To the south, beyond the mountains and the valleys, there lay the land of Gondor as a swathe upon the earth, and at its head, Minas Tirith, the city of the White Tower. It was here that the Lord Denethor stood in his guardianship, between the west that was the Sea, and the east that was the Nameless, and always watching, waiting, with dark and hooded eyes.
It was not a time when the weak were spared their fate by the hand of pity, or when the virtuous were rewarded with the riches that were their due. Status brought wealth, fear brought obedience, and cruelty brought power. Such was the way of things.
Now it so happened that this Denethor had a son, named Boromir, and the Captain General of his army. Boromir was in truth the pride of the old steward, as strong and as forward a youth as the wily father could ever hope to succeed him on the glittering seat of Minas Tirith, a man who would stretch the arm of Gondor beyond its widening borders. And the people praised him, for such was he: tall and handsome, his dark hair caught up in the wind as he rode, his commanding voice spurring the troops onwards, and then all enemies before him would fear the mighty sweep of his sword.
And Boromir felt that such praise was only his due. His manner was proud and lordly, for many hundreds of men obeyed his every decree, and his leadership ws never called into question. There was another son, the gentle Faramir, much beloved by his brother, but he could never supplant Boromir's place in the hearts of the people, nor in the heart of his father.
Now it can be that the weight of power on a young man's shoulders turns his mind to seek the pleasures of life, and so it was with Boromir. In the city of Minas Tirith, long fallen into a decadent excess, such temptations were everywhere for a wealthy and headstrong young noble. And so Denethor's son indulged in drinking all night with his fellows, in gambling away his gold, and taking those women that pleased him to his bed. But the nights he lay down with young soldiers and serving boys he kept close guarded, for this was a weakness that might invite censure from the people of Gondor, the very people who looked upon him as a hero.
Faramir feared something of his brother's faults, but the hot-tempered Boromir would have nothing of his interference, and angrily rebuked any attempt at reasoning. It was shame that led to such resentment, Faramir knew, and this saddened him all the more, for he had sometimes glimpsed a pain in his brother's eyes that spoke of the guilt festering in his heart. But any such feelings were pushed to the bottom of Boromir's mind, while there were banquets to attend and lovers to embrace. And so it might have carried on, had something not occurred to change his life forever.
One hazy autumn evening, the Lord Boromir was abroad in the countryside of Gondor, as was his wont. Whatever his failings, he had a child-like fondness for his birthplace that lent to him a true pleasure in strolling its byways and in feeling its fresh breeze on his face. As the light began to fail, there came upon him an old man on horseback, and cloaked all in the garb of a traveller. His face was shadowed by a wide brimmed hat. On seeing the young nobleman, the rider halted to call to him:
"Ah! Now, tell me boy, how far to the White Tower?"
Boromir turned to him.
"And what business might you have there, stranger?"
"My business is my own," replied the rider gruffly. "I wish only to know whether I may reach there before nightfall."
Boromir laughed. "I return there myself, sir. Perhaps if you follow me, you will come quicker to the end of your journey?"
The man lifted off his hat, as if to look at Boromir's face the closer, and in doing so he revealed a pair of bushy eyebrows over two very bright eyes.
"You go there yourself, you say? You are not, then – but yes – you are Boromir, son of Denethor?"
"I am."
The stranger did not bow or apologise for his earlier ignorance, as Boromir perhaps supposed he would. Instead, he lifted his eyebrows and muttered "How they do grow", before replacing his hat and taking up the reins.
"Come then, my lord. I shall follow." And with these words they set off.
It was dark as the two entered the last wall of the city and came to the great hall to stand before Denethor. As Boromir stepped forward, his father raised his hand and smiled wryly.
"There is no need, my son, for you to announce this man to me. He is already known." Boromir looked at the stranger in surprise. Again, the man took off his hat.
"I remain, Lord, always grateful for your warm welcome."
"And I remain grateful for your visits, Gandalf the Grey, though they come whenever the time should so suit you. What news, then, do you bring me this time? Something of worth, I hope."
"Of worth indeed. And I ask that you see it as such."
"That remains for myself to judge."
"Then mark these words. The lord of elvendom, Elrond the Wise, has called to Rivendell a council, where matters of great import are to be revealed. He has asked that you be present, for you may learn of many things that concern both you and your people. In one month, then, he awaits your arrival."
Denethor settled back in his chair.
"Elrond may make such summons as he pleases, and wait for all the kings and princes of Middle-Earth to do his bidding like dogs. But I am no lackey. Like as not, he has some business in which he needs my aid, and wishes to parley with me. But Gondor asks nothing of the elves, and will give nothing to them. Tell him those are my words."
The wizard had known that the stubborn will of the Steward might lead to such an answer, and yet he was vexed.
"Elrond's will is not to beg favours, my lord, but to give counsel. The invitation is held out for your good purpose, not his."
"Be that as it may, but still I shall not go. It is not my place to leave my lands on some elvish errand." He paused, and then seemed to reflect.
"But perhaps it does no good to offend. Hear me, then – my son Boromir shall go in my stead, and bring me back any news he deems worthy."
Gandalf did not take his eyes off Denethor's face.
"Very well then. Stay here, as you will, like an old spider in his web. I go now to the head of my order at Isengard, before I too must make for Rivendell." Without ceremony, he bowed and left, as if the swifter to quit himself of Denethor's presence. The steward himself turned to his firstborn with a dry smile.
"Well, my son, you must prepare yourself to journey come tomorrow." Boromir raised his eyebrows.
"It is truly your desire that I should go seek this Elrond?"
"It is. I am curious to see what these elves have to say. In words, at least, they do much; if in action we men have to bear the brunt of Mordor's wrath while they sit safe and idle."
"As you wish, sire. I will ride tomorrow."
Site Info
We are the home of 1292 authors from among our 2553 members. There have been 2904 reviews written about our 3820 stories consisting of 10734 chapters and 29400445 words. A special welcome to our newest member, Lerina.Categories
Skin Change
Donate
Help us keep one of the oldest running LotR archives available to all. Even the smallest donation helps!
Many thanks to our previous donors!
Many thanks to our previous donors!
