A/N: So, finally chapter 9 is up. (You see, Julia, your wish is my command *g*) I seem to steer directly into a writer's block for I appear to update slower and slower…. I'm awfully sorry about that. This chapter is also, maybe, not really bringing the story forward – it's more about a gap-filler, if you know what I mean. Nevertheless, I think it to be quite important, otherwise I'd left it out (as I've done with Isengard and Treebeard and such).

Oh, yes, I changed the High Court and some other things in Minas Tirith, because they fit better in my story in the way they are now. The statue of Elendil, for example…

Cailinn: I merely mention 'Faramir'….. you know!

Also: A HUGE, HUGE THANKS TO ALL MY REVIEWERS! Without you, there might never have been this chapter (and the following ones…)

Disclaimer: (It's becoming boring to write the same in each single chapter, but…) I don't own anything, everything belongs to Master Tolkien (no money is earned).

The Lord of the White Tower

"Minas Tirith," Legolas cried, "the city of Men, praised in song and tale!"

Gandalf smiled. "It is famous, indeed, and the last remnant of the craft of Númenor. But see, to us different things are more important than its greatness: No host of Orcs is camping on the Pelennor Fields, the way to the gates is free! Sauron's servants have not reached the Guarded City yet, maybe Denethor, steward of the Kings of Old, has truly used his wits and sent warriors across the bridges. Let us not linger, however, haste is still needed and the Orcs may not be far away anymore. They are running fast and if they once will have conquered the links across the Anduin, not many hours will pass until they will be gathering on the Fields, wielding their blades and attacking with brutal force."

With these words Gandalf spurred Shadowfax and the horse fell into a slow trot. Although the wizard wanted to reach the city as soon as it was possible, the cleft was steep and never would he have risked to misguide his horse. Still, his desire to speak to Denethor, 26th steward of Minas Tirith, was great. For almost thousand years now, since the day King Eärnur, last heir of Anárion, had died in the hands of the Enemy in 2050, the stewards had ruled in the City of Númenor and waited to surrender their office to a descendant of Isildur who was to return when plight would be greatest. At least so the lore-masters still told.

Denethor, son of Ecthelion II, was already old and if fate would have had it different, he soon would have passed his seat to Boromir, the elder of his two sons. Faramir, the younger one, had never been the one he favored and although in some matters both wiser and sterner than his brother, he was never able to earn any praise from his father.

'I need to persuade Denethor not to give up fight,' Gandalf pondered while leading Shadowfax down the sheer descent to the grassy plains stretching along the banks of the river.

"The steward has lived for long and many years," he then said aloud, "and courage has left him long ago. His mind is confused and the only thing still clear in it, is the love for his son Boromir. Alas, his grief will be great at my tidings of his death! My hope, though, does not lie in Denethor. I place it in his younger son Faramir. Not often have I seen him so far, only about three times, but when I visited Gondor last time, the young child had grown into a man, great of strength in body and mind. He is valuable and not as self-regarding, obsessed with his own renown, as Boromir had sometimes been, though he was truly noble and honorable. Never would I defile his memory! Faramir must be about 36 now, still quite young for a leader, but nevertheless trustworthy and in times of war age has to be the least we are to care for."

Legolas nodded. "Great men need to be found in battle! Often those who are praised with honor in peace diminish in fight and those who seem to be not worth of a single glance, rise and cast shadows onto the others."

"And such could be Faramir," Gandalf replied while Shadowfax took the first steps on the plains and fell into a fast trot. "I remember him tall and of great courage, and I know that he is the man I must talk to when his father will not meet my wishes. For something has to be done, even if the Lord does not approve!"

Slowly the comrades drew nearer to the city and with each meter they covered their astonishment grew and the Hobbits, who had never before laid eyes upon such craft and never even heard of it in tales, were silenced completely. They did not speak a single word, and if Hasufel had not just followed Shadowfax and Arod, they had forgotten to come along. Tall rose the uttermost wall in front of them, and behind it the other six rings towering each other could be seen. Each circle was smaller than the one before and the topmost only protected the White tower, the seat of Denethor. The city's splendor was great and an air of power was radiating from it. It was to easy to believe that so far no one had dared to attack the Tower of Guard, it would cost a long time and many people would be slain until all of the circles would be conquered to reach the Lord. Behind each wall a great amount of warriors could hide and if one would be overcome, still all the remaining fighters could withdraw to the next. Many Orcs that were willing to die would have to be sent from the Barad-Dûr. The Hobbits almost believed that it was impossible to gain dominion over this great stronghold, but as they would see in the next two days, it was not.

Five tall warriors were blocking their way with spears as the Fellowship had finally reached the great gates a short time after noon of December 6th. They had needed more than two hours to cross the plains, the city had appeared to be closer in the crystal clear air of the fair morning. Ten days had passed since Gimli, Legolas and the Hobbits had set out from Tol Brandir, ten days in which they had had no tidings of Frodo nor of Aragorn. They had gone through a lot of ordeals, hope had been lost and hope had returned. Gandalf had come back from the shadow, their guide in way and heart.

Soon the fate of all peoples in Middle Earth would be decided and each of them knew that they had given their best to have it turning out well. Now the burden was lying on Gandalf's shoulders, he was the only one who could persuade Denethor to obey to his plans. The only one who knew how they could help Frodo best. For the others the most difficult part of their quest was now fulfilled and not much things were left to do. Their arms could aid the Men and Orcs could be slain, but doom they could not bring nor avert.

"Halt," the foremost guard cried in the Common Speech. "Who are you and what is your errand? Give good reasons or permission to enter the city will be denied! In times of war we cannot have anyone come and leave as he wants to!"

"I am Mithrandir," the wizard said calmly, "by some called Gandalf the Gray. Often have I been here and I wish to see Denethor, Lord of Minas Tirith. I am bringing tidings of his son Boromir!"

"Boromir," the five cried in unison.

"Quick, open the gates!" the one who had spoken before ordered. "We have heard nothing of him for long, and we are eager to get to know about his fate. Yet, there are rumors that he has perished not long ago. Are they true or shall we call the people telling those liars?"

"Ere anything will be said," Gandalf replied sternly, "I want to see Boromir's father. Shall he not be the first to get tidings of his son?"

Remotely the guard nodded. "I will lead you up to the White Tower myself," he then announced. "I will be faster than any of the others, for the way is better known to me. Follow, if you may! The horses will be tended to by my men."

Curgon took off his helmet and gave his spear away. He did not seem to be older than forty, Gandalf guessed, and his eyes were dark, his glance keen. Black hair that fell on his shoulders made him looking similar to Aragorn and still there was a great difference between the two Men. Arathorn's son was moving more fluently, his whole way of walking more gracefully but also more determined. In his eyes wisdom lay underneath the sometimes piercing glance, something that the Gondorian lacked.

The wizard suppressed a smile. 'Of course, they both cannot be compared. I do measure up an ordinary guard of Gondor, worthy fathers he though might have had, to Aragorn, son of kings, descended in a line unbroken for many thousand years, having been raised by Elves in the house of Elrond! I forgot that Men are less alike than Elves!'

The comrades did not come across many men, while Curgon was leading them through the first two rings of gray stone. But although only stables for horses and some smithies had been built there, it still looked completely different from the City of Edoras, seat of the King of Rohan. They faintly could feel an air of power and might, nevertheless they could not say whether it was only a shadow of long forgotten days or being emitted from the White Tower. Each of the Men they caught sight of, were tall and their faces showed a grim expression. Not unfriendly, though, but like the features of old warriors in which furrows had been written by overcome peril.

As they were climbing higher and higher, more people came into their view, also some children and women crossed their way. The feeling of high nobility increased with each circle they passed and the houses become more decent and splendid. All men bore sword, spear and a few were even carrying a bow, something that would never have happened in Edoras where war was far away, and the Enemy and his land lay beyond many leagues and high mountains. In Minas Tirith guards were posted at each gate at each wall, the whole city seemed to be prepared for war. All supplies, their leader told them, had been brought to the two uppermost circles, the houses below were abandoned and people slept in hastily erected huts.

"The Enemy will not be able to conquer Minas Tirith," he said defiantly, "not without losing many of his creatures. Never will we give up our city, our home for many thousand years. The White Tower will be the last that will fall if He whom we do not name should ever gain rule over Middle-earth!"

"It is this I am hoping for," Gandalf replied, "great trust is placed into you and if you will be overcome, nothing will be able to withstand the Enemy anymore."

At last the comrades and their leader stepped through the gate in the seventh wall. In front of them the White Tower rose into the sky and cast a huge shadow on the surrounding meadows. Silver fountains filled the area with the sound of gurgling water, and an air of peace was all around. A white-paved court led to a great hall – the High Court –  that had been built in front of the Tower, and tall men in bright mail and with shining arms were guarding the gate. Everything gave a great sense of nobility and royalty, a place where once upon a time great kings had dwelt.

The Hobbits were astonished. Surrounded by such greatness might, they felt small and young. In the Shire no one had ever seen such and if one had, his tales would have been called lies and after a while he would have given up his attempts to tell his people. 'No one will ever believe us, if we'll be able to return,' Pippin thought breathlessly, 'I would not even believe myself, if I wouldn't know that I was wide awake.'

Curgon briefly talked to one of the guards ere the high door was opened and the Fellowship was allowed to enter the High Court. Then, however, they were bidden to wait for some moments since first a messenger would be sent to Denethor to inform them of their arrival.

Only a few minutes later the man returned and gave them permission to enter. "The Lord is eager to get to know about his son's fate. Make haste!"

A grim smile crossed the wizard's face and he was the first to enter the dark hall. Pillars supported the roof, the whole atmosphere was gloomy, even dismal. Tall statues framed the walls, looking closer, they resembled the Pillars of Kings at Argonath: Isildur and his brother Anárion. The most splendid of them all, though, showed Elendil, greatest of Númenor. An aura of light seemed to surround him as he was portrayed sitting on his throne, in his hand the Scepter of Annúminas. The Winged Crown rested upon his brow and wisdom was in his stony eyes. The craft of Númenor had managed to freeze this picture, and even hewn in stone the king seemed to be alive, to watch them as they made their way over to the simple but high throne standing in front of his feet. A guard that was mightier than all armed men.

"Behold Elendil, who overthrew Him whom we do not name in the battle of the Last Alliance," Legolas suddenly whispered. Many tales were told in Mirkwood about these days and Elendil, although being a Man, was still honored highly among the Elves.

"He was a great king indeed," Gandalf said softly, "and we must have hope that his heir will be as strong as his forefather was."

Only Gimli and Legolas understood that the wizard again thought of Aragorn. 'This is the hall where he once should have taken over rule again,' the Elf remembered, 'the hall where he should have sat with his Queen and the spirit of old Númenor should have become awakened again.'

Gandalf then gestured to his companions that they should not continue to talk. They had come closer to the end of the hall, Elendil was towering above them and below his right elbow a silver tree glittered in full bloom. But soon their looks were drawn to an old man sitting upon a black and unadorned chair some steps below the high throne. A small rod with a golden knob was in his hands while he was staring at his guests with a piercing glance.

"Hail, Denethor, Lord and Steward of Minas Tirith," Gandalf said aloud with a determined voice. "I am bringing tidings of your beloved son Boromir, and I have come in this dark hour to give counsel in need."

"Your advice is not necessary," the old man snarled unfriendly, "it often was evil and brought even greater darkness. But I was told that you have brought some with you who can give me tidings about my son. Come closer, if this is true!"

Uneasily Legolas glanced at the wizard but as he got no response, he made some steps towards the steward. "Indeed it is right," he said, shifting somewhat uncomfortably, "for a long time your son accompanied our Fellowship, and we do miss him greatly." The Elf paused for a moment, he was almost afraid of the man's reaction to his son's death. He slowly wetted his lip and continued only as Denethor´s look became even more penetrating.

"Never," he said gently, "shall Boromir come home again to the White Tower, for he perished in battle ten days ago."

A deadly paleness appeared on the steward's face but the Elf could not pay heed to the old man. If he had, he would not have been able to go on. "In his last fight he earned great honor, he gave his life to protect us, his companions. He fought until the very end and many Orcs fell, slain from his hand. In tales will his bravery live on and he shall be praised among all peoples."

Denethor said nothing, his grief was too great to be able to talk right now. He merely tightened the grip on his rod and shook his head in a silent gesture to leave him alone. He wanted to see no one, even not the ones who had witnessed his son's perish. Into his dark chamber would he go to mourn, and if darkness would sweep over Minas Tirith and Gondor, he would not try to hinder it. Denethor had merely lived for his elder son and after his death, life made no sense anymore.

Sympathetically Gandalf looked at the suddenly shrunken man, all of his energy seemed to have left him, and pity was in the wizard's eyes. Never had he had a child of his own, but Aragorn had claimed that place in his heart, and when the tidings of his capture had almost broken him, the Istari, who had yet witnessed so much evil, could only guess how deep the grief of a real father had to be.

Nevertheless he knew that he could not give in to Denethor's wishes right now, the matters he had come to discuss, could not be left unsaid.

"Lord of Minas Tirith," he addressed the mourning steward, "this were evil tidings indeed, but still you have to put aside your grief for some days. Unstoppably the Shadow is moving towards your city, your men have to prepare for war, if they have not done it so far. Some warriors have to be sent out to cross the Anduin, to roam through Ithilien to disturb the hosts of the Nameless Land. Various tasks have to be fulfilled, otherwise the city will be taken soon and doom will befall the lands. The Unnamed will soon be ready to attack, it is almost a miracle that he has not done so yet. Rise, Lord, before you will fall and lead your people to peace!"

The steward did not even look up. For minutes he said nothing, and as he finally began to speak, his voice sounded broken and drained of life.

"Shadow is coming, you say," he murmured, "but does it matter when your son, whom you have loved, has perished far away from home? Never will I be able to look upon his beloved face, the one who remains cannot fill the gap the death of his older brother left. Already I have sent him to Ithilien, since then he has not returned and no tidings arrived. Faramir might also be slain in the task you wanted me to remind about. I am old, but still I know what has to be done in war: The men of Gondor have been summoned to the city, arms and supplies have been gathered. Minas Tirith will not be conquered! But alas, even if it would be different, it would not matter anymore!"

"To Ithilien has Faramir been sent?" Gandalf's sigh almost echoed through the wide hall. "I wished to speak to him upon an important errand… Did you tell him when to return or should it be his own decision?" he then again turned to Denethor questioningly.

"Nay, I did not talk to him about this. May he succeed or not, I never trusted him to lead the men he took with him on this task."

Gimli sharply glanced at Legolas. Never before had he heard a man speaking so evil of his son, of his own flesh and blood, and now it was the ruler of Gondor who became the first. Among his own people no one would ever have dared to do so: Even if one's son had done evil things, he always stayed one's child. But certainly Faramir had done nothing to upset his father, as far as the Dwarf could tell from Gandalf's tales about the younger son of the steward. 'Honest, he said, and trustworthy, and still his father speaks of him as if he would be as far from his heart as if he had never seen Faramir before. Remembering Elrond in Rivendell, there cannot be a greater difference: Even in the mighty Elf, never sharing his feelings with mortals, everyone could perceive the affection for his two sons, Arwen and Aragorn, though he is only adopted.' The Dwarf shook his head ere he turned his attention to Gandalf and Denethor again.

The two were still arguing about the way war could be averted. The wizard seemed to prefer to take over command of the warriors, and Denethor appeared to think that everything that could have been done, had indeed been done. 'They will never come to a conclusion,' Legolas mused while looking around in the great hall and staring at the tall statues. 'We could vanish into thin air right now, and they would not even notice. What are we doing here at all? Gandalf as well could have brought the tidings of Boromir, and we could have snatched some hours of rest ere battle will begin. Hopefully they will stop arguing soon!'

Gandalf almost seemed to have heard the Elf's silent plea, for he suddenly turned and walked towards the high door they had come in through. The others merely stared at him in wonder, even Denethor could not conceal his marvel at the wizard's actions.

"Wait," the steward then surprisingly called, "wait, Mithrandir! I have acted foolishly, come back! You are right, talk is needed!"

An almost mischievous grin curved Gandalf's lips ere he turned again and slowly took his way towards Denethor once more. Parts seemed to be reversed by now, the wizard appeared tall and mighty while the steward looked like a man crouching at his master's call. Passing his comrades, Gandalf gestured them to leave, nothing that they needed to hear would be discussed now. Later the wizard would inform them about the important matters. Gratefully Gimli and the Hobbits bowed, only Legolas lingered for a short moment ere he also left.

The sun was still shining brightly as they had found again their way back to the place in front of the High Court. The guards did not hinder their way as they slowly went down into the sixth circle once more. With passing the gate, the aura of royalty vanished, and the Hobbits at once felt their breath becoming easier. In the dark hall the dense atmosphere had almost left them choking, not that the air itself had not been mild, but all the statues of long perished men and the tokens of high nobility had created a mood in which Merry and Pippin had not felt well.

"Wasn't it queer?" Pippin whispered to Merry while they were following their two comrades into a lower circle where someone would be found who could assign them any housings.

 "Neither in Rivendell nor in Lothlórien I felt so… strange, if you know what I mean."

The other Hobbit merely nodded, but before he could answer, Gimli, who had overheard their conversation, intervened.

"I sensed it either. In Rivendell you and Frodo found great joy in seeing Bilbo, and although Elrond certainly is one of the wisest dwelling in Middle-earth, the air there was less laden with sorrow and grief. And in Lothlórien everything lived in the spirit of Lord Celeborn and High Lady Galadriel. Their greatness truly surpassed everything that we had known before, and with each breath you could feel that nothing evil existed there and that every evil thought had been left beyond the borders. Here, I would say, you see that no king of high lineage has dwelt in this city for a long time, and that the throne has been abandoned."

"But you also have to understand," Legolas objected, "that even in ancient times the kings not only possessed might and glory, but also that often their lives were overshadowed by evil fates and deeds. Isildur was not just the one who cut It from the Unnamed´s hand, he also was the one who did not throw It into the fires of Mount Doom when Elrond had led him there. So it went on and on, and there have ever been kings who were not as good as tales make them. All of these deeds, and the grief and sorrow they caused, are still dwelling in the city and in the hearts of its men. The air is of royalty, as you all have noticed, but underneath it also carries the foul smell of things that were. The return of the rightful king should have remedied it and Elendil's greatness should have been restored."

A/N: I know it was quite short, but I'm sure there's still plenty to criticize… Feel free to do so!