Chapter 326: Talk Across the Lands
Boromir had already departed with his company, riding straight for Osgiliath. This new force would garrison the ruined city long-term, keeping watch from the very front line on Minas Morgul and the Witch-king's every move.
After Boromir set out, Denethor left the tower that housed the Palantír and found a moment to visit his younger son.
Faramir.
He had been born five years after Boromir and was fifteen this year.
Between his two sons, it was plain Denethor favoured Boromir.
Because…
"Father, you are here."
Faramir looked up from his book with a smile the moment Denethor approached, and hurried over to greet him.
"Yes. I came to see how you have been." Denethor answered evenly.
"I am well, Father."
Well, yes, very well…
Taking in Faramir's mild, studious manner, Denethor's mouth tightened slightly.
Boromir and Faramir were alike in face yet utterly unlike in nature.
Unlike Boromir, Faramir had never cared for battle or adventure. He preferred reading and studying, loved music, listening, and singing alike.
He was tall and broad-shouldered, but his bearing was too refined, his temper seemingly gentle to a fault.
Many thought the Steward's younger son lacked his brother's courage.
"Your brother is riding to the front, ready to do great deeds," Denethor said.
"I pray for his safe return," Faramir replied, offering a sincere blessing.
Denethor nodded.
For all his softness, this youngest son was a good lad. He had never cared about talk comparing him to his brother, nor had he strove to outshine anyone.
There had been no jealousy or rivalry between them since childhood. Their bond was close.
"Keep at your work. I place high hopes on you and your brother both."
Denethor laid a hand on Faramir's shoulder in rare encouragement, then turned to go.
Good. These two were his hope. They would bear their house's future.
One stern, one softer. Together, they might balance each other.
Yet a ruler could not be too soft.
Shaking his head, Denethor walked slowly towards the high hall to convene another council.
If there were any in Middle-earth who could most directly feel the rise and fall of Sauron's power, it was Denethor.
In recent years' contests, the pressure that poured from the Palantír had grown heavier, the shadows within it thicker.
The great enemy's return was hastening.
Under Denethor's orders, the guards around the tower of the Palantír doubled.
It was not the stone that needed protection, but everyone else.
Knowing its weight, he dared not let another touch it, not even his sons.
If anyone else so much as caught its light by accident, they might drop where they stood, sunk at once into nightmare.
"Hu…"
When the latest council of Gondor's high lords ended, Denethor exhaled a long breath and closed his eyes.
Good.
He could still bear it.
"Then let us continue. We shall see who falls first…"
"Gondor will not fall before I do."
…
"I cannot believe such a great event happened without my knowing a thing."
Deep in the Lonely Mountain, Thorin, beard now streaked with white, frowned.
"Exactly. He counselled us against retaking Moria, and then went to assault Angmar," Balin said at once, still unable to let go of that lost dwarven home.
He was quickly checked by Fíli. "It is not the same, Uncle Balin. Levi had other reasons for warning you off Moria."
"I know that. I only feel… Ah, I do not know how to say it. Should we not go to help?"
At that question, everyone in the small council fell silent.
"This is not like before. Levi has taken the initiative, not been forced into a defensive position. If we rush in unasked, we might only disrupt his plans."
Cautious as ever, Thorin offered,
"Perhaps we should ask the acting lord in Dale. If anyone has been informed, it would be him."
Had he…?
Thinking of Levi's habit of doing rather than talking, the Dwarves were not certain.
Still, after so many years, their old friend had grown. His strategies and actions were increasingly mature.
"There is no need to worry."
In Dale, Bain, now grey at the temples, answered for Levi.
"I spoke with Uncle Levi beforehand. He told us to hold our own ground."
"That is best, then."
Thorin nodded and let his breath go.
On the far side of the mountains, Elrond felt the same.
As the power most closely tied to the wandering folk, he had sensed what was afoot as soon as Aragorn began gathering his people.
At first, the Elf-lord, who held in trust the authority of the High King, had considered where he might lend aid. But a certain someone had said it was unnecessary, and Elrond had, in all honesty, stayed his hand.
Not that he trusted blindly, or truly had no thoughts of his own.
It simply did not seem needed.
If this part of the music belonged to Men, then Men should play it.
Elrond sent his blessing in silence.
Blessings were always fair and bright things.
Elsewhere, others also offered their blessings to those dear to them.
"You must live well, Frodo. We love you."
In the Shire, at Buckland, in the land of the Brandybucks.
The Took family had gathered. Frodo sat by the bed, watching his mother as tears slipped down his cheeks one by one.
"Dear Frodo, I am proud of you."
This year, Drogo's wife passed away, worn down day and night by grief for her husband.
Primula Baggins (2920–2998).
Frodo raised her gravestone with his own hands.
From that day, he was alone.
Yet grief was not all of life, nor should it be the main note of it.
Carrying his parents' love and their hopes for him, Frodo lifted his head towards the sun and green earth.
"You have grown, Frodo."
Bag End, Hobbiton. When Frodo came to visit again, Bilbo spoke with feeling.
He remembered how his own parents had died when he was about Frodo's age, leaving him alone with an empty Bag End.
Then an old wizard had arrived, and between food and song, had spirited him away.
He should have smacked that boy harder that day.
At Bilbo's words, Frodo smiled.
Now his parents were gone, his closest kin was this uncle before him.
In Frodo's eyes, Uncle Bilbo was a very amusing Hobbit, full of stories and secrets. He had always been that way. Even now, there was much about him that Frodo did not know.
"By the way, Frodo."
Bilbo suddenly spoke up.
He took a deep breath.
"There is something I have always meant to say, but never found the chance."
"What is it, Uncle?"
After a slight pause, as though giving Frodo time to brace himself or gather nerve, Bilbo went on, slowly:
"In truth, for years now I have been thinking… I have been thinking… well, what do you think of Bag End?"
Halfway through his sentence, he abruptly changed tack.
"It is wonderful. Truly," Frodo answered, blinking.
"Good."
Bilbo sighed, his gaze complicated.
He had still not managed to say what he meant.
But Frodo was no fool or log. Sensing something was wrong, he asked at once, "What is it, Uncle? Is something troubling you?"
"Troubling, yes. Yes, indeed…"
Prodded by Frodo, Bilbo set out all the worries that had weighed on him of late.
"How can the Sackville-Bagginses be so horrid?"
When he finished listening, Frodo's indignation came from the heart.
That family had spread word that Bilbo was dead when he went adventuring, tried to seize Bag End, and auctioned off its furnishings. Even after Bilbo came home, they had plagued him day after day, until Levi's stern warning scared them into quiet.
Yet even so, they had not truly given up. Now they spent their days hoping Bilbo would suddenly drop dead so they could move in by right.
"In the past, I enjoyed the quiet. I liked living alone and hated being disturbed," Bilbo said.
"But now, I have had too much of that quiet. It is like food. If you eat too much of one thing, you grow sick of it, even queasy."
Frodo listened in silence.
"I understand, Uncle."
After another stillness, Bilbo seemed to come to a decision. His eyes rested on the half-written book before him.
"Frodo, I want to…"
Uncle and nephew talked a long while that day.
In the end, Frodo gave up the lonely little house that had been his childhood home and moved into Bag End to care for his aging uncle.
Not long after, Bilbo named Frodo his heir.
When they heard, the Sackville-Bagginses felt as though they had been struck by a thunderbolt from a clear sky.
Their last hope was gone.