The Mage of Middle-Earth - CH - 96

The sky had begun to lighten ever so slightly behind the black mountains of Mordor, but still the trio pushed on beneath the cloak of night. Sam trudged forward, keeping his eyes on Frodo, whose steps grew wearier with each mile. Gollum slithered along the rocks and roots with ease, his eyes flickering in the starlight.

“It’s changing, Frodo,” Sam whispered, his voice uncertain but hopeful. “The land—it doesn’t feel so dead no more.”

Indeed, the barren crags of Mordor had given way to scattered trees and trickling streams. The sharp scent of rot and ash was gradually replaced by the sweet aroma of blooming herbs and pine. Frodo paused beside a small stream, its waters cold and clear.

“Ithilien,” he murmured. “Gondor's garden once. I never thought I’d see it.”

Sam crouched by the bank, cupping water into his hands and drinking gratefully. Gollum made a retching noise behind them.

“Filthy! Nasty trees, and cruel water! Not for poor Sméagol,” he hissed, clutching his stomach as if the air itself had turned against him.

Sam sighed and stood. “Go on then, Gollum. If you’re so hungry, go find something to eat. But nothing foul, mind you. Rabbits or squirrels, maybe. And be quick about it.”

With a snarl and a twitch, Gollum darted into the undergrowth.

As Gollum disappeared, Sam turned to Frodo, who sat silently, staring at the rippling stream. Sam watched him a moment, then said softly, “I’m not leaving you, Frodo. Not ever. You’re all I’ve got.”

A few hours later, Gollum returned triumphantly, two rabbits swinging from his hands.

“Nice and juicy! Raw and wiggling!” he hissed with delight, preparing to tear into one.

“Hold it right there!” Sam barked. “You’re not eating that raw in front of decent folk. We’ll cook them.”

Gollum snarled in protest, but Sam ignored him. He built a small fire and began preparing a stew, asking Gollum—grudgingly—to gather some herbs.

Frodo stirred as the smell of cooked meat filled the glade. “Sam... you lit a fire?”

“I did,” Sam admitted. “We need strength if we’re going to make it through.”

Frodo frowned. “It’s dangerous, Sam. The fire might be seen.”

Before Sam could reply, voices echoed nearby—deep, commanding, and unmistakably human.

“Who goes there?” called a voice.

From behind the trees, four tall Men emerged, clad in green and brown, with long spears in hand. They moved with the caution of seasoned warriors.

“Orcs?” one asked, eyes narrowing.

“No! Not Orcs!” Sam exclaimed, rising with hands raised. “We’re Hobbits—halflings. Travelers from the Shire.”

The tallest of the men stepped forward, dark hair curling at his shoulders. “I am Faramir, Captain of Gondor,” he said sternly. “You do not belong in this land.”

Frodo stepped beside Sam. “We are companions of Aragorn, son of Arathorn. And Boromir—of Gondor.”

At Boromir’s name, Faramir's expression changed. “Boromir? What do you know of him?”

“He was with us until we parted,” Frodo said gently.

Faramir’s face darkened, his jaw clenched, and for a moment he said nothing. Then he nodded. “Come with us. You will not be harmed.”

They were led under guard by two rangers—Mablung and Damrod—who told them of the danger sweeping through Ithilien.

“Southrons march from the East,” Damrod explained. “They cross the Anduin in great numbers. And now you’ve lit a fire.”

Sam muttered an apology, but before more could be said, horns echoed in the hills.

“The Southrons,” Mablung said grimly. “Faramir engages them.”

Sam and Frodo were led to a rocky ridge where they watched a battle unfold. Southron soldiers, tall and grim in scarlet and gold, surged from the forest. Faramir’s men met them with arrows and blades, cries of “Gondor!” ringing through the air.

Then the earth seemed to shake. Trees parted. From the wood thundered a massive beast—an oliphaunt, a Mûmakil—its tusks glistening, its sides armored.

“By the Shire!” Sam gasped. “That’s... that’s an oliphaunt!”

The creature rampaged through the Southrons, scattering them like leaves. Sam’s eyes sparkled with wonder despite the chaos.

Later, back at the camp, Damrod spoke to them again.

“Rest now. Faramir returns soon, and we must move. You will not be left behind.”

Sam curled beside Frodo. “Let them try,” he whispered. “They won’t take me anywhere you’re not going.”

And sleep, uneasy though it was, came at last.


Sam stirred awake in the early morning gloom of Ithilien, the scent of wet leaves and distant waterfalls filling his nose. A warm patch of sunlight touched his cheek, filtered gently through the treetops. But something felt wrong. The soft murmur of voices drifted through the woodland glade. He sat up sharply.

Frodo was seated before Faramir, the Captain of Gondor, who stood tall and straight in his dark cloak, his hands folded before him. Two of his men stood at a respectful distance, watching silently. Sam crept closer.

"Tell me again," Faramir was saying, "what errand brought you from Rivendell, and under what terms you parted from my brother, Boromir."

Frodo’s voice was quiet but steady. “Our journey was long planned, Captain. We set out not as conquerors or as warriors, but with the hope of peace—if such a thing can still be found in Middle-earth.”

Faramir’s eyes narrowed, but not unkindly. “I have heard whispers of a Halfling bearing something of great value. A treasure—Isildur’s Bane. Tell me, Frodo of the Shire—what is this thing?”

Frodo hesitated. He clenched his hands around the edge of his cloak. “I cannot tell you everything, Lord Faramir. Only this: We have been given a task to bear this object far away, to destroy it, not to use it.”

Faramir's gaze darkened. “Destroy it? And you parted from Boromir on good terms?”

Frodo did not answer immediately. He stared at the leaves that curled at his feet. “Boromir... was a brave man. A noble heart. He meant well. He only wanted to save his city.”

Faramir’s tone sharpened. “Boromir will speak for himself when he returns, I am sure.”

At those words, Frodo’s face paled. “He... he has not returned?”

“No,” Faramir said softly. “He has not. And now you look as one who did not know.”

Frodo's lips parted in disbelief. “He fell,” he whispered. “He died protecting us and another of our company. He fought against a band of Uruk-hai to the last. We never found him... but we knew.”

A heavy silence settled over the glade.

“I see,” Faramir said at last. “I had feared as much. I will not lie to you, Frodo. He was my brother.”

Frodo looked up, stricken. “I am so sorry.”

Faramir shook his head slowly. “You are not to blame. I must ask—do you recall anything he bore with him? Something to mark him, perhaps?”

Frodo nodded faintly. “His horn. It was broken in two.”

Faramir’s expression grew distant, his voice low. “Once, by the sea, I stood in thought, and I saw Boromir float by, lying in a boat of grey wood, his broken horn resting at his side. Whether it was dream or waking vision, I know not. But I knew then that he had sailed to the land of the dead.”

Frodo said, gently, “It must have been a vision, Lord. Boromir was to pass across Rohan.”

“And yet,” Faramir murmured, “I saw him drift through the foam.”

He turned then and lifted his face to the canopy above. “O Boromir, my brother… what did you do? What did you see? What overcame your mighty heart?”

Frodo’s voice was soft but firm. “There was no division among us. No treachery. Boromir was… troubled. But he found his courage again.”

Faramir turned back to Frodo and Sam, his eyes keen. “I do not trust easily. But I believe you.”

He called to his men. “We must take you both to Henneth Annûn. Blindfold them.”

Sam sprang up. “Begging your pardon, sir, but why?”

“No harm will come to you,” said Damrod gently. “But our hideaway must remain secret.”

Hands tied soft cloth around their eyes. Frodo and Sam were led carefully by the hand, down hidden trails and over running streams. Eventually, the cloth was removed.

The hobbits blinked in astonishment. Before them stood the Window of the Sunset: a great cave hidden behind a veil of cascading water, looking westward through a stone arch into the vastness of Ithilien. The golden light of evening streamed through the falling water, illuminating the cave like fire in glass.

Faramir approached with a small tray of bread, fruit, and water. “Eat. You are guests of Gondor.”

They sat on smooth stone and took the food gratefully. The bread was dense but fresh, the apples crisp.

“Long ago,” Faramir said as they ate, “Gondor was mighty. But over the years, its light has dimmed. We gave land to the Rohirrim, once our vassals. Now, we rely upon them for our defense. Yet still, we fight.”

Sam chewed slowly, glancing at Frodo. The Ring felt heavier now.

“And Boromir?” Faramir asked, his voice low. “Did he speak of Isildur’s Bane?”

Sam, forgetting himself, blurted out, “He wanted it for himself! He—” He froze.

Faramir’s face stilled. He looked from Sam to Frodo.

“I see,” he said slowly. “So it is true. My brother was overcome by the lure of this power.”

Frodo’s voice was heavy. “He tried. But he failed. And he gave his life to save us. Please, do not judge him harshly.”

Faramir nodded, grief settling upon his shoulders. “You are more generous than I might be. Yet I thank you. And I say this now: I do not want this power. I would not take it, if it lay unguarded before me.”

Frodo met his eyes. “Then you are wiser than many who call themselves kings.”

“I will not hinder your journey,” Faramir said. “Though the road ahead is dark, and the shadows of Mordor stretch ever nearer.”

He rose, turning toward the waterfall. “Rest now. You may yet have need of your strength.”


Frodo stirred, blinking groggily into the dim light. A hand touched his shoulder—firm, respectful. He opened his eyes to find Faramir standing over him.

“Is it morning already?” Frodo asked, his voice rough with sleep.

“The dawn breaks even now,” Faramir said quietly. “But we must go at once. There is something I would show you.”

Sam, already half-awake, sat up beside Frodo. “What’s going on? What’s the matter, sir?”

Faramir offered no immediate answer. He turned and walked ahead, and the hobbits, rubbing their eyes and yawning, followed him out of the cave. The hush of early morning hung over Ithilien, the forest bathed in faint silver light. Cool air drifted around them, carrying with it the scent of moss and river water.

They reached the cliff’s edge where the Anduin flowed far below in a ribbon of shadow and shimmer. Birds had just begun to call in the trees, their voices tentative and sleepy.

Frodo looked out, puzzled. “Why bring us here?”

Sam squinted into the distance, then rubbed his eyes. “Beautiful, I’ll give you that. But I wouldn’t say it’s worth waking up so early, begging your pardon.”

Faramir didn’t smile. His gaze remained fixed on the river. “The view is not the reason I brought you here,” he said at last. “Look there—just beneath the shadow of that leaning stone.”

Frodo and Sam leaned forward. A small, dark figure could be seen, half-submerged in the river, moving with eerie grace.

“It’s him,” Frodo breathed. “It’s Gollum.”

Faramir turned to him. “This creature has followed you unseen until now. My men spotted him creeping down the bank before dawn. We would not have seen him had the water not reflected his pale face.”

One of the Gondorian guards approached. “Shall we take him, my lord? A well-aimed arrow would finish it quick.”

“No!” Frodo exclaimed, stepping forward. “Don’t kill him. Please. He means no harm.”

Faramir’s brow furrowed. “He trespasses in our land. That alone is punishable by death. Does he know what you carry?”

“Yes,” Frodo admitted. “He once bore it himself. But now—now he only wants to eat. Fish. He doesn’t even understand fully what he’s after anymore.”

Sam muttered, “Doesn’t stop him from causing trouble.”

Faramir studied Frodo for a long moment, then nodded to his men. “Hold your fire. Let us see if your words have weight.”

Frodo stepped carefully down the sloping rocks, toward the river’s edge. “Sméagol,” he called softly. “Come, friend. It’s me, Frodo.”

The creature froze, the water lapping softly around him. He turned his head, sullen and suspicious.

“Master left us,” Gollum rasped. “Took the fat hobbit and ran off. Left poor Sméagol alone. Yesss.”

“I had no choice,” Frodo replied gently. “We had to go with them, to stay safe. But you found us again, didn’t you?”

“Hungry. Just wanted fish,” Gollum muttered, turning away.

“I know,” Frodo said. “You can have fish. Just come to me. Please, Sméagol.”

With much grumbling and splashing, Gollum finally crawled onto the stones. His eyes darted around, nervous. Frodo reached out his hand.

But before Gollum could take it, Faramir’s men leapt from behind the rocks and seized him.

“Tricksy! Lies!” Gollum shrieked, struggling wildly. He turned and spat at Frodo, his face twisted with betrayal. “You let them take us!”

Frodo’s shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry, Sméagol…”

The guards dragged Gollum up the slope, and Faramir ordered him bound, though gently. In the clearing above, Gollum crouched, glowering.

Faramir approached. “We will question it. If it means us harm, we must know.”

Gollum growled low in his throat, refusing to speak.

Frodo knelt beside him. “Sméagol… please. You must answer their questions. These men are not our enemies.”

“They tie us! Hurt us!” Gollum hissed.

“No,” Frodo said. “They haven’t hurt you. And they won’t—if you speak truthfully.”

At length, Gollum muttered, “Never been here before. No, no. Never knew these lands. Just fish. Just water.”

Faramir watched closely, seeking lies in the creature’s strange, blinking eyes. But finally, he nodded. “It may be so.”

He turned to Frodo. “This creature walks in shadow, yet I sense he walks by your leave. I will spare him—but only on one condition: he is your responsibility. He is your servant now, not ours.”

Frodo bowed his head. “Thank you. He’ll trouble no one.”

Faramir pulled Frodo aside, his voice low. “You must be wary. There is a darkness growing in him. He is twisted, bound to your fate more tightly than you may know.”

Frodo nodded solemnly. “I know.”

Faramir stared across the river, thoughtful. “Tell me, Frodo—how did such a thing come into his possession?”

Frodo was silent for a time. “A long story. Perhaps… perhaps one day, I’ll tell you. When we are both old men with nothing left to fear.”

Faramir chuckled. “Let us hope we live to see that day.”

Then his gaze darkened again. “You plan to go over the mountains, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Frodo said. “It’s the only path left. We passed the Black Gate. We cannot go that way.”

“There is evil in those high places,” Faramir warned. “You’ll find no rest on those paths. Only watching eyes and worse things.”

“I know,” Frodo said again. “But we have no choice.”

Faramir placed a hand on his shoulder. “Then may the grace of the Valar guide your feet. For you tread where no light reaches.”

As dawn fully broke over the horizon, they stood silent for a moment longer—three figures on the brink of shadow, with the weight of the world in their steps.