As Gandalf, Alana, and Pippin galloped across the plains and through the dense forest, Alana was happy to take in the sights. The plains were bathed in golden sunlight, the tall grass swaying in the breeze as the horses thundered by. The dense forest was filled with trees stretching towards the sky, casting shadows that danced along the forest floor. The white walls of Minas Tirith stood tall and proud, a beacon of hope in the distance. The air was alive with the scent of fresh grass and blooming wildflowers, the earthy musk of the forest filling their nostrils. As they splashed through the river, the cool mist of the water brushed against their faces, refreshing and invigorating.
Gandalf's voice cut through the sound of hooves pounding the earth. "We have just passed into the realm of Gondor."
Alana's eyes scanned the horizon, taking in the sight of the legendary city that loomed ahead. The towering white walls rose high into the sky, their once majestic exterior now marred with the passage of time and the burden of duty. The city seemed to sag under the weight of its responsibilities, yet there was still a sense of pride and grandeur in its presence. It was a place she had heard much about but had never seen with her own eyes. There was something majestic about it, but also something forlorn, as if it had been weighed down by years of duty and neglect.
As they rode up a hill, the great white city of Minas Tirith came into full view. Its towering structures stood proud against the backdrop of the mountains, but there was an undeniable heaviness in the air.
"Minas Tirith," Gandalf said quietly, reverence and urgency in his tone. "City of Kings."
The three of them galloped through the city streets, their horses' hooves echoing off the stone walls. Pippin glanced around wide-eyed, while Alana, more reserved, kept her focus straight ahead, her thoughts lingering on the responsibility they bore. She had wanted to come to Gondor to check on Boromir's brother, Faramir. The news of Boromir's death would surely weigh heavily on him, and she couldn't shake the feeling that Faramir needed her support.
At the topmost level of the city, they finally halted in front of a massive white hall. Alana and Pippin dismounted, following Gandalf closely as they made their way toward the great doors. They passed the dead white tree, its lifeless branches a stark contrast to the grandeur around them.
Pippin's eyes widened as he spotted the tree. "It's the tree! Gandalf, Gandalf," he whispered urgently, tugging on Gandalf's sleeve.
Gandalf glanced over at the dead tree, his face grim. "Yes, the white tree of Gondor. The tree of the King. But Lord Denethor is not the King. He is a steward only, a caretaker of the throne."
Alana's brow furrowed. She knew the power struggles in Gondor ran deep, and as much as she had come to check on Faramir, the complicated political situation would not make this visit any easier. Aragorn was the rightful King to the throne, she had believed that all her life and from what she had heard from both Faramir and Boromir, Denethor was not the kind of man that should be sitting on the throne, even as a steward.
Gandalf stopped just before they entered the hall and turned to Pippin. "Now listen carefully," he instructed, his tone serious. "Lord Denethor is Boromir's father. To give him news of his beloved son's death would be most unwise. And do not mention Frodo or the Ring. And say nothing of Aragorn either. In fact, it's better if you don't speak at all, Peregrin Took."
Alana placed a reassuring hand on Pippin's shoulder as Gandalf finished his instructions. "Just stay quiet, go it." she whispered to herself and Pippin who looked up at her with a wry smile.
Together, they walked through the massive hall, the grandeur of the place overwhelming, but the atmosphere inside felt cold. They moved forward, approaching the throne where a man sat in a seat at the base of the steps. Lord Denethor.
As they neared, Alana's eyes landed on the broken horn resting in Denethor's lap, its fractured form an unmistakable symbol of Boromir's demise.
Gandalf bowed his head slightly, his voice measured. "Hail Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Lord and Steward of Gondor. I come with tidings in this dark hour and with counsel."
Denethor, hunched over, barely acknowledged Gandalf's greeting as he held up the broken horn. His voice was cold and bitter as he spoke. "Perhaps you come to explain this." His eyes, dark with grief and anger, flicked between Gandalf and Pippin. "Perhaps you have come to tell me why my son is dead."
Alana felt a sharp pang of sorrow at Denethor's words. The weight of Boromir's death was still fresh for her, and she knew it was even more painful for Denethor, even if he hid it behind his bitterness.
The hall seemed to still as Denethor's words hung in the air, and for a moment, the room felt heavy with unspoken grief. Then, as if drawn back to the terrible moment, Pippin broke the silence.
"Boromir died to save us," he said quietly, stepping forward. His voice trembled slightly but was filled with respect. "My kinsman and me. He fell defending us from many foes." With a sense of duty, Pippin approached the throne and knelt before Denethor, offering his loyalty. "I offer you my service, such as it is, in payment of this debt."
"Pippin," Gandalf said softly, but there was no stopping the hobbit's pledge.
Denethor's face remained hard, his eyes fixed on Pippin. "This is my first command to you," he said, his voice full of authority. "How did you escape, and my son did not? So mighty a man as he was."
As Alana stood before Denethor, she could feel the weight of his grief in his icy stare. She glanced at Pippin, who seemed to be struggling for words.
"Boromir took three arrows to the chest. And with each one, he refused to fall. He fought with every last ounce of strength until his final breath," Alana explained, her voice cracking with emotion.
"And who is this woman who dares speak out of turn?" Denethor spat, his eyes narrowing dangerously.
Gandalf's staff came down with a sharp thud on Pippin's shoulder, causing him to flinch and quickly rise from his knees as Alana continued speaking.
"Alana of the Dunedain, my lord." She bowed deeply, hoping to show respect and diffuse the tension.
Denethor's grief was palpable, though he tried to hide it behind a mask of anger. But Alana could see through it all and she felt a pang of sympathy for the grieving father.
"And you knew my son?" he asked, his voice breaking slightly.
"Yes. He was a good man. He had my friendship and my utmost respect," Alana replied honestly, meeting Denethor's gaze with unwavering determination. Gandalf stepped forward and lightly tapped Pippin with his staff, urging him to step aside and give Alana space to speak.
Denethor's eyes bore into Alana, searching for any hint of deceit or empty platitudes. But he found only sincerity and shared sorrow in her gaze. His shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly, the weight of his grief momentarily breaking through his stern facade.
"Boromir was indeed a good man," Denethor said, his voice heavy with emotion. "The finest soldier and captain Gondor has known in many an age. His loss is a grievous blow to us all."
He paused, his fingers tracing the jagged edges of the broken horn. Alana nodded solemnly, feeling the depth of Denethor's pain. She wished she could offer more comfort, but knew that no words could truly ease the anguish of losing a beloved son.
Gandalf seized the moment to steer the conversation back to the matter at hand. "My lord, there will be a time to grieve for Boromir, but it is not now. War is coming. The enemy is on your doorstep. As steward, you are charged with the defense of this city. Where are Gondor's armies? You still have friends. You are not alone in this fight. Send word to Théoden of Rohan. Light the beacons."
Denethor's face twisted with disdain, his grief giving way to anger. "You think you are wise, Mithrandir," he spat. "Yet for all your subtleties, you have not wisdom. Do you think the eyes of the White Tower are blind? I have seen more than you know. With your left hand, you would use me as a shield against Mordor, and with your right, you would seek to supplant me."
His eyes gleamed with malice as he continued, "I know who rides with Théoden of Rohan. Oh yes, word has reached my ears of this Aragorn, son of Arathorn. And I tell you now, I will not bow to this Ranger from the North. Last of a ragged house long bereft of lordship."
Alana's jaw clenched at Denethor's words, but she held her tongue this time, speaking out of turn would do neither her nor Aragorn any favors in that moment. She had expected Denethor to resist, but the intensity of his resentment toward Aragorn and Gandalf still stung. Gandalf, however, remained unmoved by Denethor's fury.
"Authority is not given to you to deny the return of the King, steward," he said coldly.
Denethor shot up from his seat, his face red with anger. "The rule of Gondor is mine and no others!" His voice boomed through the hall.
Pippin glanced between Gandalf and Denethor, his face pale, while Alana remained tense, watching the exchange. She could feel the conflict bubbling beneath the surface. This was only the beginning.
With a sharp turn, Gandalf commanded, "Come!" and began striding out of the hall.
As Gandalf stormed out Alana lingered. "Where is Faramir, my lord?"
Denethor's eyes narrowed at Alana's question. For a moment, she thought he might lash out again, but instead, his shoulders slumped and a flicker of profound sadness crossed his face.
"Faramir in is Osgilliath," he said, his voice heavy with a mixture of grief and bitterness. "No doubt failing to keep it within his grasp." Alana's heart sank at Denethor's words. She knew the heavy burden that now fell upon Faramir's shoulders, not only as the Captain of Gondor but also as the sole remaining son of the Steward. She could only imagine the weight of his father's expectations and the deep sorrow he must be feeling over the loss of his brother.
"If it would please you my lord, I will ride for Osgiliath to provide aid where I can." Alana offered, though she would go whether he approved or not.
Denethor waved his hand dismissively. "Do as you wish, but do not expect much. Faramir has always been a disappointment compared to his brother."
Alana bristled at Denethor's callous words but held her tongue. With a curt bow, she turned and strode out of the hall, her mind already racing with plans to reach Osgiliath and Faramir as swiftly as possible.
As she exited the hall, Gandalf and Pippin were waiting for her. Gandalf's brow was furrowed with concern. She shook her head, telling him not to worry about what had been said. Though that didn't fool the old man.
As Gandalf, Alana, and Pippin walked through the courtyard of Minas Tirith, the weight of the city's slow decay was impossible to ignore. Alana had always heard tales of its grandeur, but seeing it now, she could feel the sense of loss that lingered in every stone. The white tree, lifeless and bare, stood as a silent testament to the fall of Gondor's greatness.
"All had turned to vain ambition," Gandalf muttered, his frustration barely contained. "He would use even his grief as a cloak! A thousand years this city has stood, and now, at the whim of a madman, it will fall! And the white tree, the tree of the King, will never bloom again."
Alana's gaze drifted to the tree, and her heart sank at the sight of its barren branches. Once a symbol of hope and life, it now seemed to embody the very despair that had taken root in Minas Tirith. The city was faltering under Denethor's leadership, and Alana feared for what that meant for its people—especially for Faramir, who carried the weight of his father's neglect.
Pippin, ever curious, glanced at the tree and asked, "Why are they still guarding it?"
"They guard it because they have hope," Gandalf replied, his voice carrying a note of sadness. "A faint and fading hope that one day it will flower. That a king will come, and this city will be as it once was before it fell into decay."
As they walked, Alana couldn't help but feel the weight of Gandalf's words. She had seen the strength in Aragorn, in his quiet determination and his fierce loyalty to those he cared for. He was the rightful heir, but Gondor felt like a city on the edge of collapse, waiting for something—or someone—to save it. And Denethor, in his madness and grief, refused to acknowledge that hope.
"The old wisdom born out of the West was forsaken," Gandalf continued, his voice low and thoughtful. "Kings made tombs more splendid than the houses of the living and counted the old names of their descent dearer than the names of their sons."
Alana's thoughts lingered on those words. It reminded her of how Boromir had struggled to carry the expectations of his father, and now Faramir was burdened with the same weight. Denethor had always been fixated on the past—on the glory of Gondor that once was—and it had blinded him to the needs of the present. She feared that Faramir would be crushed beneath those expectations, especially now that Boromir was gone.
As they reached the end of the parapet, Gandalf's voice continued, filled with sorrow for what had been lost. "Childless lords sat in aged halls musing on heraldry, or in high, cold towers asking questions of the stars. And so the people of Gondor fell into ruin. The line of kings failed. The white tree withered. The rule of Gondor was given over to lesser men."
Alana shared a look with Pippin, the hobbit's wide-eyed curiosity mirroring the sense of dread she felt. They both knew what was coming, but hearing it spoken aloud by Gandalf only made the situation feel more dire.
Pippin stepped closer to the edge of the wall and looked out over the mountains in the distance, where the dark clouds of Mordor churned ominously. His voice was quiet, almost fearful. "Mordor."
Gandalf nodded, his gaze fixed on the same distant darkness. "Yes, there it lies. This city has dwelt ever in the sight of its shadow."
Alana felt a chill run down her spine as she stared at the storm that brewed over the mountains. The darkness wasn't natural—it was something more sinister, more calculated. She knew what it meant. War was coming, and soon.
"A storm is coming," Pippin said, his voice barely above a whisper.
"This is not the weather of the world," Gandalf replied, his voice grave. "This is a device of Sauron's making. A broil of fume he sends ahead of his host. The Orcs of Mordor have no love of daylight, so he covers the face of the sun to ease their passage along the road to war. When the shadow of Mordor reaches this city, it will begin."
Alana clenched her fists, her heart pounding in her chest. She had seen war before, but this was different. This was an ancient evil rising, and the city was woefully unprepared. Her thoughts drifted to Faramir again, hoping he was somewhere safe, but knowing that hope was likely in vain.
Pippin tried to lighten the mood, though his voice trembled slightly. "Well… Minas Tirith… very impressive." He glanced at Gandalf, clearly looking for some reassurance. "So where are we off to next?"
Gandalf shook his head solemnly, his gaze still fixed on the approaching storm. "Oh, it's too late for that, Peregrin. There's no leaving this city."
Alana swallowed hard, the reality of their situation settling in. There was no escape. Minas Tirith was their battleground now, and all they could do was wait for the inevitable storm to hit.
Gandalf's voice broke through her thoughts, firm and resolute. "Help must come to us."
"Gandalf I must go. I ride for Osgiliath." Alana told him before quickly turning away.
"Alana, a word," Gandalf called out, his voice laced with concern. She slowed her pace slightly, allowing the wizard to fall into step beside her. "I understand your desire to aid Faramir, but the road to Osgiliath is perilous. The enemy's forces gather in strength."
Alana turned to face Gandalf, her eyes blazing with determination. "I know the risks, Gandalf. But I cannot stand idle while Faramir faces this darkness alone. He needs support, now more than ever."
Gandalf's expression softened, and he placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Your loyalty and compassion do you credit, Alana. But remember, you are not just a friend to Faramir. You are a valuable ally in the fight against Sauron. We need you here, in Minas Tirith."
Alana shook her head. She would not be swayed. "Kitra knew this was my purpose for coming here. I will not falter now."
Gandalf sighed, recognizing the unwavering resolve in Alana's eyes. He knew there would be no dissuading her from this path. "Very well," he conceded, his voice heavy with concern. "But promise me you will be cautious. The enemy's reach grows longer with each passing day."
Alana nodded, a faint smile touching her lips. "I will, Gandalf. I promise." She clasped the wizard's hand briefly before turning to make her way to the stables.
Alana hastened her steps as she descended the levels of Minas Tirith, her mind set on reaching the stables and riding to Osgiliath with all speed.