Fic: Mithrandir's Regard, 1/3
May. 30th, 2006 11:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
przedTitle: Mithrandir's Regard
Author: P.R. Zed
Fandom: LotR FPF
Characters: Boromir, Gandalf and the rest of the Fellowship
Rating: G, gen
Summary: Gandalf considers Boromir's childhood and the man he has grown into.
Disclaimer: The characters belong to the Professor; the idea is mine.
Note: Originally published in the zine Warriors of Gondor.
"The race of men is failing. The blood of Númenor is all but spent. Its pride and dignity forgotten."
Elrond's words echoed in Gandalf's mind as he strode through the Elf lord's halls. His feet led him outside, to where the light of the setting sun had gilded the whole of Elrond's realm with a golden luminance. As he walked, he wondered who was the more foolish: Elrond for losing his hope in Men, or himself for seeing Men as Middle Earth's last protectors.
Looking across the stone courtyard, he saw Boromir giving his horse into the keeping of his Elven hosts. Boromir's cloak was stained from the many weeks of travel it must have taken him to reach Imladris, and though his back was proudly straight, his bearing betrayed a deep weariness.
Gandalf had anticipated the arrival of an emissary from Gondor, but he had thought it would be Denethor's other son. It had always been Faramir who sought out Gandalf for his knowledge of Elven lore. Still, knowing how protective Boromir was of his younger brother, Gandalf was not surprised that it was he who had undertaken the journey to Imladris.
"Boromir," Gandalf said, greeting Gondor's Captain with open arms. "Well met."
"Mithrandir," Boromir replied with the polite reserve he always used in the wizard's company.
"How are your father and brother?"
"They were well when I left them," Boromir answered, a shadow clouding his brow at his next words. "But I fear for them, and all our people. Orcs and Southrons are increasingly bold in their raids on our borders."
"So it is in all the free lands." Gandalf shook his head. "But there will be time enough for such talk tomorrow, at Elrond's council. For now, you need food and rest." Gandalf gestured to one of Elrond's household, waiting discreetly out of earshot. "This good Elf will show you to rooms where you may sleep and bring you victuals from the kitchens."
"Thank you, Mithrandir. It will be good to sleep in a bed not made from rock and twig. Thank Master Elrond for his hospitality." Boromir turned and was escorted away by Elrond's retainer.
Watching Boromir's retreating form, Gandalf could not help but feel a melancholy that it took such threat of destruction to bring an emissary of Gondor to Imladris. Boromir had seen much in his lifetime that he should have been spared. And yet there had been a time, however brief, when Gandalf had thought that they would all be spared from the war that lurked in the all-too-near future. A time when he'd thought they could prevent the return of the Enemy without the threat of total war.
Gandalf turned his thoughts back, to a time when Boromir knew only the love of his family and when all of Gondor knew the joy of victory.
The balcony of the Steward's room in Gondor offered a splendid view of the gardens beneath. In springtime, a visitor to the balcony could see the tender green of new growth and the flashes of colour from early blooming flowers, could smell the distinctive scent of fresh earth and growing things. Ecthelion led Gandalf out to the balcony, a look of pleasure suffusing his face.
"You must see the jewel of my city, Mithrandir," he said,
Looking below, Gandalf could see immediately that it was not the garden to which Steward was referring. The garden had three guests: Denethor, Finduilas, and their young son, Boromir. The chubby-cheeked toddler was leading his parents on a merry chase through flowerbeds and around hedges. As Gandalf watched, astounded, Denethor tripped over an exposed root and collapsed, laughing, in a heap, only to be trounced by his giggling son.
"Young Boromir is the best thing to happen to my son," Ecthelion said, a fond look lighting up his features. "Since his marriage," he quickly corrected himself. "I had never seen him so happy before Finduilas and Boromir entered his life. Even as a child he had a sternness about him."
"How old is your grandson?"
"Nearly two. And a right terror he is. His parents are all too willing to do his bidding."
"And his grandfather too, no doubt."
"Aye, you've caught me out there, Mithrandir." Ecthelion's smile widened further. "The scamp well knows that I dote on him. But he's a sweet child, and not at all spoiled, in spite of our indulgence of him."
"He looks to have the makings of a great fighter." Said fighter was currently being tickled by his father, and fighting back with flailing arms and fists.
"That he does. Though I have hopes that he will also know peace." Ecthelion sighed. "But I did not summon you here to listen to the ramblings of a devoted grandfather."
"I had wondered what the great Ecthelion wanted from a poor wanderer such as myself."
"You are considered so much more than a poor wanderer in Gondor, Mithrandir. But you distract me from my purpose." The Steward fumbled with his robes, his hand emerging from them with a well-worn parchment. "You have heard of Thorongil's most recent deed?"
"I have heard rumours that he fought the Corsairs at Umbar."
"Fought and defeated them. And burned their ships to the waterline. He has won a great victory for Gondor."
"So it would seem."
"And yet he has chosen this time, when I most would do him honour, to leave my service." Ecthelion thrust the parchment into Gandalf's hand. "This missive is his final message to me."
Other tasks now call me, lord, Gandalf read, and much time and many perils must pass ere I come again to Gondor, if that be my fate.
"What make you of this note?" Ecthelion asked.
"Nothing but what it says: that Thorongil has found other tasks to complete."
"He has confessed nothing to you?"
"Nothing, my lord."
"I know you share his confidence. I had hoped you knew his mind in this. But be that as it may, I would ask a boon of you."
"How can I be of service?"
"Ask Thorongil to return to Gondor. Whatever he asks of me shall be his, as long as he returns."
"He is his own man, Ecthelion. I have no hold over him."
"Please ask him anyway, Mithrandir. I'm sure he will listen to you."
The Steward of Gondor was a great man in his own right, and not given to begging favours. Gandalf could see what it had cost him to ask for this assistance. Yet it was not in his power to grant such a thing. Though he did not know Thorongil's plans--in that much he had not lied to the Steward--he did know that the soldier had of late expressed a need to retire and consider his position. Thorongil also worried that some might think he was usurping Denethor's position in his father's eyes, a thing he had no wish to do.
Gandalf spread his hands before him. "I am afraid I could not do that, even if I knew where to find him. Which I do not. Thorongil is firm in his resolve, as you well know. Once he has decided on a course of action, he will not be swayed from it. Is not that how he convinced you that the Corsairs could be defeated?"
Ecthelion fixed Gandalf with a glare for a full minute, as if he would argue with him, but could not decide how to marshal that argument. Finally he looked away and his shoulders sagged, the fight leaving him in an instant.
"You are right, Mithrandir. None of us can sway Thorongil from his chosen path. Not even the Grey Wanderer." A great sigh wracked the Steward's frame. "I suppose I knew that all along, though I'd hoped I was wrong. Just as I'd hoped that the King would return in my lifetime, that I would see the blooming of the White Tree once before I die." And then Ecthelion looked at Gandalf with such perception that Gandalf was certain for a moment that Ecthelion knew the true identity of Thorongil, knew that he was Arathorn's son and of the line of Gondor's kings. But the moment passed, and Gandalf knew such thinking was a fancy only. He gave his old friend a gentle smile, and the best answer he could.
"You have some years before you," Gandalf replied. "You may yet see a King on Gondor's throne and the White Tree alive in the courtyard."
"I wish I had your confidence," Ecthelion said, sounding suddenly tired.
"In the meantime, you should enjoy the gifts you have been given." Gandalf looked down to the lawn where Denethor and Finduilas played a game of hide and seek with their son. Squeals of childish pleasure drifted up to the balcony. "That is where your future lies, with your son and grandson. Enjoy them while you can. And let the people know that Denethor is to be admired as much as Thorongil, though his gifts are different."
Ecthelion watched his family for a minute, then clapped Gandalf on the shoulder. "You are wise, indeed, my friend. I will follow your advice. And you must let me pay you for that advice with a feast fit for a king."
"I will settle for free rein in your library for a week."
"You shall have both," Ecthelion said, laughing.
With difficulty, Gandalf wrenched his thoughts back to the present. Though Boromir had brought much honour to his people, Gondor had not seen a victory like Thorongil's for some years. The darkness was closing in about them all.
Yet, there was still cause for hope, and more still might arise at tomorrow's council. Perhaps the time had come when all the races of Middle Earth could unite to common purpose, when Elf would again ally with Dwarf and when Ecthelion's grandson would fight side by side with a Thorongil who now wore his true name: Aragorn, son of Arathorn.
But the future was yet a hidden path, even to one such as Gandalf the Grey. So he nursed his hopes deep within and waited to see what the next day's dawn would bring.
TBC
Author: P.R. Zed
Fandom: LotR FPF
Characters: Boromir, Gandalf and the rest of the Fellowship
Rating: G, gen
Summary: Gandalf considers Boromir's childhood and the man he has grown into.
Disclaimer: The characters belong to the Professor; the idea is mine.
Note: Originally published in the zine Warriors of Gondor.
"The race of men is failing. The blood of Númenor is all but spent. Its pride and dignity forgotten."
Elrond's words echoed in Gandalf's mind as he strode through the Elf lord's halls. His feet led him outside, to where the light of the setting sun had gilded the whole of Elrond's realm with a golden luminance. As he walked, he wondered who was the more foolish: Elrond for losing his hope in Men, or himself for seeing Men as Middle Earth's last protectors.
Looking across the stone courtyard, he saw Boromir giving his horse into the keeping of his Elven hosts. Boromir's cloak was stained from the many weeks of travel it must have taken him to reach Imladris, and though his back was proudly straight, his bearing betrayed a deep weariness.
Gandalf had anticipated the arrival of an emissary from Gondor, but he had thought it would be Denethor's other son. It had always been Faramir who sought out Gandalf for his knowledge of Elven lore. Still, knowing how protective Boromir was of his younger brother, Gandalf was not surprised that it was he who had undertaken the journey to Imladris.
"Boromir," Gandalf said, greeting Gondor's Captain with open arms. "Well met."
"Mithrandir," Boromir replied with the polite reserve he always used in the wizard's company.
"How are your father and brother?"
"They were well when I left them," Boromir answered, a shadow clouding his brow at his next words. "But I fear for them, and all our people. Orcs and Southrons are increasingly bold in their raids on our borders."
"So it is in all the free lands." Gandalf shook his head. "But there will be time enough for such talk tomorrow, at Elrond's council. For now, you need food and rest." Gandalf gestured to one of Elrond's household, waiting discreetly out of earshot. "This good Elf will show you to rooms where you may sleep and bring you victuals from the kitchens."
"Thank you, Mithrandir. It will be good to sleep in a bed not made from rock and twig. Thank Master Elrond for his hospitality." Boromir turned and was escorted away by Elrond's retainer.
Watching Boromir's retreating form, Gandalf could not help but feel a melancholy that it took such threat of destruction to bring an emissary of Gondor to Imladris. Boromir had seen much in his lifetime that he should have been spared. And yet there had been a time, however brief, when Gandalf had thought that they would all be spared from the war that lurked in the all-too-near future. A time when he'd thought they could prevent the return of the Enemy without the threat of total war.
Gandalf turned his thoughts back, to a time when Boromir knew only the love of his family and when all of Gondor knew the joy of victory.
The balcony of the Steward's room in Gondor offered a splendid view of the gardens beneath. In springtime, a visitor to the balcony could see the tender green of new growth and the flashes of colour from early blooming flowers, could smell the distinctive scent of fresh earth and growing things. Ecthelion led Gandalf out to the balcony, a look of pleasure suffusing his face.
"You must see the jewel of my city, Mithrandir," he said,
Looking below, Gandalf could see immediately that it was not the garden to which Steward was referring. The garden had three guests: Denethor, Finduilas, and their young son, Boromir. The chubby-cheeked toddler was leading his parents on a merry chase through flowerbeds and around hedges. As Gandalf watched, astounded, Denethor tripped over an exposed root and collapsed, laughing, in a heap, only to be trounced by his giggling son.
"Young Boromir is the best thing to happen to my son," Ecthelion said, a fond look lighting up his features. "Since his marriage," he quickly corrected himself. "I had never seen him so happy before Finduilas and Boromir entered his life. Even as a child he had a sternness about him."
"How old is your grandson?"
"Nearly two. And a right terror he is. His parents are all too willing to do his bidding."
"And his grandfather too, no doubt."
"Aye, you've caught me out there, Mithrandir." Ecthelion's smile widened further. "The scamp well knows that I dote on him. But he's a sweet child, and not at all spoiled, in spite of our indulgence of him."
"He looks to have the makings of a great fighter." Said fighter was currently being tickled by his father, and fighting back with flailing arms and fists.
"That he does. Though I have hopes that he will also know peace." Ecthelion sighed. "But I did not summon you here to listen to the ramblings of a devoted grandfather."
"I had wondered what the great Ecthelion wanted from a poor wanderer such as myself."
"You are considered so much more than a poor wanderer in Gondor, Mithrandir. But you distract me from my purpose." The Steward fumbled with his robes, his hand emerging from them with a well-worn parchment. "You have heard of Thorongil's most recent deed?"
"I have heard rumours that he fought the Corsairs at Umbar."
"Fought and defeated them. And burned their ships to the waterline. He has won a great victory for Gondor."
"So it would seem."
"And yet he has chosen this time, when I most would do him honour, to leave my service." Ecthelion thrust the parchment into Gandalf's hand. "This missive is his final message to me."
Other tasks now call me, lord, Gandalf read, and much time and many perils must pass ere I come again to Gondor, if that be my fate.
"What make you of this note?" Ecthelion asked.
"Nothing but what it says: that Thorongil has found other tasks to complete."
"He has confessed nothing to you?"
"Nothing, my lord."
"I know you share his confidence. I had hoped you knew his mind in this. But be that as it may, I would ask a boon of you."
"How can I be of service?"
"Ask Thorongil to return to Gondor. Whatever he asks of me shall be his, as long as he returns."
"He is his own man, Ecthelion. I have no hold over him."
"Please ask him anyway, Mithrandir. I'm sure he will listen to you."
The Steward of Gondor was a great man in his own right, and not given to begging favours. Gandalf could see what it had cost him to ask for this assistance. Yet it was not in his power to grant such a thing. Though he did not know Thorongil's plans--in that much he had not lied to the Steward--he did know that the soldier had of late expressed a need to retire and consider his position. Thorongil also worried that some might think he was usurping Denethor's position in his father's eyes, a thing he had no wish to do.
Gandalf spread his hands before him. "I am afraid I could not do that, even if I knew where to find him. Which I do not. Thorongil is firm in his resolve, as you well know. Once he has decided on a course of action, he will not be swayed from it. Is not that how he convinced you that the Corsairs could be defeated?"
Ecthelion fixed Gandalf with a glare for a full minute, as if he would argue with him, but could not decide how to marshal that argument. Finally he looked away and his shoulders sagged, the fight leaving him in an instant.
"You are right, Mithrandir. None of us can sway Thorongil from his chosen path. Not even the Grey Wanderer." A great sigh wracked the Steward's frame. "I suppose I knew that all along, though I'd hoped I was wrong. Just as I'd hoped that the King would return in my lifetime, that I would see the blooming of the White Tree once before I die." And then Ecthelion looked at Gandalf with such perception that Gandalf was certain for a moment that Ecthelion knew the true identity of Thorongil, knew that he was Arathorn's son and of the line of Gondor's kings. But the moment passed, and Gandalf knew such thinking was a fancy only. He gave his old friend a gentle smile, and the best answer he could.
"You have some years before you," Gandalf replied. "You may yet see a King on Gondor's throne and the White Tree alive in the courtyard."
"I wish I had your confidence," Ecthelion said, sounding suddenly tired.
"In the meantime, you should enjoy the gifts you have been given." Gandalf looked down to the lawn where Denethor and Finduilas played a game of hide and seek with their son. Squeals of childish pleasure drifted up to the balcony. "That is where your future lies, with your son and grandson. Enjoy them while you can. And let the people know that Denethor is to be admired as much as Thorongil, though his gifts are different."
Ecthelion watched his family for a minute, then clapped Gandalf on the shoulder. "You are wise, indeed, my friend. I will follow your advice. And you must let me pay you for that advice with a feast fit for a king."
"I will settle for free rein in your library for a week."
"You shall have both," Ecthelion said, laughing.
With difficulty, Gandalf wrenched his thoughts back to the present. Though Boromir had brought much honour to his people, Gondor had not seen a victory like Thorongil's for some years. The darkness was closing in about them all.
Yet, there was still cause for hope, and more still might arise at tomorrow's council. Perhaps the time had come when all the races of Middle Earth could unite to common purpose, when Elf would again ally with Dwarf and when Ecthelion's grandson would fight side by side with a Thorongil who now wore his true name: Aragorn, son of Arathorn.
But the future was yet a hidden path, even to one such as Gandalf the Grey. So he nursed his hopes deep within and waited to see what the next day's dawn would bring.
TBC
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Date: 2006-05-31 04:01 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-06-01 02:23 am (UTC)I just posted the next bit.
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Date: 2006-05-31 03:35 pm (UTC)~Kris
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