A note to my readers: As always, I am extremely gratified that you are all enjoying the story and eager for the next chapter. And for the record, I am quite committed to continuing it. However, for those of you expressing impatience that I'm updating too slowly, please keep a few things in mind. First of all, it takes me much, much longer to write a chapter than it does for you to read it. Secondly, this is something I do for enjoyment, when I have time not taken up with work or family life. Lastly, though I dearly love reviews, I find those saying why they like a chapter (or even how it could be improved) much more motivating than those simply exhorting me to update faster. So please, a little patience!
Hope you all enjoy the new chapter!
Chapter 22
Morloth and Pippin were known to the gate guards and passed through to the fifth level without comment, but as they ran through the darkness both became aware that something had changed. Over the days of the siege everyone in the city had become accustomed to the noise of the catapults and the roar of the battle below, which could be heard dimly even on the highest levels. Now they had fallen silent, and the only thing that could be heard was an odd, hollow boom that reverberated through the city.
"It's…it's so quiet," Pippin murmured to his companion.
"I know," Morloth replied, equally bewildered. "And what is that sound?"
"Something has happened, that's for certain," Pippin commented. "Let's ask at the next guard station."
They did just that as they passed through the gate to the fourth level. The guard explained grimly, "That sound? It's the enemy's ram—they're trying to batter down the main gate."
Morloth gasped in alarm, "But the gate will hold, won't it?"
The guard shrugged, "We all pray so, my lady. If it doesn't…" he shook his head, "it could go badly for us."
Morloth and Pippin exchanged a worried look before continuing their journey. They were nearing Boromir's command post when the final stroke fell, accompanied by the ear-piercing shriek of the Witch-King. But moments later, a happy cry went up from the defenders, and Boromir turned to greet them with a light in his eyes and a broad smile on his face.
"Morloth, Pippin, they have come! Rohan has come!" he exclaimed. Overcome by the joy of the moment he pulled Morloth into his arms and kissed her soundly in full view of the men nearby.
A soldier cried, "Huzzah for the Captain and his Lady!" and the cheers around them redoubled in response.
Boromir released her, still grinning, and waved them to silence, "Thank you all, but our work is not yet done. Let us finish this so we may all soon be reunited with our loved ones."
When he glanced back at the newcomers he sobered immediately, it was quite clear from their expressions that something was amiss. "What is it, what is wrong? Is it Faramir?" he asked worriedly.
"Yes," Morloth replied heavily, hating to cause him pain at such a joyful moment despite the urgency of their errand. "His condition has not changed, but your father sent men to remove him from the Houses of Healing. Now he has taken Faramir to the Rath Dínen, and he…he has gone mad, Boromir! He plans to burn himself and Faramir!"
Boromir paled, his face blank with shock, "What?! Burn him? How can that be?"
"I…I am sorry, Boromir," Morloth sobbed. "I stepped away from the ward to speak to the Warden…I should have been there to stop them from taking him!"
"No!" Boromir replied, his voice like a whip crack. "You will not blame yourself for this. Do you think I expect you to stand up to armed men? You could have been injured or killed!"
"That's right, Morloth," Pippin added. "After all, the Steward threatened to burn you himself after he caught you in the tomb. He might have, too, if we hadn't gotten away."
Morloth thought Boromir could not look any more staggered after the initial news of his father's madness, but she was wrong. He met her eyes and demanded, "This is true?"
Her heart in her throat, she managed a bare nod and Boromir shuddered and caught her hand in an iron grip. "How many men does my father have with him?" he asked, glancing from Morloth to Pippin.
"Six, there were six, I think," Pippin said after a moment's consideration.
Morloth nodded in agreement, "That's right. He sent two away to get wood and oil, but they may have returned by now."
Boromir shook his head, his face set and grim. Then he turned and motioned to two mounted couriers that were stationed nearby so he could send messages to the battlefield when necessary.
"Here!" he called to them, "I need you both. You," he ordered, pointing to the first, "will take this halfling down to the gate and deliver him to Mithrandir without fail. Make haste! Lives depend on it. Pippin, tell Gandalf that we are going ahead to the Stewards' tomb."
Pippin answered with a determined nod and soon he and the courier were galloping toward the second level.
Boromir turned to the other courier, saying, "I am taking your mount, but I have a task for you as well. Find Prince Imrahil and tell him that I have been called away on an emergency and he is to command the defenses until I return. Is that clear?"
"Yes, of course, my Lord," the courier murmured, eyes wide.
Finally, Boromir addressed Beregond, who was standing nearby and watching the proceedings with growing alarm. "Beregond," he said in an undertone, "my father has gone mad and threatens to harm Faramir."
"My…my lord, what will you do?" the guardsman asked in horror. "What can I do to help?"
"They are in the Stewards' tomb in the Rath Dínen, I am going there now with all speed. I need you to find a dozen men that you can trust absolutely; they may be required to fight my father's guardsmen. Gather them and follow us as quickly as possible. Can I rely on you for this?"
Beregond squared his shoulders and met Boromir's eyes before replying, "Yes my lord, it will be done."
Boromir mounted the horse and held out a hand to Morloth, "You, my lady, are with me. I pray there will still be a patient for you to tend when we arrive, and besides, at the moment I don't feel inclined to let you out of my sight."
"I am glad to hear that," Morloth replied dryly, "since I would surely have something to say if you tried to leave me behind."
She was seated securely in front of him, and they were soon riding through the pre-dawn gloom, the horse's hooves ringing on the flagstones. Boromir's arm tightened around Morloth's waist and he murmured, "I saw your face when Pippin said that Father had threatened you. You weren't planning to tell me, were you?"
Morloth sighed, "I knew how it would hurt you to hear of your father's madness, and that he might harm Faramir. I…I did not want to cause you more pain, or force you to choose between your father and me."
He let out a pained chuckle, "Dear lady, unless a day comes when you are threatening to burn him, that choice has already been made. Don't mistake me, I still love my father and will save him if I can, but sacrificing you to do so is not an option I could ever contemplate. Besides," he added, his voice hardening, "if he were planning to kill innocent strangers rather than the people I love it would still be my duty to stop him, with deadly force if need be. His madness can no longer be ignored or tolerated as eccentricity. With these actions he has forfeited the right to rule the people of Gondor."
Morloth shivered at the finality in his words, and leaned closer to draw comfort from his warmth.
When they arrived at the Rath Dínen gate, they found the gatekeeper back at his post, but looking a little worse for wear. Recognizing Morloth from their earlier encounter, he growled, "You! You'll not be getting past me again!" before realizing who exactly was accompanying her.
"I assume you'll not question my right to enter here," Boromir told him evenly, though the look in his eyes was sufficient to make the man blanch and give ground.
"Of…of course not, my lord," the man stammered, hastening to open the gate for them.
"Good," Boromir said curtly. "Others will be arriving shortly; Mithrandir and a group of guardsmen. They are coming by my order and are to be admitted with no delay. Is that clear?"
"Yes, my lord," the gatekeeper answered quickly.
As they rode past, Morloth leaned down and told the gatekeeper, "Sorry about your head, we were in a hurry. Come see me at the Houses of Healing if it still hurts tomorrow."
"Morloth," Boromir murmured, his voice heavy with exasperation and amusement, "how am I to properly terrorize my men if you insist on being so solicitous?"
"I think he deserves at least a little sympathy," Morloth noted indignantly, "after all, he was just doing his job, although he was ruder than necessary about it."
"I know," Boromir assured her, "and have no fear; he won't be punished for his actions. I simply wanted to be certain that he wouldn't attempt to hinder Gandalf or Beregond."
The courtyard was empty, the horse's hooves clattering noisily on the stone as they neared the crypt Morloth and Pippin had found earlier. They dismounted at the crypt entrance, and Boromir turned to Morloth, his face grave. "I know not what to expect inside, Morloth. I don't think my father will order his men to attack us on sight, nor do I expect them to be eager to cross swords with me, but…" he paused, shaking his head uncertainly. "I will free Faramir if possible, but we may have to play for time until the others arrive."
He met her eyes, "You may come with me, however, you must stay behind me and out of reach of anyone who might wish you harm, including my father. I know your first instinct is to run to the aid of someone ill or injured, but putting yourself in their hands again will only make matters worse. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Boromir, I understand," she replied in a small voice, remembering with chagrin her impetuous actions of earlier that night.
"Good," he smiled and kissed her lightly before unsheathing his sword and cautiously entering the crypt. As they passed down the corridor to the main room, Morloth sighed with relief; she could hear voices, but no heat or smoke to indicate that a fire had been lit inside.
They reached the end of the corridor and Morloth noted immediately that Faramir's stretcher was not where it had been. "Boromir," she whispered, indicating a spot along the side wall, "they moved Faramir, he was just there before."
Boromir nodded and stepped into the room, his sword still drawn but held point down to appear less openly hostile. "Father," he called, "I would speak with you!"
The men nearest to them parted, standing aside for Denethor to step into view. "So you have come, my son," the Steward replied calmly, although the look in his eyes made Morloth shiver. "I suppose I should have expected as much after your whore and the halfling spy escaped."
She felt Boromir stiffen, but he gave no other acknowledgement of the gibe. "Why did you bring my brother here, Father? We agreed that he was to stay in the Houses of Healing. He is fevered and needs a healer's care, not to lie in a comfortless stone tomb."
Denethor smiled, his eyes wild, "Yes, fevered. He is burning, already burning!" Boromir and Morloth were finally close enough to see where Faramir was lying, on a stone bier at the back of the room behind the Steward. The bier was piled high with tinder and soaked with oil, as were Faramir's clothes and bedding. "And why should he not, when we have lost and all is in vain? We shall go to death side by side, burning like the kings of old!"
Morloth gasped, torn between relief that he appeared unharmed and the realization that it would take a mere spark from one of the torches that ringed the room to set the wood alight.
Boromir growled and strode forward, "I will not leave my brother in this place, prey to your madness!"
"You cannot thwart me," Denethor sneered, drawing a sword that until then had been concealed beneath his robe. "You do not command here, as much as you might wish to. Seize them!" he cried, and his men began advancing hesitantly, each unwilling to be the first to face Boromir's blade.
"Perhaps he should command here, if your will has turned to madness and evil," a new voice rang out, and Morloth glanced behind her to see that Gandalf and Pippin had entered the crypt.
With an inarticulate cry of rage the Steward rushed forward, sword held high, as if intending to strike at the wizard. Gandalf stepped up to meet him, and the cloak of white light surrounding him flared and expanded as he advanced. He raised his hand and spoke a word of command. At his gesture, Denethor's sword went flying from his grip to land in a dark corner of the room.
The Steward and his men stepped back in fear and amazement and made no move to stop the wizard as he swept by them to reach Faramir's bier. Gandalf gathered up the sick man with seemingly little effort and started toward the crypt exit as Faramir moaned and stirred restlessly in his arms.
"Do not take my son from me!" Denethor pleaded, "He needs me!"
"What he needs," Gandalf replied curtly, "is a healer's care. In the meantime, your elder son has been doing his duty—and yours—while you tarry here, seeking your own death as well as Faramir's. Go out now into the City and meet the enemy," Gandalf told him urgently. "It may be that you will find your death there, but at least you will die with honor, your duty fulfilled."
"Father, listen to him, you can still lead us to victory!" Boromir added entreatingly. "There is no reason to despair; Rohan has come, and the spirit of your people remains unbroken!"
All for naught as Denethor let out a low chuckle that had no hint of merriment in it. "Witless fools, the both of you!" he said contemptuously. "Did you think that the eyes of the White Tower are blind?" He reached down and pulled a smooth, round object from an inner pocket of his robe, and gazed at it lovingly as he held it aloft, murmuring, "I have seen more than you can comprehend!"
Morloth heard Pippin gasp in alarm, and at her side Boromir tensed and whispered, "So it is true," his voice heavy with dismay.
Almost against her will her eyes were drawn to the gleaming black orb, and as she watched fiery light flared in its core. Remembering Gandlaf's warning, she wrenched her eyes away, her heart racing at the thought of who might be watching them through the palantír.
"With this, I see very clearly," Denethor said in a hard voice, "I know what you intend; to lure me to an ignominious death, all the while planning to supplant me with that Ranger, the ragged upstart from the North." He looked up, his eyes blazing, "I say thee, nay, I will not bow one to such as he, the last of a debased and dying lineage!"
"You name us fools," Gandalf replied, shaking his head sadly, "but you accept the visions granted to you through the palantír as truth? There is an unseen hand that guides you, one that desires nothing less than the complete destruction of Gondor and its people. You see the images Sauron wishes you to see—reason enough to distrust them!"
"I have seen all I need to, sufficient to know that against the power in the East there can be no victory. No matter that the horse lords have come! Even now a fleet with black sails wafts up the Anduin, sealing Gondor's fate. You have made defeat certain by sending away the one tool powerful enough to save us. Your wisdom has doomed us!" Denethor sneered.
"Father, I once felt as you do," Boromir said earnestly, "but if there is one lesson the Ring has taught me, it is that you cannot hope to defeat the Enemy by becoming the Enemy." He straightened, meeting Denethor's eyes calmly. "I do not believe there is no hope, but if you speak truly, so be it. We will—Gondor will—die as it has lived, defying the Enemy to the end. Please, Father, for the sake of the love you once felt for me," he pleaded, "take up your duties again—join me on the walls to show the people of Gondor that their Steward stands with them in this dark hour."
For a moment, Denethor's face softened and his shoulders slumped; it seemed that his son was reaching him. Then his gaze fell on the palantír still clasped in his hand and a shudder ran through his body. When the Steward looked up, his eyes were blazing with a fell light, and he backed away from them as if in fear or revulsion.
"Nay!" he cried, clutching the gleaming orb to his chest. "Once you were my loyal son, now you are nothing more than the wizard's puppet. I will not be deceived again!" Denethor moved toward the back of the tomb, near the bier where Faramir had been lying. "You may have stolen Faramir from me, but the manner of my own death is still mine to decide!" he declared, darting toward one of the torches that ringed the room.
Understanding immediately his father's intention, Boromir exclaimed, "Father, no!" and launched himself at the mad Steward. Denethor was surprisingly agile; he grabbed a nearby torch and was just steps away from the pile of oil-soaked wood when his son reached him. With no time for subtlety, Boromir simply tackled his father and pulled him to the stone floor before he could set the wood alight. The palantír that Denethor had been holding crashed to the floor in a shower of sparks and rolled away from the struggling men. The room erupted in confusion; some of the Steward's guardsmen stood by uncertainly watching the events unfold, while others ran forward to aid their master. Instinctively, Morloth positioned herself near Faramir to insure that he was not harmed in chaos.
Fortunately Gandalf's presence—and a few well-placed blows from his staff—prevented the guardsmen from intercepting Boromir. "Get the torch, Pippin!" Gandalf cried. "And for Eru's sake make certain no one touches the palantír!" Pippin sprang into action, nimbly weaving his way through the throng to kick the torch from the Steward's hand. It struck the stone wall of the tomb and went out while Pippin stationed himself protectively near the fallen seeing-stone. Meanwhile, hampered both by his injury and reluctance to use his full strength against his father, Boromir struggled to subdue the Steward. Morloth could see that Gandalf was similarly unwilling to do serious harm to the guardsmen, using his staff rather than his sword and keeping them at bay with only as much force as necessary.
Boromir and his friends were badly outnumbered, and Morloth watched in consternation, not at all certain they would prevail. So it was a considerable relief when Beregond and the men he had gathered began pouring into the already crowded tomb.