With the nasty wicked no good Denethor dead, and all the orcs and Haradrim-men dead too, the Battle was officially over, and everyone cheered my name in great joy, and sang songs commemorating the terrible fight.
Also was it so that lots of Gondorians and Rohirrim and other good people were dead, which was very sad, but a few weren’t dead and had just been wounded, and so it was so that it was so that they were so brought to the Houses of Healing, which were governed by a nasty and cruel sort of chap named Delion, who did take great delight in watching the suffering of the suffering wounded bestowed even unto his ‘tender’ care.1 And so was it so that we brought Faramir there, and also Éowyn and Meregrin, who were quite hurt after fighting that witch.
And then did King Elessar pass among the Houses of Healing, using the Last Ring’s power to do much healing in those houses, and even was it so that the people did sing songs in praise of his name, and thus was it known to be thus that this ragged and smelly man was indeed the right King of Gondor, and also Éowyn and Meregrin and even Faramir were healed by King Elessar’s magic, even though Faramir was really barely hurt at all and just trying to have a nap so he didn’t have to do anything.2
Then there was summoned a Great Council, to which everyone who was important went, except for Éowyn and Faramir who were still in bed. Yet even was it so that I was there, aye, and also Mithrandir the White, and Mr Elessar, and Imrahil, and Éomer, and me. So it was as it were that we sat about together, and drank fine wine, of Lamedon if I recall correctly, light and sweet and clear with notes of pear. And as we ate and drank, we spoke of the death of Théoden, which was quite sad (he’d been left somewhere in Minas Tirith for now) and of Denethor, which was a merry tale, and of all those others who got killed during the battle, like Mr Elessar’s brother. And also did I do as I was so to do and tell them all of the sad death of Boromir, the heir to being High Steward and my old friend, and there was much sorrow at this tale.
Then there was a knock at the door of the great dining hall, and some servant opened it up, and it was Boromir!3
‘Boromir!’ I cried, wondering how this could be. ‘How can this be?!’
Boromir came in, smiling cheerfully and walking livingly, like a man who was not dead. ‘Hello hello!’ he said, as he embraced me, and shook hands with everyone else. Quickly the servants poured him some wine too.
‘So, it is a funny story indeed,’ said Boromir, as we all sat back down. ‘So, was it so that I was attacked by evil Elves, even by the banks of the Anduin, while I was off looking for the Last Ring to stop Denethor my father who was evil from getting it. And then the Elves stabbed me and shot me and I was nearly dead.’
‘And then what happened?’ cried everyone in wonder.
‘I was not dead,’ said Boromir. ‘I nearly died but then I did not, and I woke up and steered my boat to shore. Then did I treat my wounds, and come straight to Minas Tirith, and now I am here.’
Then was there great gladness and merriment and joy for the hearts of all the people were glad and merry at this joyous turn. I alone was disunquieted, for had I not seen Boromir slain before my very eyes, slain even unto death? And happy though I was to see my old good friend, alive and well, there was something suspicious about the way he spoke, something that raised my suspicions.
Yet so great was the joy of all others that I forestalled and withheld my inquiries hesitatingly, for fain had I no wish to cause grief in such a happy hour! Also, deep down, truly did I myself wish that it be true, that Boromir was telling the truth, for I loved him dearly and he I, and it would be grand if he was not really dead. But deep down, even deeper downer than the deep down hope, did I know that it could not be so.
Then did we speak of what was to come next, because Denethor and Théoden had both been killed to death. And we did all agree that Éomer would make a jolly good Rohirrim king, which was fortunately what old Théoden had wanted too. Then came a trickier question, what was to become of Gondor?
‘Mr Elessar should be king,’ said Mithrandir the White agedly. ‘The people love him, and also he is the king by right, and also he has fulfilled all the ancient prophecies, and also is he beloved for saving Minas Tirith.’4
‘But do we really know that he is the right king?’ asked Boromir craftily, in a way that Boromir didn’t used to ask questions. ‘After all, he’s just a Ranger, some rogue or rascal from up north. Maybe he’s a swindler, a cheat come even unto Minas Tirith to steal the rightful kingship?’
‘Yes, maybe,’ said Prince Imrahil. ‘Who should be king, then, d’you think eh?’
Boromir shook his head. Was it a trick of the light, or did it seem that his face glowed deathly green in the flickering flame, even as if it were that he were a living corpse? ‘Nay, no king,’ he said. ‘But a High Steward, such as Gondor has had for many years, perhaps, would be wiser recourse? And indeed, I, Boromir son of Denethor, am the right heir to the Stewardship.’
‘And I’m still not even really sure if I wish to be king,’ added Mr Elessar. ‘Yes, maybe ‘twould be best if Boromir were to rule.’
My heart forbade me and my blood ran forebodingly cold as I said, ‘Doubt you the claim of Mr Elessar, my dear friend Boromir? For I assure you, he is the rightful king.’
Boromir smiled evilly, the smile of a man who is doing wicked stuff unlike Boromir’s wont. ‘All I am saying is that the claims must be tested, tried, trued,’ he said. ‘We cannot accept the word of some ragged creature fresh from banditry and thieving. And perhaps it is not even the will of the people that this man should rule,’ he said.
I cast open a window, and called, ‘People of Gondor! Accept ye the claim of King Elessar, who comes with healing in his hand and command over the dead, to be the right King?’
And with one accord, the people cried accordingly, ‘Aye! We accepteth King Elessar, thou shalt ruleth!’
‘So there be no problem there,’ I said, and I detected the hint of a scowl frowning upon Boromir’s face, as if he were jealous in a manner much unlike Boromir.
‘So you say,’ he said bitterly.
‘Come, now, my friend,’ I replied. ‘Surely you are not jealous? Why, never has jealousy come atwixt me and you. Do you not recall the fair lady Esmeralda, whom both you and I loved? And yet when she chose I and not you, gracious were you in defeat!’
Boromir eyed me thinkingly. ‘Aye,’ he said, ‘I remember.’
‘Ahah!’ I cried exclaimingly. ‘But ‘twas not you who fancied her at all, ‘twas Faramir from whom I won her! You are not Boromir at all, you are a cheat and a scamp!’
Boromir rose, shaking his head. ‘Why you Lord Tallow,’ he cried. ‘You’ll pay for this! But I am the real Boromir, in a way!’ Then he turned and left my chambers, threateningly, like a chap who will cause worse trouble to come.
Deeply was I troubled by this troubling turn, and it struck my mind that I must consult with my friends come the morrow about this strange thing that had happened, so I went to bed.
The morning dawned, as the sun rose in the east and light came from it as usual. And as the morning rose, the whole castle of Minas Tirith was awoken by a great commotion of crying and shouting and people running about. Swiftly, I drew my sword and ran from my room, wondering what might be happening.
‘What is happening?’ I cried, in order to learn what was happening.
Mr Elessar was nearby, and he looked to me. ‘The Last Ring!’ he shouted. ‘It’s gone!’
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1 The Herb-master Delion was indeed a chief healer in the Houses during the War of the Ring, and it is from his account that we can confirm the dubious presence of Nick Tallow in Minas Tirith following the Siege, for he kept careful notes concerning all those entrusted to his care. Evidently, Tallow’s dislike for Delion was mutually felt.
“Nictallow, patient in the Third Chamber. Arrow graze upon left shoulder, blood drawn minimal. Patient complains of chills, weakness, and distress. No hint of sepsis or decay, monitor in unlikely event of poison. Considerably more animated than those unfortunates suffering from the Black Breath, claims nonetheless to have been “swooped on by one of them fell dragons.” Recovery almost certain to be swift and full, despite patient’s incessant whining. Northerner, perhaps known to the Dúnedain? None questioned thus far claim any knowledge of him.”
Delion’s further notes concerning Tallow also grant a little more insight into certain ludicracies of his tale, which shall be noted in due course.
2 He was gravely wounded to the death in body, mind and spirit alike, and surely would have perished were it not for the craft of King Elessar.
3 The following turn in the story is one of the more baffling elements of an already deeply baffling narrative. Boromir’s return to life, his jealousies of King Elessar, and his turn from hero to villain are near-full unsubstantiated, and it is difficult to glean what (if anything) Tallow may have based it upon. However, there were some during the War (and indeed in the days immediately after) who held out hope against hope for the unlooked-for return of the Captain of the White Tower, for he was beloved and hard-needed in those sore times, and none save Faramir had seen his body (and even that sight came in strange fashion). It may be that Tallow took and twisted those hopes to suit his own daft story, and from there conceived of the “twist” that Boromir should now serve a villainous role. I cannot guess further than that.
4 It is not untrue that the accession of King Elessar was wholly unchallenged, (and it is notable that Tallow presents Gandalf Mithrandir as a chief advocate for the King). Love for Elessar was indeed swift and deep among many people of Minas Tirith and Gondor alike, following his unlooked-for capture of the Black Fleet and his healing of the wounded following the Siege. Yet in the days that followed, when the Host of the West marched upon the gates of Mordor, there were those who tarried and felt slow fears arise concerning this unknown captain and his claim. And some among them were captains and lords and stewards close to the counsel of Denethor, who judged that the Ruling Stewards should not so readily forsake their governance.
Indeed, were it not for King Elessar’s great deeds, and for the swift love borne for him (and that he bore in turn) by Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, by King Éomer Éadig of Rohan, and by the Ruling Steward Faramir (and indeed, the work of Mithrandir and the love of the Fiefdoms also), it may have been that Elessar’s right claim would have suffered many hard challenges ere it were recognised. And, though this was not to be, I do not doubt that Tallow heard such mutterings during his weeks tarrying in Minas Tirith, and that they stirred the interest of his low mind, causing him to judge that this were a more interesting tale. The student of history may judge if Tallow’s guess were true.
