LOTR Fic: Lady of Gondor Ch 11
Jun. 13th, 2007 12:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
martasficTitle: The Lady of Gondor Ch 11
Summary: The deeds of Mellamir, sister of Boromir and Faramir, before and during the War of the Ring. Novel-length.
Word Count: 3740 + Notes
Rating: Teen (for violence)
Timeline: Mid-Third Age and Late Third Age (bookverse)
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3002-3008; Fangorn
Gandalf had promised to come back to Fangorn as soon as he could after visiting Saruman, but he did not return in a week or even a week of weeks' weeks. He did send news at the end of a fortnight, by a bird-messenger, and Treebeard seemed to have word of him fairly regularly from somewhere; at least he knew when Gandalf was at Isengard or Minas Tirith and when he was travelling elsewhere. Once, Mellamir woke in the middle of the night and heard Treebeard mumbling something, many words she could not catch, but one sounded like a Gondorian name: "Aragorn." he asked him, half asleep. "Who's that?" But Treebeard only mumbled "friend of Gandalf's," then something about sleep. He promised to explain in the morning, but when she awoke Mellamir could not be sure the whole thing hadn't been a dream and so she didn't ask him again.
The forest grew colder, though Mellamir noticed the difference here less than she had in Minas Tirith because of all the shadows; it never was as warm as it had been in Gondor to begin with. The squirrels, however, fled the upper parts of the trees and were now always scampering along the ground and sitting on the trees' lower limbs. Mellamir felt the chilly wind when she sat in Treebeard's upper limbs as he strode through the forest.
She sat on Treebeard's shoulders often those days. The world was changing, Treebeard had said, and the animals were worried. He had to travel far each day, easing their minds and making sure everything really was in order. Orcs roamed through the outer frontiers of Fangorn, clawing at dead trees and chopping at live ones. Sometimes they took the wood but more often they simply left the corpses to rot. One day when Treebeard and Mellamir were walking Treebeard saw a rotting trunk. He did not say anything but Mellamir felt him trembling with rage.
"Treebeard?" Mellamir asked. "There certainly are a lot of Ents, or there were when Gandalf and I first came. Where are they, and why can't they protect these trees?"
"Huorns," he answered. "Not Ents." He closed his eyes and hummed to himself, Taurelilumla-tumbalemorna Tumbaletaurla Lumlanor. At last Treebeard opened his eyes and looked at the young woman in his upper branches, seeing the questioning look in her eyes. "In your tongue that would be, 'There is a dark shadow in the deep vales of the forest.' So said Celeborn the Wise, when he and I still talked, long ago. The world has changed, but the shadow lasts."
"I don't understand," Mellamir said at last. She had spent many years in Fangorn and had learned enough of the High Elvish tongue Treebeard often spoke to know that what he said to himself didn't often translate well into words she would understand, but somehow Mellamir guessed this mystery was more than a misunderstanding of words.
"Celeborn is an elf, a lord of elves, in Laurelindorean. He spoke those words of the shadow in Mirkwood, but a different shadow now dwells in Fangorn. The shadow of old age and sloth. There are trees, and there are Ents. I do not understand it all myself, so I cannot explain it all to you. Some of us are Ents in the true fashion, created by Yavanna long ago. Then there are the trees. Most trees are just trees, of course, and are the same as trees everywhere. But then some trees are half awake. Some are very awake, yet some of those have fallen to the indolent shadow. They are getting, well, ah, they are getting Entish. That happens everyday. Huorns, we call them--trees that we have 'woke', taught to walk, and some even to talk.
"When a tree wakes, you find that some have good hearts, and some have bad hearts, just as with the other races. No, I am not talking about the wood; I know a willow by the Entwade with a rotten core but a pure heart. I speak of the soul--Huorns have one, like men and elves. They do their job well enough, these Huorns, whatever I tell them to do, but those with a rotten heart are not much good on their own. If I let them they would harm the other trees, and they are dangerous to the animals as well. Harrum-rum, a shadow lies still in some parts of the forest, but not of Sauron--the shadow of their evil hearts.
"Few true Ents still live in Fangorn. Only three of us that walked before the Darkness still live. Fangorn, Finglas, Fladrif, aye. I am Fangorn, that you know. Then Finglas--the one whom men would call Leaflock--he has grown sleepy. More tree than Ent, you might say. He stands by himself with the meadow grass growing to his knees, and he is covered with leafy hair. I used to rouse him in the winter, but he will not walk far even then. I am old, Mellamir, older than Gandalf. As is Finglas. And when you do not learn new things, your mind becomes weary. And if enough days pass, then you succumb to the weariness and just remain. Finglas is little better than a common tree these days. But he was great, by leaf, great once. He may yet awaken. Fladrif, or Skinbark in your tongue, lives on the slopes near Isengard, and--"
"Isengard?" Mellamir asked. "Isn't that dangerous?"
"Yes," Treebeard admitted, "but I do not fear for him. Fladrif is wise, strong, and nimble. He has lived many centuries longer than Saruman. The white wizard will have grown wise indeed if he can trouble Fladrif. I have not heard from Fladrif in many years; Saruman will not let anything leave Isengard, and I do not dare go myself, for if I were harmed, who would watch over the rest of the forest? But I feel certain he is safe.
"There are others. Each kind of tree has its own Ent. Quickbeam and I used to talk, long ago, but he talks so fast. He makes my head spin. Ents are not hasty, but if there was a hasty Ent, it would be Quickbeam. Yet he and all the rest, they are more Enting than Ent. Mere agelings when the Ent-wives settled in their gardens, and they should have gone with them. They need too much looking after. No, Fladrif, Finglas, and myself, we are the only proper Ents left."
Treebeard stopped and looked at Mellamir, seeing the worried look on her face. "Do not worry about Saruman, Mellamir," he said. "He cannot harm Fladrif, of that I am certain." And with a mighty laugh that sent the squirrels scurrying away from him up into the chilly trees, he started down the path. Mellamir, however, climbed down, branch by branch, until she dropped down to the ground. She absent-mindedly wandered over to one of the trees and gently caressed its bark.
"This tree was hurt once, long ago, wasn't it?" she asked.
"Not that you should be able to see," Treebeard answered.
"Why not? The scar's right--" She stopped dead, then peered at the bark more closely. "I thought I saw a scar. A slash, some sort of a cut. But it's gone now. Treebeard?"
He sighed. "Evil Elves, long ago. Sauron captured many of the Eldar, and some he tortured in body into those, lailin-boruma, those orcs, horrible twisted mockings of Ilúvatar. But others he did not have to twist to his will. Like the Huorns with evil hearts they were fair on the outside but rotten inside. In those days the Elves walked in Fangorn, and these evil-hearted Elves crossed the dark mountains of Mordor and the Great River, and they traveled beneath my eaves. But after they left the trees were weak, and they did not sing in the morning. Several months passed before I saw the black scars covered by vines. But when I did, I ordered the Huorns not to open themselves to any Elves--be they evil- or pure-hearted. By then, those from Laurelindorean, the Lothlórien Elves, stayed in their own realm."
Treebeard was quiet for a while, watching Mellamir feel the bark and stare at the tree. "Yet you saw the scar. That wound is centuries old; you did not see it with the eyes you brought from Gondor." He chuckled to himself. "I have wondered for some time the effect of the Ent-draught on a human girl, and now I know. You are beginning to see deep."
Years passed; spring should have come, but somehow the forest only seemed to grow colder. One evening Mellamir sat in Fimbrethil's garden on the bench she had made from great slabs of stone, and Treebeard stood beside her. Treebeard was telling her of the Valar while Mellamir gazed at the distant stars.
"It was then, Mellamir, when Elbereth--"
Suddenly he stopped. He heard footsteps approaching quickly, and then silence. "Quiet now, Mellamir," Treebeard whispered. After a long pause a familiar voice called out.
"You had better let me in, Treebeard, before I grow impatient and blow away all your precious willows."
"Gandalf!" Mellamir cried out and ran to him. She wrapped him in her now-lanky arms.
"Why, who is this wild thing?" Gandalf asked, smiling at her.
"She has grown," Treebeard said.
"No taller than her brothers were at this age," Gandalf replied, now serious.
"That is not what I meant," Treebeard answered.
Gandalf turned and looked into Mellamir's eyes. "Yes," he said, "you are right. She has grown, not in height but in depth." He chuckled to himself. "What will Denethor think when he sees those Ent-eyes? They are worse than the elf-glow to the likes of him!"
Treebeard and Gandalf spoke for a while in the same ancient tongue that Treebeard often used when talking to himself. At first Mellamir tried to listen, but her mind wandered rather quickly, easy enough when you do not know what most of the words mean. At last Gandalf turned to her. "Mellamir," he said, "it is time for you to leave Fangorn. I am going on a journey, a long one perhaps. I want to see Galadriel and speak with her about what I have learned from Saruman.
"I asked him about my friend Bilbo's ring, told him how I guessed it might be the One, but Saruman said that the One had been lost to the Anduin long ago and was now at the bottom of the Sea. I should be happy to hear that, but somehow I am still uneasy. Bilbo found his ring in the Misty Mountains, not far from here, and used it to escape the creature Gollum; it made him disappear. So how could the ring be a simple band of gold? And if it is a magic ring, which one? Not one of the Elven rings; those are all accounted for. And not one of the rings Sauron gifted the dwarf-lords or the kings of men. Those rings all had precious jewels, but Bilbo's ring is quite plain. I do not know; but I wish to speak with Galadriel, and perhaps others.
"Yet I do not want you staying in Fangorn; you have spent too much time here already and are becoming too attached to the land. And I do not want you returning to Minas Tirith. Gondor is still far too dangerous. I am sending you to Théoden's court at Edoras. He has a niece, Éowyn, and you will be good friends for each other. Treebeard, look to your western border. Saruman is not a good neighbour for you, I fear. He is still wise and we may need him some day. Yet keep watch!" Gandalf walked off toward the willows.
"Gandalf!" Mellamir called, surprised to see him leaving. "Will you not stay and tell us more of what Saruman said?"
"No." And with that the wizard walked through the willows and out of sight.
Treebeard turned to the girl, by now nearly a woman, and his ancient eyes softened. "Mellamir, you must understand something. We talked of Fimbrethil once, and of the Entwives." He paused, searching for just the right words to make her understand what he was saying. "We lost them, and now I miss them. Often we do not appreciate what we need most, but once it is gone--we searched for the Ent-wives, far and wide, Mellamir, but we could not find them again. And now I need her, my Fimbrethil--her beauty, her grace, her calm. Hoo-hom, I need them all. I would have them all back, Fimbrethil and the rest. Do you not see, harrum, it is good to be a woman, even if others do not appreciate it."
"Yes," Mellamir said, thinking about what Treebeard had said, "but would you have Fimbrethil stay, miserable, pretending to be what she was not?"
The old Ent looked down at his friend, his eyes sad. He led her away from the vines and back into his cave and watched her lie down in her bedding. "Go to sleep," he said gently. "Tomorrow I will take you to the forest borders and direct you toward Edoras."
*****
3008; the White Tower, Minas Tirith
*****
Denethor, High Steward of Gondor, sat in the Steward's Chair in the Great Tower of Ecthelion, far away in Minas Tirith, gazing at the empty throne of the king. Boromir's childish question came back to him unasked: "How many years make a steward a king?" But Boromir had asked that question many years ago, not long after he had moved to Minas Tirith. Boyish foolishness it had seemed at the time, or country naïveté. Now, Denethor wasn't so sure.
At any rate, Boromir had long since moved beyond those childish wonderings. He had served for eight long years as apprentice to the Tower Guard. Then, two years ago, Denethor had named him the Captain of a unit of rangers in Ithilien. It was a new company, and some accused Denethor of creating it just to give Boromir something to do until his thirtieth birthday. By law, the Steward's oldest son became Captain of Gondor on, and not before, his thirtieth birthday, when he came of age. Until then, a Steward of the Captaincy was appointed.
Denethor had chosen Lailagond, a capable civil servant in his late sixties. He was loyal, mild-mannered, and a good organiser, perhaps a bit overly cautious. In short, good enough but lacking the brilliance needed to face real danger. The kind of brilliance Denethor already saw in Boromir, that he had once seen in himself.
Long ago, when Arabôr first went off to Lothlórien, Denethor had wondered what drove his brother to such an end. To go to that far-off land, full of Elvish curses, a land from which no one had returned in living memory, favourite setting of speculative and often lurid campfire tales! Denethor went to his brother's personal library and picked out a book, Where Elves Yet Dwell by Elrond Halfelven. That name looked promising, and Denethor knew his story: half-man as well as half-elf, Elrond had foolishly turned his back on the world of Men and had chosen to become an Elf. Yet the blood of Men still pulsed through this Elrond, so perhaps reading his books would not be pure idiocy. And read he did, one volume after another. When Arabôr finally returned, the two brothers often sat discussing all Denethor had read.
All of that ended, though, when Ivriniel died. When Arabôr abandoned the Guard, Denethor at last saw how dangerous these idle fantasies could be. He put the books away and took up the sword. For two years he travelled with his company, along and even across the Anduin, but he couldn't concentrate on his duties. His mind ever wandered west: to bearded wives in caves, eagles, wolves not merely animal, trees that talked and other figments of an over-active imagination. He returned to Minas Tirith, to his wife, and sometime later his only child was born.
Mellawen was a second shame: Denethor was not only a failure of a man on the battlefield but in the bedroom as well, unable to produce a son. But by chance, eight years hence he gained three sons in one day. Boromir was so like his uncle at his age. Denethor wanted to protect him from book learning, but Gandalf had other plans. Fine; let the boy face the test. Better, at any rate, he should learn of these fantasies while Denethor could still guide him. The grey fool tried to teach the lad--but with no success. Ha! Boromir showed little interest in Elves or the other free races, save of course the race of Númenor. He much preferred the court and sword to the wizard's rambling tales. Apprenticed to Lailagond, the boy could have easily assumed command years ago, but he was not old enough.
In the meantime, he put his skills to good use in Ithilien, where they were needed. Orcs had crossed through Cirith Ungol (the Black Gate itself still remained shut), and the Black Riders had been seen from the west bank of the Great River.
If only as much could be said of Faramir! When the lad turned fifteen, Denethor ordered him to choose a master. Of course Faramir did not really have a choice; the law was quite clear, all sons of the Steward had to be apprenticed to the Tower Guard. But Faramir appealed to the grey pilgrim to see if he could not at least be apprenticed to one of the sages and, for once, Gandalf showed a bit of wisdom.
Yet Faramir had turned to Gandalf! Now Gandalf's true purpose became only too clear. He had spent years searching for answers, and what had he found? Nothing! But the wandering fool...he stayed in Minas Tirith for a reason, and Denethor knew what that reason was. The wizard wanted Gondor for his own. And who wouldn't? Denethor remembered the song his father had taught him to sing as a boy:
Minas Tirith, jewel among jewels, sparkling in the evening moonlight, glimmering like a pearl of true-silver. Great fields, as far as the eye could see. And the Great River, mighty Anduin, waterway of the world! Of course! And the cunning wizard was trying to use Denethor's own children, his very heirs, against him? The mighty Steward of Gondor?
How many years make a steward a king? A hundred years? A thousand? Enough. The house of the king was great, but the house of the steward was greater. Where had the king been all these long years while the Men of Gondor died to save all Middle-earth from the fury of Sauron? Was he busy? Hiding? Perhaps asleep? And for whom did these men die, at any rate?
Gondor was great, and King Denethor, as he had begun to think of himself, could see it all. A testament to Gondor's strength, the Great Eye that saw wherever Denethor commanded it. For Denethor had dared the palantír, unused since the one at Minas Ithil fell to Sauron. A gift from the Elves of old, a person looking into a palantír could see what was happening around the other palantíri, and if he was strong of mind other places as well. Seven stars and seven stones and one white tree, as the old rhyme went. Most were lost, but one at least survived: Denethor's.
At first Denethor had turned his palantír to Fangorn, to see his daughter and make sure she was safe, but then he looked to his own borders, the forests, streams, mountains, hills, farms, villages, and towers, testaments to ages long past. Never to the lands where Elves yet dwelt, but what was the need? How could any other land hope to compare?
But even with the help of this added vision, Denethor had not foreseen the letter he now held in his hand:
"Denethor:
"Mellamir is still not ready to return to you, but she has learned all that she can from Treebeard for the time being. I have sent her on to King Théoden of Rohan, your ally. His niece Éowyn will be good for Mellamir, and perhaps Mellamir will be good for Éowyn as well.
"Your humble servant,
"Gandalf"
Humble, indeed! This Gandalf had tried his best to conquer Gondor, that at least was clear. First Mellamir and now Faramir. True, Denethor had agreed that something must be done about Mellamir, that she needed help learning to become a lady, and when Gandalf had suggested Fangorn he had agreed the idea showed promise, but he had not authorised it, nor would he have agreed to so long a stay. Six years, in that forsaken land! At first he had thought to send for her, but then Gandalf had reminded him of the prophecy, that in order to fulfil it Mellamir must come out of the forests beyond Rohan. Knowing that no one, not even the Lord of Gondor, could foil fate, he reluctantly let her stay.
But Gandalf, he was another story. Denethor disliked him more than ever and moved to bodily throw the wizard out of the city, but Faramir had restrained him. At Faramir's begging Denethor let Gandalf stay in the city so long as he stayed away from his other sons. But Faramir sought him out and that cursed sorcerer talked to him, walking by night along the city walls as he had often done with Mellamir. They thought their secret was safe, but Denethor heard of it eventually. He always did. He was Denethor, Lord of the White Tower and of Gondor, who sees all!
Denethor balled his fist, crushing Gandalf's letter into a small ball. Let the fool steal his daughter and son; no matter. It would not win him Gondor. Boromir would never fall.
"Servant!" he called out. "Boy! Call Boromir! Call Faramir! Call me my sons. They must ride to Edoras to offer the king of Rohan our fairest jewel."
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Notes:
[1] "Was he busy?..." This is a paraphrase of 1 Kings 18.27, where Elijah says to the priests of Baal when they offer a sacrifice and it is not acknowledged, "Cry aloud, for he is a god; either he is meditating, or he is busy, or he is on a journey, or perhaps he is sleeping and must be awakened." (NKJV)
[2] "Seven stars and seven stones and one white tree": This is a quote from Gandalf in "Minas Tirith," Return of the King
[3] "fairest jewel": The name "Mellamir" literally means "beloved jewel." The fact that Denethor now refers to her as "fairest jewel" is indicative of his changing attitude towards her.
Summary: The deeds of Mellamir, sister of Boromir and Faramir, before and during the War of the Ring. Novel-length.
Word Count: 3740 + Notes
Rating: Teen (for violence)
Timeline: Mid-Third Age and Late Third Age (bookverse)
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3002-3008; Fangorn
Gandalf had promised to come back to Fangorn as soon as he could after visiting Saruman, but he did not return in a week or even a week of weeks' weeks. He did send news at the end of a fortnight, by a bird-messenger, and Treebeard seemed to have word of him fairly regularly from somewhere; at least he knew when Gandalf was at Isengard or Minas Tirith and when he was travelling elsewhere. Once, Mellamir woke in the middle of the night and heard Treebeard mumbling something, many words she could not catch, but one sounded like a Gondorian name: "Aragorn." he asked him, half asleep. "Who's that?" But Treebeard only mumbled "friend of Gandalf's," then something about sleep. He promised to explain in the morning, but when she awoke Mellamir could not be sure the whole thing hadn't been a dream and so she didn't ask him again.
The forest grew colder, though Mellamir noticed the difference here less than she had in Minas Tirith because of all the shadows; it never was as warm as it had been in Gondor to begin with. The squirrels, however, fled the upper parts of the trees and were now always scampering along the ground and sitting on the trees' lower limbs. Mellamir felt the chilly wind when she sat in Treebeard's upper limbs as he strode through the forest.
She sat on Treebeard's shoulders often those days. The world was changing, Treebeard had said, and the animals were worried. He had to travel far each day, easing their minds and making sure everything really was in order. Orcs roamed through the outer frontiers of Fangorn, clawing at dead trees and chopping at live ones. Sometimes they took the wood but more often they simply left the corpses to rot. One day when Treebeard and Mellamir were walking Treebeard saw a rotting trunk. He did not say anything but Mellamir felt him trembling with rage.
"Treebeard?" Mellamir asked. "There certainly are a lot of Ents, or there were when Gandalf and I first came. Where are they, and why can't they protect these trees?"
"Huorns," he answered. "Not Ents." He closed his eyes and hummed to himself, Taurelilumla-tumbalemorna Tumbaletaurla Lumlanor. At last Treebeard opened his eyes and looked at the young woman in his upper branches, seeing the questioning look in her eyes. "In your tongue that would be, 'There is a dark shadow in the deep vales of the forest.' So said Celeborn the Wise, when he and I still talked, long ago. The world has changed, but the shadow lasts."
"I don't understand," Mellamir said at last. She had spent many years in Fangorn and had learned enough of the High Elvish tongue Treebeard often spoke to know that what he said to himself didn't often translate well into words she would understand, but somehow Mellamir guessed this mystery was more than a misunderstanding of words.
"Celeborn is an elf, a lord of elves, in Laurelindorean. He spoke those words of the shadow in Mirkwood, but a different shadow now dwells in Fangorn. The shadow of old age and sloth. There are trees, and there are Ents. I do not understand it all myself, so I cannot explain it all to you. Some of us are Ents in the true fashion, created by Yavanna long ago. Then there are the trees. Most trees are just trees, of course, and are the same as trees everywhere. But then some trees are half awake. Some are very awake, yet some of those have fallen to the indolent shadow. They are getting, well, ah, they are getting Entish. That happens everyday. Huorns, we call them--trees that we have 'woke', taught to walk, and some even to talk.
"When a tree wakes, you find that some have good hearts, and some have bad hearts, just as with the other races. No, I am not talking about the wood; I know a willow by the Entwade with a rotten core but a pure heart. I speak of the soul--Huorns have one, like men and elves. They do their job well enough, these Huorns, whatever I tell them to do, but those with a rotten heart are not much good on their own. If I let them they would harm the other trees, and they are dangerous to the animals as well. Harrum-rum, a shadow lies still in some parts of the forest, but not of Sauron--the shadow of their evil hearts.
"Few true Ents still live in Fangorn. Only three of us that walked before the Darkness still live. Fangorn, Finglas, Fladrif, aye. I am Fangorn, that you know. Then Finglas--the one whom men would call Leaflock--he has grown sleepy. More tree than Ent, you might say. He stands by himself with the meadow grass growing to his knees, and he is covered with leafy hair. I used to rouse him in the winter, but he will not walk far even then. I am old, Mellamir, older than Gandalf. As is Finglas. And when you do not learn new things, your mind becomes weary. And if enough days pass, then you succumb to the weariness and just remain. Finglas is little better than a common tree these days. But he was great, by leaf, great once. He may yet awaken. Fladrif, or Skinbark in your tongue, lives on the slopes near Isengard, and--"
"Isengard?" Mellamir asked. "Isn't that dangerous?"
"Yes," Treebeard admitted, "but I do not fear for him. Fladrif is wise, strong, and nimble. He has lived many centuries longer than Saruman. The white wizard will have grown wise indeed if he can trouble Fladrif. I have not heard from Fladrif in many years; Saruman will not let anything leave Isengard, and I do not dare go myself, for if I were harmed, who would watch over the rest of the forest? But I feel certain he is safe.
"There are others. Each kind of tree has its own Ent. Quickbeam and I used to talk, long ago, but he talks so fast. He makes my head spin. Ents are not hasty, but if there was a hasty Ent, it would be Quickbeam. Yet he and all the rest, they are more Enting than Ent. Mere agelings when the Ent-wives settled in their gardens, and they should have gone with them. They need too much looking after. No, Fladrif, Finglas, and myself, we are the only proper Ents left."
Treebeard stopped and looked at Mellamir, seeing the worried look on her face. "Do not worry about Saruman, Mellamir," he said. "He cannot harm Fladrif, of that I am certain." And with a mighty laugh that sent the squirrels scurrying away from him up into the chilly trees, he started down the path. Mellamir, however, climbed down, branch by branch, until she dropped down to the ground. She absent-mindedly wandered over to one of the trees and gently caressed its bark.
"This tree was hurt once, long ago, wasn't it?" she asked.
"Not that you should be able to see," Treebeard answered.
"Why not? The scar's right--" She stopped dead, then peered at the bark more closely. "I thought I saw a scar. A slash, some sort of a cut. But it's gone now. Treebeard?"
He sighed. "Evil Elves, long ago. Sauron captured many of the Eldar, and some he tortured in body into those, lailin-boruma, those orcs, horrible twisted mockings of Ilúvatar. But others he did not have to twist to his will. Like the Huorns with evil hearts they were fair on the outside but rotten inside. In those days the Elves walked in Fangorn, and these evil-hearted Elves crossed the dark mountains of Mordor and the Great River, and they traveled beneath my eaves. But after they left the trees were weak, and they did not sing in the morning. Several months passed before I saw the black scars covered by vines. But when I did, I ordered the Huorns not to open themselves to any Elves--be they evil- or pure-hearted. By then, those from Laurelindorean, the Lothlórien Elves, stayed in their own realm."
Treebeard was quiet for a while, watching Mellamir feel the bark and stare at the tree. "Yet you saw the scar. That wound is centuries old; you did not see it with the eyes you brought from Gondor." He chuckled to himself. "I have wondered for some time the effect of the Ent-draught on a human girl, and now I know. You are beginning to see deep."
Years passed; spring should have come, but somehow the forest only seemed to grow colder. One evening Mellamir sat in Fimbrethil's garden on the bench she had made from great slabs of stone, and Treebeard stood beside her. Treebeard was telling her of the Valar while Mellamir gazed at the distant stars.
"It was then, Mellamir, when Elbereth--"
Suddenly he stopped. He heard footsteps approaching quickly, and then silence. "Quiet now, Mellamir," Treebeard whispered. After a long pause a familiar voice called out.
"You had better let me in, Treebeard, before I grow impatient and blow away all your precious willows."
"Gandalf!" Mellamir cried out and ran to him. She wrapped him in her now-lanky arms.
"Why, who is this wild thing?" Gandalf asked, smiling at her.
"She has grown," Treebeard said.
"No taller than her brothers were at this age," Gandalf replied, now serious.
"That is not what I meant," Treebeard answered.
Gandalf turned and looked into Mellamir's eyes. "Yes," he said, "you are right. She has grown, not in height but in depth." He chuckled to himself. "What will Denethor think when he sees those Ent-eyes? They are worse than the elf-glow to the likes of him!"
Treebeard and Gandalf spoke for a while in the same ancient tongue that Treebeard often used when talking to himself. At first Mellamir tried to listen, but her mind wandered rather quickly, easy enough when you do not know what most of the words mean. At last Gandalf turned to her. "Mellamir," he said, "it is time for you to leave Fangorn. I am going on a journey, a long one perhaps. I want to see Galadriel and speak with her about what I have learned from Saruman.
"I asked him about my friend Bilbo's ring, told him how I guessed it might be the One, but Saruman said that the One had been lost to the Anduin long ago and was now at the bottom of the Sea. I should be happy to hear that, but somehow I am still uneasy. Bilbo found his ring in the Misty Mountains, not far from here, and used it to escape the creature Gollum; it made him disappear. So how could the ring be a simple band of gold? And if it is a magic ring, which one? Not one of the Elven rings; those are all accounted for. And not one of the rings Sauron gifted the dwarf-lords or the kings of men. Those rings all had precious jewels, but Bilbo's ring is quite plain. I do not know; but I wish to speak with Galadriel, and perhaps others.
"Yet I do not want you staying in Fangorn; you have spent too much time here already and are becoming too attached to the land. And I do not want you returning to Minas Tirith. Gondor is still far too dangerous. I am sending you to Théoden's court at Edoras. He has a niece, Éowyn, and you will be good friends for each other. Treebeard, look to your western border. Saruman is not a good neighbour for you, I fear. He is still wise and we may need him some day. Yet keep watch!" Gandalf walked off toward the willows.
"Gandalf!" Mellamir called, surprised to see him leaving. "Will you not stay and tell us more of what Saruman said?"
"No." And with that the wizard walked through the willows and out of sight.
Treebeard turned to the girl, by now nearly a woman, and his ancient eyes softened. "Mellamir, you must understand something. We talked of Fimbrethil once, and of the Entwives." He paused, searching for just the right words to make her understand what he was saying. "We lost them, and now I miss them. Often we do not appreciate what we need most, but once it is gone--we searched for the Ent-wives, far and wide, Mellamir, but we could not find them again. And now I need her, my Fimbrethil--her beauty, her grace, her calm. Hoo-hom, I need them all. I would have them all back, Fimbrethil and the rest. Do you not see, harrum, it is good to be a woman, even if others do not appreciate it."
"Yes," Mellamir said, thinking about what Treebeard had said, "but would you have Fimbrethil stay, miserable, pretending to be what she was not?"
The old Ent looked down at his friend, his eyes sad. He led her away from the vines and back into his cave and watched her lie down in her bedding. "Go to sleep," he said gently. "Tomorrow I will take you to the forest borders and direct you toward Edoras."
*****
3008; the White Tower, Minas Tirith
*****
Denethor, High Steward of Gondor, sat in the Steward's Chair in the Great Tower of Ecthelion, far away in Minas Tirith, gazing at the empty throne of the king. Boromir's childish question came back to him unasked: "How many years make a steward a king?" But Boromir had asked that question many years ago, not long after he had moved to Minas Tirith. Boyish foolishness it had seemed at the time, or country naïveté. Now, Denethor wasn't so sure.
At any rate, Boromir had long since moved beyond those childish wonderings. He had served for eight long years as apprentice to the Tower Guard. Then, two years ago, Denethor had named him the Captain of a unit of rangers in Ithilien. It was a new company, and some accused Denethor of creating it just to give Boromir something to do until his thirtieth birthday. By law, the Steward's oldest son became Captain of Gondor on, and not before, his thirtieth birthday, when he came of age. Until then, a Steward of the Captaincy was appointed.
Denethor had chosen Lailagond, a capable civil servant in his late sixties. He was loyal, mild-mannered, and a good organiser, perhaps a bit overly cautious. In short, good enough but lacking the brilliance needed to face real danger. The kind of brilliance Denethor already saw in Boromir, that he had once seen in himself.
Long ago, when Arabôr first went off to Lothlórien, Denethor had wondered what drove his brother to such an end. To go to that far-off land, full of Elvish curses, a land from which no one had returned in living memory, favourite setting of speculative and often lurid campfire tales! Denethor went to his brother's personal library and picked out a book, Where Elves Yet Dwell by Elrond Halfelven. That name looked promising, and Denethor knew his story: half-man as well as half-elf, Elrond had foolishly turned his back on the world of Men and had chosen to become an Elf. Yet the blood of Men still pulsed through this Elrond, so perhaps reading his books would not be pure idiocy. And read he did, one volume after another. When Arabôr finally returned, the two brothers often sat discussing all Denethor had read.
All of that ended, though, when Ivriniel died. When Arabôr abandoned the Guard, Denethor at last saw how dangerous these idle fantasies could be. He put the books away and took up the sword. For two years he travelled with his company, along and even across the Anduin, but he couldn't concentrate on his duties. His mind ever wandered west: to bearded wives in caves, eagles, wolves not merely animal, trees that talked and other figments of an over-active imagination. He returned to Minas Tirith, to his wife, and sometime later his only child was born.
Mellawen was a second shame: Denethor was not only a failure of a man on the battlefield but in the bedroom as well, unable to produce a son. But by chance, eight years hence he gained three sons in one day. Boromir was so like his uncle at his age. Denethor wanted to protect him from book learning, but Gandalf had other plans. Fine; let the boy face the test. Better, at any rate, he should learn of these fantasies while Denethor could still guide him. The grey fool tried to teach the lad--but with no success. Ha! Boromir showed little interest in Elves or the other free races, save of course the race of Númenor. He much preferred the court and sword to the wizard's rambling tales. Apprenticed to Lailagond, the boy could have easily assumed command years ago, but he was not old enough.
In the meantime, he put his skills to good use in Ithilien, where they were needed. Orcs had crossed through Cirith Ungol (the Black Gate itself still remained shut), and the Black Riders had been seen from the west bank of the Great River.
If only as much could be said of Faramir! When the lad turned fifteen, Denethor ordered him to choose a master. Of course Faramir did not really have a choice; the law was quite clear, all sons of the Steward had to be apprenticed to the Tower Guard. But Faramir appealed to the grey pilgrim to see if he could not at least be apprenticed to one of the sages and, for once, Gandalf showed a bit of wisdom.
Yet Faramir had turned to Gandalf! Now Gandalf's true purpose became only too clear. He had spent years searching for answers, and what had he found? Nothing! But the wandering fool...he stayed in Minas Tirith for a reason, and Denethor knew what that reason was. The wizard wanted Gondor for his own. And who wouldn't? Denethor remembered the song his father had taught him to sing as a boy:
Gondor! Gondor, between the Mountains and the Sea!
West Wind blew there; the light upon your majesty
Fell like bright rain in gardens of the Men of old.
O proud walls! White towers! Beauties great and tales untold!
O Gondor, Gondor! Shall Men sing yet in jubilee,
Or West Wind blow yet 'twixt the Mountains and the Sea?
Minas Tirith, jewel among jewels, sparkling in the evening moonlight, glimmering like a pearl of true-silver. Great fields, as far as the eye could see. And the Great River, mighty Anduin, waterway of the world! Of course! And the cunning wizard was trying to use Denethor's own children, his very heirs, against him? The mighty Steward of Gondor?
How many years make a steward a king? A hundred years? A thousand? Enough. The house of the king was great, but the house of the steward was greater. Where had the king been all these long years while the Men of Gondor died to save all Middle-earth from the fury of Sauron? Was he busy? Hiding? Perhaps asleep? And for whom did these men die, at any rate?
Gondor was great, and King Denethor, as he had begun to think of himself, could see it all. A testament to Gondor's strength, the Great Eye that saw wherever Denethor commanded it. For Denethor had dared the palantír, unused since the one at Minas Ithil fell to Sauron. A gift from the Elves of old, a person looking into a palantír could see what was happening around the other palantíri, and if he was strong of mind other places as well. Seven stars and seven stones and one white tree, as the old rhyme went. Most were lost, but one at least survived: Denethor's.
At first Denethor had turned his palantír to Fangorn, to see his daughter and make sure she was safe, but then he looked to his own borders, the forests, streams, mountains, hills, farms, villages, and towers, testaments to ages long past. Never to the lands where Elves yet dwelt, but what was the need? How could any other land hope to compare?
But even with the help of this added vision, Denethor had not foreseen the letter he now held in his hand:
"Denethor:
"Mellamir is still not ready to return to you, but she has learned all that she can from Treebeard for the time being. I have sent her on to King Théoden of Rohan, your ally. His niece Éowyn will be good for Mellamir, and perhaps Mellamir will be good for Éowyn as well.
"Your humble servant,
"Gandalf"
Humble, indeed! This Gandalf had tried his best to conquer Gondor, that at least was clear. First Mellamir and now Faramir. True, Denethor had agreed that something must be done about Mellamir, that she needed help learning to become a lady, and when Gandalf had suggested Fangorn he had agreed the idea showed promise, but he had not authorised it, nor would he have agreed to so long a stay. Six years, in that forsaken land! At first he had thought to send for her, but then Gandalf had reminded him of the prophecy, that in order to fulfil it Mellamir must come out of the forests beyond Rohan. Knowing that no one, not even the Lord of Gondor, could foil fate, he reluctantly let her stay.
But Gandalf, he was another story. Denethor disliked him more than ever and moved to bodily throw the wizard out of the city, but Faramir had restrained him. At Faramir's begging Denethor let Gandalf stay in the city so long as he stayed away from his other sons. But Faramir sought him out and that cursed sorcerer talked to him, walking by night along the city walls as he had often done with Mellamir. They thought their secret was safe, but Denethor heard of it eventually. He always did. He was Denethor, Lord of the White Tower and of Gondor, who sees all!
Denethor balled his fist, crushing Gandalf's letter into a small ball. Let the fool steal his daughter and son; no matter. It would not win him Gondor. Boromir would never fall.
"Servant!" he called out. "Boy! Call Boromir! Call Faramir! Call me my sons. They must ride to Edoras to offer the king of Rohan our fairest jewel."
-------
Notes:
[1] "Was he busy?..." This is a paraphrase of 1 Kings 18.27, where Elijah says to the priests of Baal when they offer a sacrifice and it is not acknowledged, "Cry aloud, for he is a god; either he is meditating, or he is busy, or he is on a journey, or perhaps he is sleeping and must be awakened." (NKJV)
[2] "Seven stars and seven stones and one white tree": This is a quote from Gandalf in "Minas Tirith," Return of the King
[3] "fairest jewel": The name "Mellamir" literally means "beloved jewel." The fact that Denethor now refers to her as "fairest jewel" is indicative of his changing attitude towards her.