Author's note: Well, here's the next part. Thank you again for all the wonderful reviews – you've all been great about letting me know what you think. There is still more to come, but as you can tell, this part helps in tying up loose ends. Many of you have wondered what Denethor's reaction to Aragorn would be, so here it is – and of course, please review!!!
Where the Shadows Lie
A Tale Of The Ring
"In that hour I looked upon Aragorn and thought how great and terrible Lord he might have become in the strength of his will, had he taken the Ring to himself. Not for naught does Mordor fear him."
Chapter Twenty-One: Power
"What will you do, Gandalf?" Aragorn asked softly. The two of them stood alone for the first time in too long, side by side in counsel as they had for many years. Now, though, they were neither in Rivendell or inhabitants of the wild trails of Middle-Earth; they stood now in the land both had spent lifetimes fighting to free, but neither had expected to ever come to of their own free will. Together, they stood, watching a new sun rise over the plains of Mordor in the early hours of the morning.
"The question, Aragorn, is what you will do," the wizard replied softly. "My intentions remain the same…to destroy the Ring." He glanced down at his right hand, and Aragorn found himself following the other's eyes to the One; it glowed brightly in the rising sun, the runes upon it blazing in the shadows. He frowned. Still those letters glowed, despite the time Gandalf had now held it…what did that signify? Did it mean anything? When Frodo had held the Ring, its surface had been unmarred and smooth; even when Boromir had staked his claim, the Ring remained unchanged. Now, though, it glowed for Gandalf.
The heir to
Gondor shrugged, both in response to the other's question and his own internal
questioning. He trusted Gandalf, no
matter what had happened. "What do you
think I should do?"
"I think that you should not
delay much longer, my friend."
Gandalf's deep eyes seemed to pierce directly to his soul. "I know you mean to act sooner or later, but
I would advise you to move quickly."
"I had hoped to wait until the Ring was dealt with first," Aragorn admitted. Despair, though, rose within him even as he spoke those words, for he knew that he could very well loose one of his oldest and best friends to the destruction of the Ring. Gandalf would destroy the Ring; of that he had no doubt. He only worried that the wizard would never survive the task.
"I don't think you have that long." As always, Gandalf seemed to see right down into his heart, seemed to know exactly what words he would not say. But the old man merely smiled slightly before turning serious once more. "The longer you wait, the more hope Denethor gains. He thinks to keep Gondor from you. Without the Ring, it is his only path to power within this world."
Aragorn sighed. He had no liking for the Steward of Gondor, but he could not allow that to color his judgment. "He does love Gondor, Gandalf," he pointed out. "And no matter what his faults, he is the Steward."
"He is also a power-hungry man who has been king in all but name for decades." Gandalf's eyes darkened. "He will do whatever necessary to hold Gondor."
"I find it hard to believe that he will not do his duty." But Aragorn knew he was half-lying to himself. He had met Denethor, and had seen the hatred in his eyes. He had seen the jealousy and the desire…Aragorn had only hoped that Denethor would rise above such petty things as power and fulfill his role as the Steward of Gondor. It appeared, though, that Gandalf did not believe the same.
"Speak to him, my friend, and you will have no doubt."
In the end, Aragorn sought out not Denethor, but Boromir. There were two reasons for this; first of all, he and the steward's elder son had built a bond over along the hard road to victory; second, if there was any who knew what Denethor would do, it was Boromir, though Boromir himself had once claimed Gondor needs no king. Aragorn smiled at that thought. Despite their early differences, he knew the other's opinion had changed. By chance he found that which he sought; unable to locate the steward's son, Aragorn had entered the courtyard of Barad-dûr and found Boromir seated upon a crumbling marble bench that certainly come from the days before Sauron had claimed the tower. Boromir rose, smiling, upon seeing him.
"Aragorn!" he cried.
"Boromir." The two clasped hands and embraced as only brothers in war could do. "I had almost given up hope of finding you."
As the released one another, Boromir arched an eyebrow curiously, then shrugged. "Ah," he commented. "That would be because I was in close conversation with my father."
A lump rose in Aragorn's throat, and for a moment, his heart entertained doubts. Could it be that Denethor had swayed his son back to his old beliefs? Boromir was a good man, true in heart and mind, but the heir of Isildur knew him to be a loyal one. He had been loyal to the Fellowship from the beginning, even though he had not shared their beliefs; he had been loyal to Aragorn, on the road, as the Ranger had proved himself a worthy king; and he had been loyal to Aragorn even in the halls of Barad-dûr, when faced by his father and all Denethor held to be a truth. He had even stood against his father when Denethor had attacked Gandalf's claiming of the Ring…But Aragorn had not lived as long as he had by taking anything for granted.
"You should know, Aragorn, that my father will not support you," Boromir continued suddenly in a soft voice. Their eyes met. "He asked me to stand with him against you. I said no."
"Thank you." Aragorn swallowed hard. Friendship, then, did hold true, and though he felt terrible for ever having doubted Boromir, he was glad he had no cause to.
Boromir barked a short laugh. "Don't thank me until I tell you everything," he snorted. "My father is gathering the opposition against you. He thinks that Gondor needs no king."
"And what do you think?" Aragorn asked gently. He hated to, but he had to ask, and he knew that his friend would understand.
"I'll be honest with you, Aragorn," Boromir replied evenly. "In the beginning, I thought the same. But knowing you, having seen what you are… I'll support you to the end. You are my king."
Emotion nearly overcame the man who would be King; Aragorn had to look away for a long moment before once more offering Boromir his hand. They grasped each other for a moment in a silence that communicated far more than any words could ever dream of, then Aragorn finally spoke once more. "Who stands against me?"
"Not many. Of those in Alliance, I think my father is alone – his search for power has bought him few friends. The elves, of course, support you, as do Théoden and the Rangers, and, obviously, Gandalf. The dwarves will do so simply because Gimli was one of us and Dáin has come to hate my father for misleading him. And the hobbits, except for Frodo, Merry, and Pippin, of course, really only want to go home. Besides, you do not need to worry about the Alliance nearly so much as you need to worry about Gondor itself."
"Will the people part with your father? I know he is well-loved." A lump rose in Aragorn's throat, for he knew that this indeed was where his troubles could lie. His greatest fear had always been to claim his throne and find himself unwanted.
Boromir shook his head. "He was once well-loved. Now, though…our people worry about his desire for power as much as I do. They will follow Faramir and I, if anything. More, probably, for Faramir because I have always been my father's strongest supporter… It took me a long time to see what he is becoming."
"Which way will Faramir go?"
"Have you not noticed?" Boromir smiled. "My brother has more honor than the rest of Middle-Earth combined. He will support you – even if he hates you – because you are King."
"I am not King yet, Boromir." Still, though, Aragorn felt hope rising strongly within himself.
The other shrugged, his grin growing wider. "Then let's change that."
Denethor stood amidst the armies of Gondor, speaking with Beregond and several other soldiers of his guard. The camp was orderly and well kept; although the men housed inside it were impatient to reach their home, they were soldiers and thus willing to wait for the command. Victory, although having seemed a near impossible goal, had been reached – but now their steward hinted at another mission for them, something he claimed to be almost as important as the defeat of Sauron himself. Beregond, for his part, listened carefully as Denethor spoke of a pretender who sought to claim the throne of Gondor, a man unworthy of the heritage of their nation. His heart pounded in his chest as the steward went on, for such a man was indeed a grave threat to Gondor. Suddenly, though, a clear voice carried across the camp, interrupting the steward.
"Lord Denethor of Gondor, I would have words with thee."
Heads snapped around as a man approached, trailed by Faramir and Boromir both. There was a mystic nobility about this man, whose head was held high and shoulders were squared with strength and pride; the light of wisdom seemed to shine in his eyes. Upon his brow shone a simple stone, glowing brightly in the afternoon sunlight. Beregond blinked, looking upon a man true to the blood of men of old, who reminded him so of Faramir, his beloved commander, and yet was more than even the steward's younger son could ever be. Beside him, though, Denethor stiffened in anger at this younger man who could call the steward's name with such imperiousness. Indeed, it took great courage to do so, for Denethor had a terrible temper when roused.
"I have naught to say to you, Ranger," the steward spat.
Ranger? Beregond wondered to himself. Was this man then not Aragorn, the chief of the Rangers of whom Halabard spoke of with such reverence? Why then did Denethor speak with such contempt?
"But I will speak to you, My Lord Steward," the other replied calmly, halting scarcely ten feet away from Denethor. His eyes were sharp but not angry, rather they seemed to see everything and miss nothing. Boromir and Faramir stopped as well, standing to either side of the Ranger, and Beregond sensed a peace between the two brothers that had not existed in far too many years. Whomever this man was, Ranger or not, he had the allegiance of both the steward's sons – and for a moment, Beregond wondered if this was not the man of whom Denethor spoke.
"Speak then, for I have not much time." Denethor spoke airily, as if above this mere Ranger who stood before him, but Beregond saw Boromir's eyes narrow in response to his father's arrogance.
"I come before you, Steward of Gondor, because you have refused my summons," the other replied. "For I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and I come to claim the throne of Gondor."
A gasp escaped Beregond, and he heard his men and all others who were gathered amongst them echo his own reaction. A Ranger came to claim the throne of Gondor…but this man was no pretender! His very carriage showed that he was not; Aragorn was of the blood of old, and one could almost see the elven influence upon his heritage. Nay, this man seemed to be a true king… But then why did Denethor claim he was a pretender?
The Steward's eyes narrowed, but he must have expected to hear this. "Gondor," he said slowly, "has no king.
"Gondor," he continued, "needs no king – especially not a pretender." As he continued speaking, his voice grew harder and his words angrier; the fire burning in Denethor's eyes was impossible to miss. "You, a simple Ranger, have no right to the throne of Gondor, and I dispute your claim!"
Aragorn faced him squarely. "I am Isildur's heir," he replied softly and confidently – somehow, though, his voice seemed dangerous. "You are required by the laws of Gondor to surrender your office to the King upon his return, Steward of Gondor. I demand that you do so now."
"I will not do so." Denethor's head came up even as Beregond gasped once more in response to the steward's defiance. Again, the fire in his eyes seemed to grow, and Beregond thought he saw the echoes of madness there.
"Very well, My Lord," Aragorn said softly. He seemed unsurprised, accepting even, and Beregond wondered why. "I am then forced to relieve you of your office. You are Steward of Gondor no more."
"What? You cannot!"
But Aragorn only met his eyes as Boromir stepped forward to his father from the King's right hand. Before Denethor could react, the Captain of Gondor reached forward and took from his father's surprised grip the white rod that symbolized the Steward's office. Denethor made to speak, or to steal it back, but then Faramir was there, and with a gentle a hand, he restrained his father's arm. His eyes, though, were far from gentle; they seemed to be wrought of the strongest steel, and they booked no argument from Denethor.
Boromir stepped forward and knelt before Aragorn, speaking the words of ritual that none in that camp had ever expected to hear again. "The last Steward of Gondor begs leave to surrender his office," he said clearly, holding up the white rod.
The king accepted the rod, only to return it again, saying, "That office is not ended, and it shall by thine and thy heirs' as long as my line shall last. Do now thy office!"
Boromir rose once more, turning to the assembled soldiers and men. Denethor's face was pitched with fury as his elder son did so, but Faramir still held his father back, and somehow the power of the younger son's eyes prevented the old man from speaking in argument. To all it was now plain the support both Faramir and Boromir had for their king, as was Denethor's desire to keep Gondor from him. Then the Steward of Gondor spoke in a clear voice for all to hear:
"Men of Gondor, hear now the Steward of the Realm!" Boromir cried again the words of ritual. "Behold! One has come to claim the kingship again at last. Here is Aragorn son of Arathorn, chieftain of the Dúnedain of Arnor, bearer of the Star of the North, wielder of the Sword Reforged, victorious in battle, the Elfstone, Elessasr of the line of Valandil, Isildur's son, Elendil's son of Númenor. Shall he be king?"**
The response was immediate; the army cried forth its support for the king without hesitation, and Denethor's face crumbled as he realized that his bid for power had failed.
** Adapted from J.R.R. Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings, page 946
