The trumpet's blare
ripped through the uneasy stillness, and Frodo lifted his eyes toward the
east, shivering against the chill that never left his heart. The horizon
shimmered blood-red. Shadows clung to the Citadel, blocking the sun, and
sometimes Frodo could not discern between the poisonous haze that drifted
in from Mordor and the Nazgul that circled Minas Tirith like vultures.
Behind the hushed crowd in the midst of a fountain, a barren tree, once
majestic and full of white bloom -- so Frodo had heard -- now resembled
the carcass of a bloated spider from one of Bilbo's tales.
At least Rivendell will likely be the last to fall into
shadow.
Frodo clung to that hope with his tattered senses.
After all, out of those he loved dearly, he had nobody but Bilbo left.
Orcs had captured his dear Sam, Merry, and Pippin that fateful day by the
Anduin, and they had been marched past the gruesome corpses of Elf, Man,
and Dwarf. Frodo's heart twisted with misery whenever he imagined his
merry cousins and Sam at the mercy of creatures who tortured for sport.
But there was no use thinking of it now. Nobody could help them.
Perhaps it was better for them that they were not
witness to this beginning of a new age.
All that remained of the nine that had stood before
Elrond in Rivendell and vowed to carry through the destruction of the Ring
were Frodo and this mighty captain of war with keen cruel eyes that Frodo
had once known as Strider.
The great throng of battle-weary men fell into
pale-lipped silence. None dared speak when the Captain stepped forth into
the Citadel's courtyard and watched them with gleaming eyes, searching
their hearts for dissent and betrayal. But who would dare even think
against His reclaiming of the Kingship when He had stormed Pelennor Fields
like the wave that had buried ancient Numenor, a gem gleaming on His brow
like a beacon of hope from over the sea. Who would dare think against Him
who had driven away the hosts of Mordor, save the fearsome wraiths, which
He had bent to His will. He had promised eternal peace for Gondor, He had
healed the wounded, including their beloved Faramir, from their battle
hurts, and all He required was their abiding allegiance.
Just a few more days,
Frodo shivered. In this city of stone shadows, he was never warm.
Just a few more days, just long enough for Aragorn
to secure the city. He promised to give it back after that.
Frodo's entire being ached from his need for it. He
never stopped craving it, neither in wakefulness nor sleep. He's never
known such deep chilling pain and want (much as one who had experienced
only minor hunger pangs between meals could not really understand
starvation) – as if his very insides throbbed with infection.
Faramir stepped forward before the withered tree,
and he faced the pale crowd. Frodo perceived the dread in Faramir's heart
and hoped for his sake that he would hide it. The air hung heavy and
ominous, as just before a storm. "Men of Gondor, hear now the Steward of
this Realm. Behold! One has come to claim the kingship again at last. Here
is Aragorn son of Arathorn, chieftain of the Dunedain of Arnor, Captain of
the Host of the West, bearer of the Star of the North, wielder of the
Sword Reforged, victorious in battle, who claimed a weapon unforeseen and
mightier than any in Middle-earth to lead Gondor to victory against the
Enemy. Shall he be king?"
Fear hung in the air, palpable, but they managed a
chorus of "Yea!"
Aragorn was far stronger than Frodo had been. The
chain that held the Ring did not chafe His neck, nor did it cause His feet
to stumble. The Nazgul did not attack Him; rather they bowed before their
new lord.
The Ring was near. It pulsed under His armor. It
called to Frodo, mocking him, whispering and laughing in the King's cruel
voice.
Frodo closed his eyes, touching the three stumps
where once fingers had been, remembering the first time.
"You are dear to me." The King's eyes reflected a
wheel of fire as he chopped Frodo's finger off with cold precision,
speaking through Frodo's screams of pain as if He did not hear them. "More
dear to me than most. But this I vow, Frodo Baggins. I vow that you shall
lose a piece of yourself each time you try to take back what is mine."
He stopped the bleeding, cleaned the wound, and
bandaged Frodo's hand with tender care, proving once again that the hands
of the King were the hands of a healer. Then He kissed Frodo's brow.
Frodo asked, "But what about what you said before?
That once you had secured Minas Tirith you would take me to Mordor and
we'd destroy it as planned."
The King's laughter chilled Frodo's shoulder like
the deepest Morgul-blade strike.
Faramir spoke again, and he kept his voice
expressionless, dead. "Men of Gondor, the loremasters tell that it was the
custom of old that the king should receive the crown from his father ere
he died, or if that might not be, that he should go alone and take it from
the hands of his father in the tomb where he was laid. But since things
must now be done otherwise, using the authority of the Steward, I have
today brought hither from Rath Dinen the crown of Earnur the last king,
whose days passed in the time of our longfathers of old."
Under the sky's eerie glow, the white-silver crown
gleamed, and flames were reflected in its depths.
The King set the crown upon his head. "Out of the
Great Sea to Middle-earth I am come. In this place will I abide, and my
heirs unto the ending of the world."
Frodo bowed his head. So this is the ending of
the world. It had all gone wrong after Gandalf fell into shadow and
flame. And now there was none left in Middle-earth who had the power and
wisdom to put an end to this.
The King turned his terrible gaze upon Frodo, his
eyes fathomless, and Frodo knew that he would pay dearly for his
treacherous thoughts.
Faramir's voice rang out clear, and, luckily for
him, his voice did not catch. "Behold the King!"
From the wilted tree dropped a dead branch and it
lay beside the fountain, curled and deformed like the hand of a Barrow
Wight in its shadow cave.
