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Lotr: Playing Minecraft in Middle-earth - 341
🕑 Added 2025-12-01 01:08:19 +0000 UTCChapter 341: The Leak
That little trip out the door…
“Ah…”
Levi could not hold back a sigh.
Shelob had not been slain. Her hide was thicker than he had expected, thicker than a dragon’s. After hacking her half to pieces, he still let her escape.
He had already hunted her for more than a month. It was hard to justify staying there any longer.
Still, in her state, she would not be prowling for a long time. That pass was as good as safe.
Then there was Gollum.
The little wretch had not turned up either. He simply was not there.
That was not a great concern. With Odd-leg watching the pass, his troops would be searching for Gollum. All Levi had to do was wait for word.
The journey had not been fruitless. At least he had gained an Orc captain as an inside man.
Sauron would never suspect that an Orc could be a traitor.
The breed might be chaotic and prone to wrecking their own plans with infighting, but in all the long ages, not one Orc had ever betrayed its highest master.
They were born of darkness. Their nature bound them to the shadow’s side.
For that reason, the dark lords had always been almost careless of their loyalty. They might think Orcs clumsy tools, or too weak, and design new breeds to improve on them. But the thought that Orcs might be turned by the enemy was one they almost never troubled with.
Not that Orcs were worthless. For Mordor, they were an important resource of war.
It was simply that their usefulness was one matter…
“I can stay here a while yet,” Levi said.
He was still speaking with Denethor in the high hall.
“If they truly mean to move, I will be here.”
“And not only I.”
At that, Denethor felt his heart steady.
Yes. Not only Levi, but the strength behind him.
If Gondor had possessed the might of the Free Cities, would the Corsairs of Umbar and the Haradrim on the southern border have been so bold?
They would have been cowering in their own lands.
Denethor had little he felt he needed to keep from Levi. As they talked, he let slip secrets few in Gondor knew, some known only to himself.
The garrison of Minas Tirith, for example, and how it was placed and armed. At present, the city guard and the reinforcements from the fiefs together numbered more than twenty thousand, all well-equipped and seasoned.
Even if the tens of thousands of Orcs and thousands of Trolls in Mordor marched on them, Gondor could meet them in open battle and not be crushed at once. There was room to move.
To choose to do that was another matter.
Those twenty thousand were Gondor’s main strength. The Orcs massed beyond the river were only a part of Mordor’s.
Only a part, and still they were enough to make Men short of breath.
For safety’s sake, Levi remained in Gondor for several months.
Unlike Gandalf, he was received everywhere with open courtesy. From Denethor, stern and reserved in the eyes of his people, downwards, all Gondor made him welcome.
Faramir too, now a grown young man, often came to Levi to ask questions. This time, Denethor did not bar his way. It was rare to see him encourage his younger son.
“Learn from Levi,” Denethor told him. “He once stood alone before an army of ten thousand and broke it, sending them fleeing. He is brave and strong.”
“You are careful and considerate of others. That helps you read their hearts. But it will not be enough when you face the deepest evil.”
“Father, your words teach me much, but… I still see some things differently,” Faramir began.
Denethor had little patience for his objections. He cut him off.
“You have not stood before the darkness. You do not know what I speak of. I do not blame you.”
“But you must learn from your brother.”
“Yes, Father,” Faramir said quietly, bowing his head.
He had long grown used to the favour his brother enjoyed.
So used to it that he no longer truly minded.
The Grey Wizard he honoured had once told him that will and courage lived more in the heart than on the tongue, and showed themselves in deeds, not in fine words and promises.
The end of it all would only be known if he walked his own road and tried.
“Do not mind him. Do what is yours to do,” someone said beside him one night when Levi found him staring up at the sky with a shadowed face.
Faramir nodded.
His father had told him to learn from Levi. Levi was telling him to follow his own path.
The two counsels did not quite match, but his father had said he should listen to Levi.
Taken together, Levi’s words weighed more.
“So be it. I understand,” Faramir said.
Levi had no notion what the boy thought he had understood, but he nodded anyway.
“As long as you are at peace with yourself. You do not need to be your brother. You are two different men.”
After a few more words, he did not linger.
When the year’s end came, and it was clear that Mordor meant only to strengthen its defences and had no larger move in hand, he left Gondor and returned to his own lands.
On his way, he stopped in Rohan.
Théoden was still hale. There was no disquieting figure in the Golden Hall.
Saruman had kept himself quietly honest in recent years. “Wormtongue” Gríma seemed to have lost his place in the story. He had still not appeared, and likely would never stand in the hall as “advisor to Rohan.”
After Levi withdrew, the ripples began.
In the next year, Gondor’s western host was drawn back in stages and spread to other posts.
Only two Orc companies and their two captains remained to hold the tower of Cirith Ungol halfway up the mountain.
The Watchers at the gate were repaired. They were plainly smaller and less fearsome than before.
After that, more than a year went by before Mordor’s state of emergency was lifted.
Gondor breathed again.
That year, Faramir was formally sent to the front to serve beside his brother in Osgiliath.
The brothers stood watch over the Great River, one in the western half of the city, one in the eastern, keeping guard for each other.
Time flowed on. Change came softly.
Some grew harder under the weathering of war.
Others cracked under torment, until their strength gave way and they spat out all they knew.
“The Shire. He is in the Shire. His name is Baggins!”
The wail came from deep within Mordor.
