The Return of the Ring

Chapter three – A Shadow Unveiled

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Frodo awoke with a start. His skin felt cold and clammy; silvery light shone through the uncovered windows and onto his ruffled blankets. Shadows, grey and ghostly, were thrown about the room: onto the floor, against the walls, upon the decorated ceiling. The door of the guest bedroom was ajar, and a cool draft seemed to blow into the room from the stone passage beyond, and the hobbit seemed to shiver with a sudden coldness. He sat up in his bed and wrapped his arms round him for comfort, and he turned his attention to the windows again. It was the third night of his stay at Minas Tirith.

It was mid-night, and the sky was as dark as ebony ink spilled across white satin now, for the moon had vanished behind inky clouds. Silent it was; so changed from the daytime, when the sounds of the street flowed through the castle on the wind, and the sun glittered over the City with the warmth of spring. Frodo looked away from the windows, and turned his gaze to the stone floor, and then, for some strange feeling inside of him, to the door again.

To him, it seemed strange that it should be open at all; he checked it every night before he went to sleep to see that it was firmly closed. The draft blowing into the room was kept to a minimum; something so small could never have opened a door so heavy. The hobbit thought of the thing he had seen at the River: the thing that had crept back into the bushes so softly, with the two round eyes like lamps. Could it be that it had followed him here, to Minas Tirith, with the two men? The clouds must have shifted outside: silvery moonlight flooded into the room again, and shone upon the place like dazzling lights. Frodo brought himself out of his thoughts; he tilted his head to a different angle to see beyond the door.

And suddenly a shadow was there, framed against the corridor's wall, frozen, a slender hand clutching what appeared to be a smooth orb. A long arm was reaching out towards the entrance of the room, but now it did not move; it was motionless, transparent and dark. Then, with the swiftness of a cat in pursuit of prey, the shadow fled – and was gone.

But no sound of hurried footsteps came and died away; no cloak rustled against the wall. It was a heavy deafness upon the hobbit's ears. All was still and silent.

What else was there to do? Frodo's feet touched the floor with as much sound as a feather would have done, and lightly he sprang away from his bed, and towards the doorway. He looked out into the corridor, and he thought whether he was dreaming or not. Now there was no sign of a creature, or a transparent shadow clutching a smooth orb, either way he looked. But, even so, it would be impossible to go back to sleep now, when his mind lingered only on what he had seen only seconds ago.

He took a quick glance back to the windows behind him; the moon was about to vanish behind another cloud, and soon, all light that flooded onto him now would be gone - but that did not trouble him. The halfling took a step into the passageway and turned left: he felt sure the shadow had fled that way.

At first, he saw nothing ahead of him, and he could feel the cold stone touch his feet. It seemed to awaken him even more; no longer did everything seem so dream-like. Then, as if a dark shadow had come and gone, he could see the outline of the continuing corridor, and this pleased him, and his pace began to increase. Then, he turned a corner, and –

Another passage stood before him, silent, still: a twin of the one he had just been walking down. But Frodo felt he was going the right way, and so, he took a step forwards into the lighter, airier corridor, where he hoped to find the 'intruder'. And he walked on, and turned into another passage soon after, and then another…

How long he walked, he did not know. His path led him down many corridors, some familiar, some not: sometimes he felt he had passed things already. An hour must have gone by before he came to several slumbering guards, and a large set of doors. Thinking he had not yet seen these, Frodo pulled one of them open, and suddenly a cool breeze blew in his face and through his tangled hair.

He looked out onto the empty courtyard; the sky above was filled with moonlight, and the White Tree in front glimmered, its spring buds preparing to unfold. The sweet scent of flowers seemed to drift up from the streets below, and the mountains in the distance rose up into the night, tall and dark.

Suddenly, one of the guards behind Frodo flinched and muttered something in his sleep, and the halfling stepped out into the open air and closed the door quietly, wondering what would become of him if caught roaming the city at such a time. He shook his head firmly: nothing would become of him, of course – he was only helping the people of Minas Tirith by going after an intruder. Satisfied, and almost forgetting his purpose of his expedition, he looked away from the mountains and went to turn back to the doors, but what was this?

The halfling immediately turned his attention back to the Tree: and no, his eyes had not deceived him. What he had seen very vaguely, like a black image against the corner of his mind, was most definitely there.

Behind the great plant was a figure of a man, upright and tall, and he must have moved very quickly and caught Frodo's interest – a deep shallowly quick breath was coming from him, as if he had been running at a very quick pace. Two keen eyes glittered out at him from behind the boughs, and dark hair fell in strands before a noble, though pale, face. A cloak he wore: it was stained with long travel. Then suddenly the figure turned away, and stared up at the inky sky, a dog satisfied after sniffing mysterious guests.

The hobbit felt some curious feeling flood over him, and he took a step towards the man, who now seemed to wait for his approach. No word was spoken between them: no sound of breathing echoed throughout the courtyard. They were as quiet as the night itself: as still as the black mountains that loomed up in the East and West, but both as fearful of each other as the dreams of what was.

Frodo halted. He stood inches away from the figure, and they stood side-by-side, motionless, their gazes set on the Plains before them. The halfling moved his hand up to his pocket and traced the outline of the Ring he carried, his thoughts suddenly on the land within Mordor, with the mountain of ash and flame.

"Why did you come here?" the voice by his side broke the silence like rock through ice. The halfling looked to the man who had spoken, only to see that he was looking straight at him, a strange, familiar glitter encased within those grey eyes. No expression was on his face: no curiosity. It was as if he had said nothing at all.

"I do not know," replied Frodo, and he turned away quickly to the mountains in the East. He put his hand to his pocket and clutched the Ring within, realising that him replying was a mistake. But the man next to him just looked to the mountains, also, and said nothing.

It was only then, that the halfling was gazing out into the darkness of the East, that he saw it: a large cloud, black, but with a dark red colour to it, almost invisible to the untrained eye. Suddenly the man spoke:

"Should a hobbit be wandering the City at such a late hour?" he asked, and his tone was changed; it was stern.

"I came here for some air," replied Frodo.

"Were you not tired?" And the man looked at his smaller companion, and a slight smile played across his lips. "I saw you at the Feasting Hall yesterday: you looked tired then, and you told the King himself that you were hoping to sleep early. Why were you roused in the middle of the night?"

"I do not know what you mean."

The stranger laughed quietly, almost sneeringly, the sound echoing upon the empty plains. It was then that he seemed to flinch slightly, and moved very quickly, as if trying to hide something within the folds of his robes.

"You awoke to find your door open, didn't you? And then you decided to climb out of your bed and look for whoever may have been lurking in the corridors. You were chasing a man who has right to roam the halls at his will, Frodo. I do not believe he found being followed extremely entertaining."

And then, the halfling understood.

"It was you?"

"Does that seem surprising to you? He meant no harm; but you have always been wary of him. I do not blame you." He looked away from Frodo, and began humming to himself quietly. The hobbit stared at him, many thoughts penetrating his mind.

"Who are you?" he asked, and the man looked back and him, and smiled. "How is it you know my name?"

"Did Lord Aragorn not say who you were, three days ago? Yes, it was I with him on that day: the companion of old. Do not fear. He knows me well, and I know him well…" his voice seemed to trail off, echoing, holding no feeling or expression. He looked away from his companion and searched the plains with his eyes. Then he whispered something to himself, but it was too muffled for Frodo to hear. "But as for me, does my name play a role in your life? I think not. Silence yourself!"

The hobbit stared at him, bewildered. His companion looked back at him, and his eyes now held a slight worry to them.

"My apologies for startling you." And then he fell silent again for a while, and seemed to mutter something under his breath quietly. He turned back to the halfling. "Where is your friend, Samwise? It is not often that we should see one without the other. Have you had a brawl?" Something in his expression was familiar, but to Frodo his words had sparked a forgotten memory of someone very dear to him: his gardener.

"Sam and I," he began slowly, looking away with a frown, the very name sounding unknown under his tongue, "have not spoken for many a year, I am told."

The stranger nodded vaguely, and he stared down at his companion with a look of pity. Then he turned his gaze to the doors, and just as he was about to walk away, the halfling spoke again:

"It seems strange that you should know of him, when he was almost forgotten to me."

The man turned back to him. "And it is strange that I should know so much about you, Frodo, and your friend." He seemed to ponder over something for a second. "And, that skulking creature of yours."

Frodo's eyes widened.

"How do you know of him?" he asked, his voice suddenly seeming loud in the early morning air. "What…what do you know of him?"

The figure gave a curious, almost comforting smile, and again he went to walk away, as if his job with the hobbit had finished. But Frodo was prepared the second time. Quickly he grabbed the brown sleeve of the cloak and pulled the man towards him, and as he was wheeled around, the stranger's hood fell back.

And the hobbit looked upon the stranger that had plagued his mind for the last three days: he saw the pale face, the thin lips, the glittering eyes and the long dark hair that fell over his shoulders: here was the man who had changed his fortunes in the War of the Ring; the man who everyone had presumed dead. Here was Faramir, Prince of Ithillien and former Captain of Gondor.

"Well…?" he said; no anger was in his eyes, no expression upon his ashen face. "Has your curiosity been satisfied now?"

Slowly Frodo backed away, but a strange feeling held him there. Faramir continued, though a soothing tone had suddenly come to his voice.

"And you wondered how I knew so much about Samwise, and that skulking creature who stole my fish?" He laughed.

"But they said you were dead: they thought you were dead."

"And I thought you had gone into the West, but I do not question you. In fact, I ask nothing, and I trust you will do the same. Perhaps when the time comes, I will explain all to you; but now is not the time, nor the place."

"But if it was you I saw when those men brought me here, surely the King would know who you are?"

"Yes; he knows," said Faramir. "He has known since I arrived here myself, or how could I have brought tidings to him? But you and him are the only two with that knowledge. I will not risk everything I have left."

"Then I will comfort my worries," replied Frodo, and thoughts played on his mind: thoughts of their last meeting in Minas Tirith, and of his strange, recent past. He stared up at the man before him, and, suddenly, whether it was by a trick of the light or shadow, he realised how young he looked. Were there not small lines engraved in the Captain's skin last time, or an ageing look to his face? If so, they were not there now.

"Frodo I must leave," came his companion's voice, suddenly soothing and hushed in the early morning air. "I have business to attend to, and for you, it is time for sleeping. I would call you almost foolish for wandering the corridors this late. But, my thoughts are my own, and any punishment brought upon you is not for me to decide. I shall see you again tomorrow, but all I say to you now is: sleep well!" He placed a hand on his friend's shoulder, and smiled down at him.

"Thank you, Lord Faramir!" said the halfling, feeling now at peace with the world around him. He had forgotten where he was for half a moment. "And I will ask no questions."

"Farewell!"

And then the man smiled and turned away, but as he did so it seemed the hidden thing in his arms slipped, and he jolted forwards suddenly to catch it. For a second Frodo saw a glimpse what he thought to be a small black globe, but the darkness of the night made it hard to see: and not three seconds later had the Captain recovered the object and hidden it again in the folds of his cloak. Pausing for a second, but without turning back, he strode away and vanished into the dismal shadows of early morning, no sound following his footsteps.

By some strange fortune, Frodo had little trouble in finding the guest bedroom again, but he was weary, and fell into a sleep as soon as his head had touched the pillow. He had a curious dream; he was at home in Bag End, and he was looking out into his garden, which was littered with weeds and overgrown. He was going to complain to someone: a gardener, perhaps – yes, that was it. He needed his gardener, but where was he?

But suddenly he was aware of something outside of his dream; he could hear someone breathing over his head; he could feel something pull lightly at his nightclothes. The halfling awoke. It was dark, but there was a dim grey filtering through the windows: the first light of dawn. And in that light Frodo saw what appeared to be the end of a cloak disappear through the doorway and into the passageway outside: the door was open again. He remembered no more.

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