WHISPERS OF THE RING
A Summons to Gondor
Even in his youth, Boromir of Gondor could hardly have been called a patient man. His heart was quick, a thing of fire, swiftly lit and swiftly put out, unpredictable. Some called his father blind for his faith in his favorite son, and pointed out that not in Boromir the eldest, but in Faramir the youngest, the blood of the Westernesse ran true as it ran in Denethor.
In these later days, one score and ten years of age, the eldest son of Denethor had no tolerance for waiting. Empowered by some new strength the others could not perceive, he took what he would and when he would, and waited for no thing to oppose him.
So it was with hesitance that they approached him with the news that not one, but three emissaries from the lands outside Gondor had come to seek an audience.
He stood with his back to the men who came to inform him of the messengers, gazing far into the east. His hands were clasped behind him, gloved in thick leather even indoors, the right absently stroking the left. What was on his mind, he would have shared with no one, for as the glove concealed the truth of his power from them, so did the weight of that same secret on his heart.
"It does not become a soldier of Gondor to linger in the doorway as if a timid maid," he finally said, and turned towards them, drawing his eyes with reluctance from the things he did not see outside. "Has there been trouble with the halfling, that you should look so drawn and pale?"
But some part of him seemed to perceive that it was not this, even as he spoke the words; inside he told himself it was that same gift his father had possessed, brilliant at grasping a man's heart. That he had never before been so skilled, though Faramir his brother had been, he gave no mind.
"We did not wish to trouble you in your deep thoughts, my Lord."
He clutched his hands together, drawing his fingers against the ring beneath his glove, and repressed a surge of impatience. "It suits me ill that you grovel like dogs. What would you disturb me to say? Speak now!"
One of the men, Beregond, stepped forth and gave a proper salute. "Three parties have come to see you, my Lord: a group of four from the Dwarvish kingdom underneath the Lonely Mountain, whose purpose remains untold; and I hesitate to speak to you of the other two, for I fear their presence here is insulting to my Lord."
Boromir drew his hand over his eyes, and his anger passed. "Speak, Beregond, for I will not hold their insult as your own."
Bravely, the man did meet his master's eyes. "One, a party of Orcs, who have come claiming to serve... a foul power, they say, has come into Gondor. I am afraid for our honor's sake, we slew all but one, that he may deliver his apology to you before we cut off his head."
Boromir laughed, a short bark that left him and was silenced, because the humor vanished as quickly as it had come. "I would reserve that honor for myself! No darkness has befallen Gondor; we are more glorious than ever!"
Beregond nodded in agreement, but there was a hesitance in his eyes that did not escape Boromir's notice. He stirred restlessly, wondering at this.
"And the third party?"
"A lone Elf, my Lord, who's claims may offend more deeply than the orcish nonsense. He says he is the messenger of the heir of Isildur-- of the rightful King, my Lord."
Boromir grew silent once again, and his face clouded over, unreadable to his faithful men. "No heir of Isildur has been known since Arathorn son of Arador was slain. After we have raised Gondor to such glory, one has come to claim the throne?" He twisted the golden ring on his third finger, his eyes darkened. "Such should have been expected, should it have not?"
Beregond dipped his chin in agreement. "Greedy are the hearts of men, the Elves say."
"Even this man?!" Boromir burst forth, before he realized it was not to him that Beregond spoke. "No, all I have done I have done for Gondor, and for the glory of the white tower." And he drew his left hand to his breast as he straightened his posture. "Bring me the Elf, first. I would have some humor in my day. Then the Dwarves, with their mysterious purpose, and finally I will have a taste of blood to satisfy what will surely be a tiresome day."
If the men regarded him with some wariness when they left, he did not notice, taking to the window again. His thoughts consumed him; against his breast the ring he wore burned like a thing of fire, though it would leave no mark.
An heir of Isildur? But surely Arathorn's heir and wife had vanished shortly after his death, slain or worse. And had not the Dunedain long walked far from Gondor, refused the duties bound to them by blood, leaving the faithful Stewards to look after her fair beauty? Was not even the very proof of their bloodright merely the word of that long-vanished Fool, the Grey Pilgrim, Mithrandir? Never had he seen the shattered sword nor the one who had the right to bear it.
No! Long and hard he had fought, after the death of his beloved father; Fear had crept into his heart to see the devastation of the White host after the siege of Mordor. No weakness would he tolerate in Minas Tirith, no enemy would he fear again ever after that, he swore. Not the Wise nor Sauron himself, nor cold drake nor orcish army-- he would make Gondor powerful, and never would he quail in fear, and never would he have to see the suffering as on the Fields of Cormallen.
And why should he fear, he thought to himself! For by good fortune Gondor had found its glory, and he had found his faith in a simple thing, a golden ring. How it gave him strength he did not know, for surely it had performed other feats for the halfling he had-- received it from.
He was seized by a desire to see it naked, upon his finger, and he made to draw off his glove when Beregond behind him cleared his throat.
"My Lord, I present to you Legolas Greenleaf, son of Thranduil once King of Mirkwood who passed over the Sea."
Boromir drew his glove down tightly, and turned to greet the Elf with lofty gaze. "Would that not make you now King under the leaves of that dark wood, Elf?"
Fair was the face that greeted him, beauty in the way that only Elves possessed beauty, and Boromir felt a momentary peace in the presence of the peculiar messenger. Dressed in the greens spun with the hand of Elves, such as no mortal hand might weave, he looked princely indeed; but also worn. There were shadows in his eyes that no beauty might conceal. "I am but the youngest son of Thranduil, though my brothers too have passed over the Sea; yet how many Elves still find joy in Mirkwood? Alas... too few, too few, and none have use for a King, and neither would I have use for a throne." He lifted his chin, and Boromir found himself at witness to the living arrogance of Elves, to the haughtiness that immortality would breed in that Elder race. "I come to you not as fellow ruler of a land in fear, but as a messenger for he who might make all things right again, and reunite the realm of Man."
Inside Boromir grew angry, but he clutched his left fist tight and fought it back with a smile. "Beregond tells me you have come with some foolishness about the rightful King of Men, Isildur's heir, indeed!" He laughed then, and mockingly, and surprised himself by revealing his position so quickly. "Do you know that three men have strode forth with such claims!"
The Elf's face grew dark. "You would do well not to laugh, for he is Isildur's heir without a doubt. Elrond Half-Elven would vouch for him, and Arwen Evenstar also, Saruman the White and Mithrandir, if he were with us still." This last he said with some personal grief evident, but he did not lower his eyes, nor his chin.
"A lot of fools to support a fool!" Boromir exclaimed, but the words tasted like ashes in his mouth. Even with the comfort of the ring on his finger, a doubt lingered. These were powerful names, not thrown about lightly, even by liars and charlatans. "Where is the-sword-that-was-broken reforged? And why does this great King not come riding into the realm of Gondor, a star upon his brow and the Númenoreans of old at his heel?"
"You speak with the pride of a King, Boromir of Gondor, but you should do well to recall that you are but the Steward who upholds his king's estate until his return. Would you shame the long honor of your forefathers?"
The Elf regarded him with level gaze, but Boromir gave no quarter, and did not flinch.
"I would not, but you and your false tongue evidently would, Elf."
Legolas of Mirkwood rose not to the accusation, and neither did he bow his head and take leave. In the fine line of his mouth determination set, and his dark eyes glittered. "I came not to trade insults, Gondor. I came to deliver to you a message. Whether you believe him a King or no, Aragorn son of Arathorn, Elessar Telcontar, sends you a summons."
"If I do not believe him a King, who is he to send me summons?!"
"If you will not take his authority, know that the will of the Wise stands behind him also."
Boromir drew himself up, and the room seemed filled with his displeasure. "These same Wise which led so many of your people and mine to slaughter? Nay, why should Gondor rise to the aid of those who would have her downfall?"
The Elf's anger was betrayed by the flare of his nostrils and the flush across his cheeks. "You are quick to call others fools, Steward of Gondor, but you should consider if the name does not suit you better!"
Boromir's hand flew at once to the hilt of the sword at his hip, but he did not draw it, for he saw that the Elf's hands stayed at his side even in the evidence of aggression. Certainly, as he released the pommel, he questioned his own hostility at once. He glanced at Beregond behind them, who stood stiff and dutiful as if nothing had occurred before him. "Even you, Elf, must understand my mistrust," he said finally. "Were you in my position, presented with a lone creature who's credentials you have no proof of, demanding your fealty-- what would you say, oh Prince of Mirkwood, if that is truly who you are?"
Legolas's jaw tightened, but his expression otherwise remained calm; he reached into his vest and brought out a sealed parchment, still warm from the heat of his body. "I would ask for his proof, and act not with such haste, Gondor. For long and exhausting have I traveled, when none other could be spared, to seek out your aid. Mighty has Gondor grown, but has a shadow grown in her heart also? For it does not require a Ring to fall, Boromir, and many are the recountings of Men who have overstepped what power is truly theirs." With this rebuke, he extended the parchment to Boromir, his defiance unrelenting.
At the mention of a ring, Boromir had paled inside, though he had shown nothing without. Hard pressed he was to steady his hand as he retrieved the summons from the Elf. What wrath he would have felt at the insults dealt slipped away in the fear of discovery.
He drew his hand over the seal on the parchment, and its design made his mouth bitter as if tasting poison. The White Tree, mark of his own great Gondor; and above it, seven stars and a crown, the mark of Elendil of old which no lord had borne for years beyond count. With something akin to fury, he broke the seal with his thumb, and spread the parchment open before him.
'Hail Boromir son of Denethor Steward of Gondor!
Aragorn son of Arathorn, Elessar, and the council of the Wise send this humble request to Gondor for aid in the matter of the search for the One Ring of Sauron, once believed lost from Middle-Earth for all time; and for what news of the hobbit Bilbo Baggins of Bag-End, whose whereabouts were last in the realm of Gondor.
The Wise wish to convene a council in Rivendell at which to address the concern of the lost Ring, and requests the presence of Gondor as soon as deemed possible, for this is a matter of great urgency.'
As his eyes consumed the text, they narrowed, and when he was finished he put it aside harshly. Though the words seemed true, suspicion welled within him. "How am I to know this is no trap, to lure my best men to a lethal fate?"
"Truly, Gondor! What good would such an action prove?"
Boromir quieted then, for though he could not quell the suspicion and anger that raged inside of him, its source eluded him also. Here was a man, claiming the throne of Gondor, summoning the presence of his people as if they were already sworn his subjects, pretending the authority of the Wise! Were that this man before him, so that he might dispel his Kingly notions!
But in the face of such summons, were they to be believed, how could he not send some messenger? Were that his brother not so grievously hurt; Faramir he might trust to spy out the enemy or confirm that the things spoken were true. The guard Beregond perhaps? But Boromir recalled the hesitation in the man's eyes earlier, and his faith was shaken.
And certainly he would allow no party to search his borders without a clearer knowledge of their intent and true motive; and none would be permitted in Minas Tirith, should they discover his secret there.
"This is the longest you have deliberated your words, Gondor," Legolas said finally, when he made no response. It seemed, even the patience of the Elf was worn short in these tense days. "It seems you have wisdom within you still."
Boromir took the double-edged flattery with a smile, and drew his left hand to his breast. "I still doubt, and this proof you show me is easily forged. I would require more assurance before I permit any party into my borders, or send my trusted men to your council."
He expected more stubbornness, but instead the Elf relented. "Aragorn suspected you might resist, Steward of Gondor; he is awaiting your presence in a caravan outside the city." He stepped aside, as if to lead the way, but Boromir would have no part of it.
"Let him come to me," he said assuredly. "I still have no reason to believe him the true King of Gondor, and no reason to come to his beck and call, or worse, to a trap that might be laid for a successful steward by unseemly men."
For a moment, Boromir thought that the Elf might rebuke him again, his straight brows coming together sharply; but Legolas of Mirkwood smoothed himself out like a cat, and honored him with a proper bow as one honorary ruler should give to another. "I shall bring your request to him, and your reasons also, and return to you 'ere the end of the day if he so wishes."
Without further word, Legolas dismissed himself, and was escorted out by Beregond. The Steward of Gondor, however, did not watch the Elf leave, for already he had turned himself back to the window with the eastern view.