Chapter 382: The Leak
After the meeting ended, the delegates all returned to their own lands through the fireplaces.
The newly formed Fellowship, however, remained in Rivendell for the time being, and Gandalf explained the real plan to them again.
"So we are not escorting the Ring into the West," Boromir said, frowning as he looked at the others. "We are slipping east, into Mordor, in secret?"
The other members of the Fellowship were just as stunned when they heard the truth.
Gandalf nodded. "The smoke-screen was meant to mislead Sauron, so the fewer who know the truth, the better. And the bond between the Ring and Sauron is growing stronger. The closer the Ring is to him, the more likely it is that he will sense it.
"Only by drawing Sauron out of Mordor, and the farther from Mordor we can pull him, the better your chance of slipping inside. Then you can reach Mount Doom and cast the Ring into the fire."
Kael added, "When the time comes, I will set a Portkey to take you to the pass of Cirith Ungol, the closest safe point to Mordor. From there, you can sneak into Mordor itself.
"But I cannot send you any deeper than that. Mordor is within the range of Sauron's power. One mistake, and he will notice. If we put him on guard, everything becomes harder."
Frodo and the others were already satisfied.
With Kael's help, they had cut away most of the journey. Otherwise, from Rivendell to the borders of Mordor was still a thousand miles and more.
If they had to go on foot the whole way, it would not only be exhausting, it would be a road of endless trials and deadly perils.
Minas Tirith, in the palace of the White Tower.
The aged Steward, Denethor II, sat upon his black throne as a letter arrived from his eldest son, Boromir, sent from Rivendell.
Boromir wrote it as soon as the council ended, so it contained none of the true plan. It mentioned only the Ring's reappearance, and the council's decision to send it into the West, to the Blessed Realm.
News that the Ring had surfaced left Denethor startled, and a dangerous thought rose unbidden in his heart.
Gondor's strength had waned. Much land had been lost. In the East lay the shadow of Mordor, and in the South, the Haradrim and raiders from the coasts struck again and again.
Denethor, who had always sought to restore Gondor's power, felt chained by circumstances, his ambition smothered before it could take shape.
And so he thought, if he held the One Ring, perhaps he could contend with Sauron.
Since inheriting the Stewardship, Denethor II, once proud and high-spirited in his youth, had watched the realm diminish in his hands. The authority he had forged hardened into something darker, weighed down by gloom.
The deep lines between his brows eased only when he faced his beloved wife and his eldest son.
But after his wife weakened further and further following the birth of their second son, Faramir, and at last died of a long illness, Denethor's heart sealed shut. In time, the bitterness he could not bear turned upon Faramir instead.
Now Denethor II had become more rigid and harsh with each passing year, like a lonely king of ice and iron.
When he read that Boromir had joined the Fellowship and meant to escort the Ring across the Sea to Valinor, Denethor's brow tightened even further.
To Denethor, Valinor might be a holy paradise of legend, but it was impossibly distant. It offered Gondor no help at all.
Worse, Denethor did not trust the Valar in those old tales. Somewhere deep inside, resentment had taken root.
When his wife was dying, when Gondor's strength was faltering, and disaster seemed to return year after year, he had begged the Powers for mercy again and again.
No miracle ever came.
So he stopped trusting the Powers. He stopped trusting outsiders. In the end, he trusted only himself.
And Boromir, the son he loved most, the heir he approved of above all others, was not someone Denethor could bear to lose. If anything happened to him at sea, Denethor would not accept it.
For the first time, as he stared at the letter, Denethor felt a cold dissatisfaction with his eldest son's choice.
But then Denethor saw another detail in Boromir's report: a mention that the Heir of Isildur had appeared at the council.
Denethor's face darkened completely, his gaze turning sharp and grim.
It dragged him back to the days before he inherited the Stewardship.
"Is it you, Thorongil?" Denethor murmured, his voice tangled with something bitter and complicated.
In the days of his father, Ecthelion II, a young man named Thorongil had come south from the North and entered the service of Gondor's navy.
He had led the fleet in a daring raid against the Corsairs of Umbar, burning many enemy ships and slaying the Captain of the Haven with his own hand. The blow had greatly weakened Gondor's threat from the South, and Thorongil won immense renown among the sailors.
Because of this, Ecthelion II trusted him deeply. Thorongil became an important counsellor, offering useful advice and steering Gondor away from more than one hidden danger.
Denethor II, of course, noticed him.
Denethor knew his histories, and his mind was keen. Thorongil's bearing and features resembled the kings of old so closely that suspicion took root at once.
After much quiet investigation, Denethor had all but confirmed that Thorongil was descended from Gondor's royal line. And when Denethor realised Thorongil was on good terms with Gandalf, he began to suspect they meant to take Gondor's rule for themselves.
Perhaps Thorongil sensed Denethor's wariness and distrust. In any case, before Denethor inherited the Stewardship, Thorongil left Gondor.
Even so, Denethor never let go of his vigilance. Gandalf, too, was never welcome in his eyes.
To Denethor, after the royal line failed, it was the line of Stewards that saved Gondor when it stood on the edge of ruin. They had taken up the burden of rule and carried it without respite for nearly a thousand years.
So Denethor would never acknowledge some northern heir, arriving out of nowhere, claiming the power his house had guarded for twenty-six generations.
Even if the first Steward had sworn to await the king's return, Denethor II would not recognise Thorongil's identity.
If that day ever came, Denethor would rather see Gondor broken than yield its rule and bow his head, bending his knee to another.
With that thought, his hand tightened around the letter until the parchment crumpled.
He rose abruptly and went alone into the White Tower. There, he pulled away a black covering cloth, revealing the Palantír beneath.
He pressed both hands against its surface and stared into the stone, using it to watch over Gondor.
It was something he did often, to direct forces at a distance and to learn quickly of disasters or enemy movements within his realm.
Gandalf had warned him more than once to use the Palantír with caution. Sauron held another Palantír and could use it to ensnare and influence him.
But once Denethor began to suspect that Gandalf and the Heir of Kings were plotting against Gondor's rule, he lost all trust in Gandalf. He would not believe a word he said.
Or perhaps Denethor simply had no other choice.
With his authority threatened, he wanted the Palantír to show him every corner of Gondor. Only when the stone reflected Gondor still under his control could he breathe even a little easier.
What he did not know was that every time he used the Palantír to search the borders of Gondor, an invisible pressure slipped through the seeing-stone and seeped into his mind.
Under that influence, Denethor II grew more stubborn, and deep within his eyes, a shadow of madness began to stir.
He was like a solitary king guarding his power, distrustful of everything beyond his walls.
Mordor, Barad dûr.
Through a Palantír as large as a millstone, Sauron watched Denethor II's image rise within the stone. Without a sound, he reached through the connection and read the man's memories.
"The One Ring, at last I have found you," Sauron whispered, cold delight coiling in his voice. "Send it to Valinor? Ha. Dream on. This time, the hosts of darkness will claim victory!"