Chapter 397: Lord of Middle-earth?
In all fairness, as a ruler, Denethor was far from incompetent. Gondor's affairs, large and small, were managed with precision. He made few mistakes, and his conduct toward everyone other than his own two sons was quite even-handed. His reputation in Gondor was respectable.
His will was extraordinary. Hard as iron, strong enough to resist Sauron's temptation through the Palantír.
That was no small thing.
But a man was flesh and blood, not made of iron. Given enough time, cracks were bound to show.
Sometimes, those cracks needed to be mended.
In a bedchamber deep within Minas Tirith, Denethor stood at Faramir's bedside, holding a bottle of milk. His old face was pulled into a sour expression.
This was Levi's doing. He had made Denethor wake his younger son himself.
With a sigh, the Steward complied and gave the milk to Faramir.
A moment later, Faramir opened his eyes.
The first thing he saw was Denethor's displeased face.
"Father... was it you who woke me?"
"What has it to do with me?"
Denethor hid the empty bottle behind his back. "If you want to thank someone, go thank that teacher you admire so much, the one you've barely met in person. Levi. Don't just thank whoever you happen to see first, like some foolish creature that thinks the first thing it sees after hatching is its mother."
Faramir listened quietly, saying nothing for a while.
Then he smiled.
Denethor shifted slightly, discomfort flickering across his face.
"You're awake, so get up. Your brother has been worried about you. Go show him you're well."
"Yes, Father."
"Thank you."
Denethor was silent for a moment.
He lowered his head, stood in the doorway for a few seconds, then walked away without a word.
He did not look back.
Shortly after, outside the chamber.
For the first time in a long while, Boromir saw Faramir again.
After more than a year apart, the brothers were reunited in Minas Tirith. They embraced at once, both of them grinning.
Their bond needed no words.
They caught up for a while, and then Boromir said, "I'm going to take part in the assault on the Black Gate. What do you say?"
Faramir had only just woken. He did not even know about the victory yet, let alone what came next, so he asked for the full story.
Only then did he learn that Levi had already returned north and was preparing to strike at Mordor.
The Battle of the Pelennor Fields had been a victory for Gondor. But that did not mean Gondor held the advantage.
Mordor could raise another army of that size at any time. A second battle might not go so well.
"We have to strike at the root, Faramir," Boromir said. "You've met them, haven't you? The two hobbits."
"I'm going to ride with Aragorn, the prophesied king, to the Black Gate, to support Levi."
"We can't give Mordor time to recover. We can't fight another battle like that one."
"This was decided jointly by Gandalf, Aragorn, and Father."
"Let me go as well," Faramir said at once, his expression hardening.
"Then put on your armour, brother. Let us fight together."
...
"Rooaarrr!"
Outside Dale.
Orange flame seared through the clouds. Enemies fled in every direction, their courage breaking.
On the city walls, several Dwarves bearing the clear weight of age could not help but marvel.
"Centuries ago, the fire-drake Smaug took our homeland. And now, another dragon defends it for us."
"The world is always like this. Things once thought impossible, miracles no one believed in—they happen today."
"What do you think, Thorin?"
"Me?"
Thorin kept his eyes fixed on the battlefield, his expression unreadable.
His hair and beard had gone completely white. His body no longer carried the vigour it once had.
And yet, days ago, when word came that enemies were approaching, he had strapped on his armour, taken up his sword, and charged out, breathing heavily the whole way.
That was Dwarven stubbornness. And it was an oath.
From the day the quest for Erebor ended, the King under the Mountain had sworn: never again would he hide behind his kin and friends.
"I have nothing different to say," Thorin said.
Watching the enemy scatter and retreat under the dragon's breath, he let out a breath of relief.
If Pinky had not arrived, this fight would have dragged on for quite a while longer.
And Pinky, after finishing here, immediately took wing toward Rhovanion. Someone was calling for him.
What Thorin did not know was that while he sat reflecting on how often war had come knocking lately, things were already growing loud at the Black Gate.
Creaaaak.
The colossal doors of black metal, so tall their tops vanished from sight, ground open just enough to let a figure through.
A tall Man rode out on a grotesque black horse.
"My master, Sauron the Great, bids you welcome," he said.
As he spoke, the envoy surveyed the army before him, and his composure faltered slightly.
Facing him stood fifty thousand troops assembled by the Free City-States, plus twenty thousand more from Gondor and Rohan combined. Every one of them was a hardened fighter.
Seventy thousand in all, massed before the Black Gate, their ranks stretching far into the distance.
And that was with a garrison left behind to hold the home front. The true number could have been higher still.
As for the leadership, the roster was staggering.
At the very front of the host stood the Lord of the North, the man whose list of titles would leave you breathless if you tried to recite them all, the most powerful living legend Middle-earth had seen in nearly a century: Levi.
At his side stood Aragorn, the prophesied king; Gandalf the White; Saruman, who had tagged along out of curiosity; the hobbits Pippin and Merry; Denethor, Steward of Gondor; Boromir and Faramir, commanders of Gondor; Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth; Halbarad and the Dúnedain Rangers of the Grey Company; Legolas, prince of the Woodland Realm; Gimli of Durin's Folk; King Théoden of Rohan and his son Théodred; and a full complement of Marshals of the Mark.
You could not take in all the leaders at a single glance.
From within the host, Gandalf recognised the lone figure before the gate.
"That is the Mouth of Sauron," he said. "The vessel of Sauron's will. Perhaps we should hear what he has to say."
The Mouth of Sauron looked at the army arrayed against him and felt, even with Sauron at his back, deeply uneasy.
The scale reminded him of the Last Alliance at the end of the previous Age, though the combined forces of Men and Elves had been considerably larger then.
Of course, Mordor's own strength had been far greater in those days as well.
But that was another era. Past and present could not be judged by the same measure.
The Mouth of Sauron drew a slow breath. His gaze swept past Aragorn and the assembled leaders, then settled on Levi at the head of the army.
"Esteemed Legend," he said, "it is an honour to meet you once again."
Indeed. The envoy who had come to the South Riverbend fortress years ago to negotiate with Levi was the same man.
Levi answered, his voice flat and cold.
"Say what you came to say. Or tell your master to stop hiding and come out and say it himself. If there's nothing else, he can sit in that tower and wait to die."
The Mouth of Sauron showed no particular reaction to that. He simply lowered his tone, as if bowing a little deeper.
"My lord, I do not think we need to be so hostile. I have come because my master wishes me to deliver a message."
"Mordor, and the many powers of the East and South, would be honoured to name you Lord of Middle-earth, and serve you. What say you?"
The whole world was there for the taking.
(End of Chapter)