who never laid hand on one of their old books of lore, saw through Curunír's deeds more easily.
''We were all at fault'', said Elrond to the clearly guilt-ridden Mithrandir, ''and but for your vigilance the Darkness, maybe, would already be upon us.''
And without the Men of Gondor holding it at bay with their lives and bravery and blood, Boromir added in silent anger. At least Mithrandir, who had visited Minas Tirith many times during the past, should have admitted that much.
But Mithrandir only went on with his tale, telling them how he tried to find Gollum, for he desired to know how the Ring came to such a pitiful creature, and how long he had possessed it; yet the shrewd little thing escaped him and was not found. After what he let the matter rest, watching and waiting only.
As you and your precious Elves have done all the times while Gondor fought and bled, Boromir commented in his heart.
''That was seventeen years ago'', Mithrandir continued. ''Soon I became aware that spies of many sorts, even beasts and birds, were gathered round the Shire, and my fear grew. I called for the help of the Dúnedain, and their watch was doubled: and I opened my heart to Aragorn, the Heir of Isildur.''
All eyes turned to the Ranger with unveiled curiosity. Aragorn shifted on his seat, clearly uncomfortable with all that attention paid to his person, and said:
''And I counselled that we should hunt for Gollum, too late though it may seem. And since it seemed fit that Isildur's Heir labour to repair Isildur's fault, I went with Gandalf on the long and hopeless search.''
How noble of you, Boromir thought grimly, and just what were you hoping to find? Which proof did you truly desire, battered offspring of fallen Kings: that the Ring would be the One or that it would not: What hope of yours still lies with it?
His mind got sidetracked again, not caring much for the long story how Mithrandir and the Ranger hunted the creature. Yet his ears perked up again when the wizard quoted Curunír's words.
''The Nine, the Seven, and the Three'', he said, ''had each a proper gem. Not so the One. It was round and unadorned, as if it were one of the lesser rings; but its Maker set marks upon it that the skilled, maybe, could still see and read.''
Mithrandir paused and shook his head slowly.
''What those marks were he had not said. Who now would know? The Maker. And Saruman? But great though his lore may be, it must have a source. What hand save Sauron's ever held this thing, ere it was lost? The hand of Isildur alone.''
Here the wizard paused again, and Boromir rolled his eyes. Could the old trickster not come to the point and tell what he was about to tell, without all those little games? People were already listening to him anyway…
''With that thought, I forsook the chase and passed swiftly to Gondor'', Mithrandir finally continued. ''In former days the members of my order had been well received there, but Saruman most of all. Often he had been for long the guest of the Lords fo the City. Less welcome did the Lord Denethor show me then than of old, and grudgingly he permitted me to search among his hoarded scrolls and books.
'If indeed, you look only, as you say, for records of ancient days, and the beginnings of the City, read on!', he said. 'For to me what was is less dark than what is to come, and that is my care. But unless you have more skill than even Curunír, who has studied here long, you will find naught that is not well known to me, who am master of the lore of this city.' ''
Boromir had to force himself not to laugh. How very like his father, the strong-willed, ill-tempered, with the worries over his city heavily loaded Lord of Minas Tirith this sounded!. A small wonder itself, indeed, it had been, that he allowed Mithrandir to mess up his secret archives at all. Usually he would let no-one even near those rooms, not even his own sons, no matter how much Faramir tried.
''So said Denethor'', the wizard continued. ''And yet there lie in his hoards many records that few now can read; even of the lore-masters, for their scripts and tongues have become dark to later Men.''
Now he turned directly to Boromir, for the first time since the Council had set on anew.
''And Boromir, there lies in Minas Tirith, still, unread, I guess, by any save Saruman and myself since the Kings failed, a scroll that Isildur made himself. For Isildur did not march away straight from the war in Mordor, as some have told the tale.''
''Some in the North, maybe'', Boromir replied, thoroughly fed up now with the wizard's lecturing tone. ''All know in Gondor that he went first to Minas Anor and dwelt a while with his nephew, Melendil, instructing him, before he committed to him the rule of the South Kingdom. In that time he planted there the last sapling of the White Tree, in memory of his brother.''
How much more fleeting your memory is, brother mine! Only a touch of light breeze on my brow, a fleeting taste of strong wine, sweet honey and bitter tears on my lips… once and forever, never to be tasted again. A parting gift, so cool and vanishing as a handful of snow in hot palms – it fades away swiftly, yet long does it burn afterwards. And burn I do with never-ending fire, whomever I might try to quench my thirtst with…
He lost his track on Mithrandir's tale, not caring how the wizard found the scroll of Isildur that described the secret marks on the One Ring – and how they could be made visible again. Only when he heard the name of his father mentioned once more turned his focus outwards again.
''At once I took my leave of Denethor'', Mithrandir was saying, ''but even as I went northwards, messages came to me out of Lórien that Aragorn had passed that way, and that he had found the creature called Gollum. Therefore I went first to meet him and hear his tale. Into what deadly perils he had gone alone I dear not guess.''
''There is little need to tell of them'', said Aragorn, and Boromir could only shake his head in disgust over this false modesty. ''If a man must needs walk in sight of the Black Gate, or tread the deadly flowers of Morgul Vale, then perils he shall have.''
And just whom are you about to lecture of that? Boromir clenched his teeth in barely repressed fury. Who of all this Council is the one who faces the Black Gate every single day? Who can see the fire of Mount Down while merely standing on his watchpost? Who had to fight the Orc-hoasts of Minas Morgul and endure the Nameless Fear under that broken bridge in Osgiliath, buried under the dead bodies of good men whom he had grown up with?
He stopped listening to the tale, told with far too many words by Strider – by Aragorn, he remainded himself, say Aragorn, at least you do not have to say majesty yet –, how Gollum was finally found and dragged to the Elves in Mirkwood who had agreed to keep him, until Mithrandir came and endured a long speech with him, learning, that Gollum's ring, indeed, came out of the Great River, nigh to the Gladden Fields where Isildur was slain. And that Gollum had possessed it long, many lives of his small kind, for the power of the Ring had lengthened his years far beyond their span.
A power that only Great Rings wield.
''And if that is not proof enough, Galdor'', the wizard turned back to the Elf, ''there is the other test that I spoke of. Upon this very ring, the letters that Isildur reported may still be read, if one has the strength of will to set it in the fire for awhile. That I have done and this I have read:
Ash nazg durbatulúk, ash nazg gimbatul,
ash nazg thrakatulúk, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul.
The change in the wizard's voice was astounding. Suddenly it became menacing, powerful, harsh as stone. A shadow seemed to pass over the high sun, and the porch for a moment grew dark. All trembled, and the Elves stopped their ears – all but Legolas, who only paled a little and glared at Mithrandir defiantly, as someone who is used to face great perils.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Okay, that was pretty short again, but I had to make a break somewhere, and this was as good a place as any other.
Now we all know, of course, how Elrond had reacted to Gandalf's use of the Black Speech in his own halls. But was he the only one upset about it? Go to Chapter Six and find out!