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Lotr: Playing Minecraft in Middle-earth - 352
🕑 Added 2025-12-06 03:12:11 +0000 UTCChapter 352: Dreams and Hope
Clink.
Their cups met with a clear ring as the two brothers drank to their men, then to each other.
“Remember today, little brother,” Boromir said with a loud laugh. “Today, life is good!”
Faramir smiled back. They drained their wine in one pull, joy too full for words.
Happy hours were always short.
All at once, sharp-eyed Faramir turned his head and looked into the crowd.
The smile faded from his face.
“What is it?” Boromir asked, puzzled.
“He is here,” Faramir said.
Boromir followed his gaze.
A tall figure stood not far away, laughing and talking with the soldiers, clapping one on the shoulder, murmuring some word of praise to another.
On this rare day of victory and rest, he had set aside his usual stern silence and was making himself one of them.
“He never leaves us a moment’s peace,” Boromir muttered to his brother, his smile turning wry.
“Where is he?” the newcomer was asking among the men.
“Where is Gondor’s greatest son, my firstborn?”
“Father,” Boromir said.
For all his faint exasperation, he schooled his face to a smile and stepped out to embrace his father.
Denethor truly did set great store by his elder son.
“They say you nearly single-handedly broke the enemy,” the Steward said.
“That is too much, Father. Faramir was as brave and more cunning. He did as much as I.”
At that, Denethor’s face hardened at once.
“If not for Faramir, there would have been no city to retake,” he snapped.
He turned on his younger son.
“Were you not in charge of holding the eastern city? I hear you dragged Boromir into a retreat without a fight.”
“I could have held, but we had too few men to mount any real resistance. If we had not fallen back, we would only have thrown their lives away…” Faramir said, helplessly.
Denethor had no wish to hear it.
When a man has taken against something, even what is good and useful will look wrong to him.
“Too few men, was it?” Denethor cut across, voice sharp. “You let the Enemy come and go as he pleased, walk in and take our city without so much as a scratch.”
“And then you think to complain to me of this and that.”
“That was never my intent,” Faramir said softly.
Helplessness and hurt mixed in his eyes.
Boromir could stand no more.
“You never have a kind word for him, not even though he has always been loyal and obedient,” he burst out, rare in his open defiance.
“He loves you, Father.”
“Do not plague me with Faramir,” Denethor said, impatient. “I know his talents: he has none worth naming.”
Boromir had no answer.
An unjust father often sows strife among his sons.
For the two of them to be as close as they were, with a father who lifted one up only to grind the other down, was no small wonder.
They endured it as best they could. Faramir, being the gentler, never talked back at all; Boromir, being the straighter, would sometimes, as today, speak up on his brother’s behalf. But no matter how aggrieved they felt, in the end, they both obeyed.
For when their father had been young, he had truly been great.
At the front, he had led his men in rout after rout of the Orcs, driving them in pieces almost to the very gates of Mordor. In the high seat, he had seen the Enemy’s moves coming as if he could read the yet-unbroken day, and answered with perfect counsels.
Men said that Denethor had once chased a Nazgûl across the plain of Ithilien with only an iron sword in his hand.
In the face of that one man and that one blade, the Ringwraith had been forced to yield ground and withdraw from his path.
By contrast, when the brothers faced the Nazgûl, they had to order a strategic retreat, drawing their troops back and circling with great care.
For all these reasons, they obeyed their father. They feared his power and loved him for what he was and had been.
Because he truly was mighty, and they knew it.
“Father…”
Boromir drew breath and chose to change the subject.
“Father, I have had a dream,” he said.
“Oh? What dream is this?” Denethor asked.
Even on campaign, on a day of triumph and ease like this, he was willing to talk of smaller things, to warm the ties between them.
“I dreamed of thunder rolling in the high airs, of dark cloud covering the land, and of a light spearing down through the cloud from the North,” Boromir said.
“I dreamed of a silver-white host, and of a council in a place of peace. In that council, there appeared the Bane of Isildur… and a Halfling who stepped forward.”
“I feel in my heart that this is hope: hope of an end to the suffering of our people.”
“Hope?” Denethor’s tone was scornful.
“I do not believe in misty, formless hope,” he said sharply. “Victory is to be won by iron will and the struggle of blood.”
“But Faramir has had this same dream,” Boromir said.
“That cannot be mere chance, Father. He means to go to the place it points to.”
“Then let him go,” Denethor snorted.
“No, Father. The road is too perilous. I would go myself,” Boromir said.
“You?” Denethor’s brows drew into a deep frown.
“You spoil him too much. You will only make him worse.”
“Please, let me go,” Boromir said.
He bowed his head. His voice stayed level, but there was iron in it.
Denethor looked at him in silence for a long while.
“My good son has grown bold indeed, to stand there and gainsay his own father,” he said at last.
“I…”
“Go, then,” Denethor sighed.
He thought a moment, then reached into his robe and brought out a golden apple, gleaming softly.
For a man who had been harsh all his life, he yielded once and let Boromir have his will.
He told him what the apple was and where it had come from.
“In my life, I have been wounded more times than I can count,” he said. “And each time, I held back from using this.”
“But I would have you keep it, and use it on yourself if you must, in some dire hour. That is my one small selfish wish.”
An unbreakable iron sword. A golden apple. And love.
“I give you all that is most precious to me,” Denethor said.
“Go, Boromir. I trust you.”
“Yes, Father,” Boromir said.
The weight of that love warmed him.
It did not last.
“Oh, and one more thing,” Denethor said.
“You spoke of the ‘Bane of Isildur’. I know what that means. It is the Enemy’s greatest weapon: the One Ring.”
“Mordor is gathering its hosts. Sauron is waiting for his chance. If he lays hands on that Ring, all is lost. We shall not be able to stand before him.”
“If your dream truly is so sure a guide, if the One really has appeared in the North…”
“Listen to me, Boromir. The Ring must be kept in safe hands,” he said.
“It must not fall into the Enemy’s grasp.”
“I know how deadly it is. I know it can rot a man’s heart. But I trust you. Your will is strong. You can hold against it.”
“Think, Boromir. All these years, it has been our soldiers who have bled at the front, who have stood and fallen to hold back Mordor and all the powers of the South from trampling the Free Peoples. Even that great northern realm under Levi’s hand has not done more than we have.”
“You understand me, do you not?” he finished.
“…”
Boromir lowered his eyes. His eyes flickered.
At the gates of Osgiliath, he said his last farewell.
“Remember today, little brother,” he said.
“Remember this day full of joy and hope… and parting.”
That same day, fresh from victory, Boromir unbuckled his heavy war-gear, donned lighter armour better suited to travel, and set out north.
At the same time, Gandalf and Aragorn left Bree with four Hobbits, hurrying east.
They would outpace Boromir easily.
“Welcome. Fine timing. I have just come back myself,” Levi said.
At the gate of Roadside Keep, he dismounted to greet the six travellers: one wizard, one ranger, and four Hobbits.
“Yes, it is a neat coincidence. I had barely reached Bree when I stumbled on them,” Gandalf said, and began to explain. Aragorn, as ever, took himself off to one side and sat down in silence.
Like the other older rangers, if there was no need for words, he was as quiet as stone.
“Wow…”
The four Hobbits were nothing like so calm. Heads tilted back, eyes wide, they stared at everything inside the walls of Roadside Keep.
“This is lovelier than any view I have ever seen. Look at that tree!” Merry cried, pointing towards the distant Mallorn.
“I have heard of it,” Frodo said.
“Bilbo told me. It is called Mallorn. It only grows in the Golden Wood on the eastern side of the Misty Mountains. West of the mountains, there is only this one, here in Roadside Keep.”
“Then we must get a proper look at it,” Pippin said.
“I am a bit hungry. Could we eat first?” Sam put in.
He was the calmest of the four, but that was mostly because the round Hobbit was truly starving.
“Mr Frodo, you have seen how we have been living these past days,” he went on mournfully. “Only three meals a day. These two will not eat second breakfast, or elevenses, or afternoon tea, or supper…”
Frodo could only give a helpless smile.
“We will have to learn to adapt, Sam,” he said.
Adapt?
Not everyone shared that view.
Pippin’s eyes gleamed. He sidled round behind Aragorn and suddenly popped up with a shout.
“Hey! Strider!”
Aragorn looked at him, face utterly blank, not so much as a twitch of reaction.
They stared at one another for a long, stiff moment before Aragorn said,
“Give it up. Levi tried that trick on me when I was a boy.”
“Fine. Spoilsport,” Pippin huffed.
Then another thought struck him.
“Anyway, you know this place, right? My friend is hungry. Could you show us where to find something to eat?” he asked.
“This is our first time in Roadside Keep. I have heard so much about it. All the best beer and food come from here, and the pipe-weed too. They say the weed here has a gentle taste, very… peaceful, and the quality is always steady.”
Aragorn chuckled softly.
“Peaceful. Steady,” he echoed.
“That is not badly said,” he agreed.
“Aragorn, over here,” Gandalf called just then, beckoning to him.
Aragorn rose.
“You will not need me to guide you,” he said to Pippin. “Just go on in. Someone will tell you what to do.”
“Wait. What if there are people with ill intent? Like that spy in Bree?” Pippin said.
“There will not be,” Aragorn said, with a wave of his hand.
Then he turned and walked over to Gandalf and Levi.
