Showing posts with label part 11. Show all posts
Showing posts with label part 11. Show all posts

Monday, September 8, 2025

The Lord of the Rings: The Siege of Gondor (Part 11)


The Tale

‘Pippin left him and called for the servants[.]’ Six men come, trembling at the summons. Denethor has them lay warm covers over Faramir and bids them take up his bed. They proceed slowly out of the chamber, followed by Denethor, ‘bending on a staff’, and last of all Pippin.

They leave the White Tower like a funeral procession, the overhanging clouds flickering red with the fires below. They pause for a moment by the withered White Tree, the fountain’s dripping water from its dead branches dropping like tears into the pool below. They pass out of the Citadel gate, and those they see them pass look on in wonder and dismay.

Going westward they come to a door in a wall towards the rear of the sixth circle. This gate is called Fen Hollen [Fen=Door, Hollen=Closed], and was only opened at times of funeral. This takes a winding road to the ‘mansions of the dead Kings and of their Stewards.’ Denethor bids the porter open the gate and they take the lantern from his hand. They pass down to Rath Dinen, the Silent Street, past pale domes and empty halls and statues of men long dead, until they come to the House of the Stewards. They enter in and lay down their burden.




In the little light of the lantern Pippin sees they are in a huge, shadowy vaulted room, filled with tables on which lay silent forms with folded arms. There is one table nearby, ‘broad and bare.’ Denethor has them put Faramir there and lies there with him. He commands the bowed servants to bring wood and oil. They will not be embalmed but burned at his command. Speak to him no more.

Pippin takes his leave of Denethor and flees from that deadly place in terror. His only thought is of Faramir, about to be burned alive, and of Gandalf, who might be able to save him. In passing the servants he asks them to go slow and set no fire until Gandalf can get there.

‘Who is the master of Minas Tirith?’ the man answered. ‘The Lord Denethor or the Grey Wanderer?’

‘The Grey Wanderer or no one, it would seem.’ Pippin speeds on out from the tombs and out into the Citadel again. At the gate he is hailed by Beregond, who has heard that Denethor and Faramir have passed through the Closed Door. Pippin confirms this and Beregond despairs that Faramir is dead, then.

But Pippin affirms he is not dead yet, and even might yet be saved, if he can find Gandalf. He has Denthor’s leave but calls the Steward ‘fey and dangerous.’ Beregond directs him down to the battle, and Pippin asks him to go back and do something to stop ‘any dreadful thing happening.’ Beregond replies that he cannot leave his post save at Denethor’s command. ‘Well, you must choose between orders and the life of Faramir.’ Denethor’s loony, I tell you. [Well, he doesn’t use these exact words, but he says this in the Rankin/Bass adaptation, and I thought it one of their more grievous choices of dialogue.] He must go, but the hobbit will return if he can.

Pippin runs down to the Second Gate, past fleeing men who, seeing his livery, urge him to turn back. At the Second Gate he sees great fires flickering over the wall, but all is strangely silent.

‘Suddenly there was a dreadful cry and a great shock and a deep echoing. Forcing himself on against a gust of fear and horror that shook him almost to his knees, Pippin turned a corner opening on the wide place behind the City Gate. He stopped dead. He had found Gandalf; but he shrank back, cowering into a shadow.’

Bits and Bobs

Denethor’s walking ‘bending on a staff’, where before he stood tall and tough, shows his spirit is broken and age fallen upon him.

Rath Dinen features some buildings with balusters, which means ‘pear shaped columns.’

The shadowy forms on the tables in the House of the Stewards seem to be the embalmed bodies of past Stewards. The book has already mentioned that Gondor had long developed such skills in an effort to cheat death, if only in form. But Denethor says no long embalmed sleep for him and Faramir. It may be noted that fire is not only quicker, but it will also keep the conquerors of the City from desecrating their bodies.

Beregond is once more faced with the dilemma: follow orders to the letter, or do the right thing? You may remember Hama, Theoden’s doorward, was faced with the same kind of choice when debating whether to let Gandalf bring his staff into Edoras. Although Pippin has Denethor’s leave, people seeing him racing down to the gate know that guards in his uniform are not supposed to leave the Tower and try to stop him, if not too effectively.

There are only three more pages of this chapter to go; I seem to have lingered over it for months now. But those three are very dramatic and important, well-illustrated many times. Not so this interlude among the tombs.


 

Saturday, May 17, 2025

(Not) Friday Fiction: King Korm (Part 11)



 


At the observation post Sergeant Borl, as liaison officer keeping track of the Camps, had led the officials to the spot he has chosen for them to monitor the final maneuvers, and what was usually a most entertaining mock battle. The Sergeant moved busily around the various mounts (from fancy horses to humble donkeys) and milling visitors, unloading folding stools and setting them in position.

Among the gathered guests were General Thron, as representative of the army, the Herald, as representative of the King, and Sekk, as formal Witness to the proceedings. These three stood together, waiting for the seats to be set up. In front of them was Colonel Drim, who appeared cool and deferential. But the Sergeant could see that there was a slight hint of tension about him. His future career was depending on how this show played out, and what his superiors thought about it. As Borl finished setting the stools up, Drim formally indicated the seats with a military gesture.

“Here you go, my lords,” he said. “A comfortable observation point to watch from.”

“Thank you, Colonel,” Sekk smiled. He sat down stiffly in the chair on the left. “O-o-oh,” he groaned theatrically. Not that he wasn’t really feeling pain, but he knew he was on stage. “These early morning mists aren’t very kindly to old bones.” He smiled at the ludicrous idea that anyone could think of him as elderly – which he manifestly was. Thron, with an air of quiet authority, took the seat in the middle and the Herald sat on the left. Sekk looked around brightly. “Now, what are we looking at here?”

“Ah. Well.” Drim began. His tone was explanatory, as to a civilian, or a child. “As you can see, we are at a mid-point between the two divisions, or Kingdoms, removed a little, of course, so as not to be in the way between them. To the West, on the left …” -he pointed with his baton- “… you can see the lights from King Korm’s camp.” He turned to Thron. “A fair leader. Technically correct, sir, but no flair for command, I’m afraid.”

“So you’ve said,” Thron observed drily.

“Yes, sir.” Drim turned approvingly. “Now, to the East, in the shadow of the hill there …”

The Herald wrinkled his nose. “The hill of the Stone Tombs?”

“Uh, yes, sir,” the Colonel cleared his throat, trying to breeze past the subject. He hurried on warmly. “That is the camp of King Nast, who leads in points this year. In every actual conflict and competition, he has taken away the victory. A master of strategy, in my opinion.” He shook his head. “A shame for poor Mister Korm, but perhaps he shouldn’t have been a King in the first place.”

The Herald furrowed his brow, chasing an elusive memory.

“But wasn’t he nominated by …”

Sekk interrupted him.

“I must say, Nast’s camp doesn’t seem very well organized. Look at all those straggling fires!”

“He doesn’t need quite so many, your Reverence. It’s all due to his rather daring tactic of using the Stone Tombs to protect his rear. Not actually crossing the wall, of course,” he added reassuringly.   

“A most effective maneuver,” Thron said drily. “Of course, it could only work on his fellow Morgs.”

Drim tensed. “But the principle might be applied in other situations,” he said.

“Always depending on if you could find anything that Ogres hold sacred, that is.”  Thron’s tone was sarcastic.

Different deeds for different needs, General.” Drim’s voice was bland. The other Morg snorted.

“Oh, look!” Sekk cried, pointing to the camps. “Something’s happening!”

“Ah. It begins. Keep your eyes on the battle flags, gentlemen.” They all strained through the indefinite morning gloom to where the banners could be seen hanging limp and colorless in either base. A rim of brightness was showing in the East, and the campfires are going out. Drim smiled.

“The first army to capture the enemies’ flag is the victor, of course!” His smile turned to a sneering smirk, unseen as the others peered out at the opposing armies. “This should be a good fight, my lords.” And by good, he thought, I mean short and predictable. 


Notes

The Herald, of course, vaguely remembers that it was Nast who nominated Korm in the first place, but he can't quite locate the fact.