The Swan and the Tree: Civil War in Gondor by Corsair_Caruso

Chapter 1

Read Chapter 1

The following is an introductory timeline for those unfamiliar with the events of the early to mid-Third Age. The main story follows. All dates indicated are in the Third Age.

1944: the death of King Ondoher of Gondor, his sons Artamir and Faramir, and his nephew, Minohtar, in the battle against the Wainriders.

1945: The Steward Pelendur and the Council of Gondor search for a member of the House of Anarion to take up the Crown of Gondor. Prince Arvedui of Arthedain puts forward a claim for himself, as the Heir of Isildur, and for his wife, Princess Firiel, daughter of King Ondoher. Though according to Numenorean law, Firiel could take the Crown in her own right, becoming first Ruling Queen of Gondor, the Steward Pelendur convinces the Council to deny their claims. They choose instead the General Earnil, victorious commander of the Gondorian armies against the Wainriders and a descendant of Telumehtar Umbardacil. Arvedui does not contest the decision. Earnil II is crowned.

1974: The Kingdom of Arthedain is invaded by the armies of Angmar, led by the Witch-King, and thoroughly defeated. King Arvedui escapes into the Blue Mountains, and then north into the Forodwaith.

1975: Prince Aranarth implores Cirdan to send a ship to find his father. After Arvedui boards, however, the ship is lost at sea, taking the King and many important heirlooms with it. With the destruction of Arthedain and the dispersal of its people, Aranarth declines the title of King, instead calling himself Cheiftain of the Dunedain.

Prince Earnur arrives with a fleet and armies sent by Earnil II for the aid of Arthedain against Angmar, but too late to prevent its destruction.  Cirdan and Earnur's forces together route Angmar's armies, though the Witch-King himself escapes after humiliating Earnur. (It is here that Glorfindel gives his famous prophecy: "[The Witch-King] will not return to this land. Far off yet is his doom, and not by the hand of man will he fall.").

1998: Pelendur dies, and the Stewardship passes to his son, Vorondil; hereafter the Stewardship becomes hereditary, passing to the Steward's son or nearest male heir.

2000 - 2002: The City of Minas Ithil is besieged by forces out of Mordor led by the Lord of the Nazgûl, whose identity as the Witch-King of Angmar is still unknown. The city falls after two years, and is occupied by Mordor's forces. The Dunedain refer to it hereafter as Minas Morgul.

2043: Death of Earnil II. Earnur is crowned.

2050: Earnur accepts a challenge to single combat from the Witch-King of Angmar, who reveals his identity as the Captain of the Nazgûl and Lord of Minas Morgul. Earnur goes to Minas Morgul and is never heard from again. Having no heir and his fate left unknown, the Steward Mardil, called Voronwe, rules in Earnur's name for many years.  

There are no heirs of the House of Anarion whose lineage is beyond question, and Aranarth puts forward no claim on the crown. Out of a desire to prevent another civil war like the Kin-Strife, no King is Crowned, and Mardil Voronwe becomes the first of the Ruling Stewards.

2063: Gandalf goes to Dol Guldur to investigate the nature of the Necromancer (as yet unknown to be Sauron) who flees (to Mordor). Khamûl the Black Easterling rules Dol Guldur in Sauron's absence, and the shadow upon Mirkwood lessens.  The Watchful Peace begins.

2063 - 2460: The Watchful Peace: It was during the Watchful Peace that the first 10 Ruling Stewards (Mardil Voronwe, Eradan, Herion, Belegorn, Hurin I, Turin I, Hador, Barahir, Dior and Denethor I) governed Gondor, in which Gondor saw less battle than it had in centuries. They used the time to recuperate Gondor's strength and prosperity.

Though the Nazgûl are quiet in Minas Morgul and Dol Guldur at this time, they too are building their forces in preparation for an invasion of the west. In Minas Morgul, a new breed of Orks is created: the Uruk-hai, larger, stronger, more disciplined and less daunted by daylight.

2460: Sauron returns with greater strength to Dol Guldur; the Watchful Peace ends.

2475: Uruk-hai armies led by the Witch-King invade the eastern Gondorian province of Ithilien, and sack Osgiliath, the former capital. Boromir, son of Steward Denethor I, successfully defeats the Witch-King's armies and repels them from Osgiliath, but the great stone bridge over the Anduin is destroyed and the city left nearly depopulated. Neither Osgiliath nor Ithilien are resettled at this time.

Boromir fights the Witch-King in Osgiliath, and forces the Witch-King to withdraw, though Boromir suffered a Morgul-wound in the battle. The healers of Minas Tirith saved Boromir, and though he bore the wound for the rest of his life, his strength of body and will were undiminished. Those who knew him, however, saw a change in him afterward; a shadow fell upon his heart, and his pride grew apace.

2477: Death of the Steward Denethor I, Boromir takes up the Stewardship.

 

Chapter 1: 13th of September, 2479, Third Age of the Sun.

Minas Tirith, Gondor.

Boromir, steward of Gondor, stood near the window in his personal study, clutching a cup of spiced wine as his page, Berenor, laid fragant faggots upon the hearth.  The steward heard the young man breathing heavily, likely due to the heat, but continued to build the fire as his lord had commanded.  It was near the end of summer, and though the winds had brought the coolness of autumn somewhat early this season, it was against no outer cold that the steward warmed himself.

It was the third anniversary of the last day of the Battle for Osgiliath.  He stood near the window, looking out onto the once white stones of the walls and streets, now a drab gray that matched the hue of the stormclouds that rumbled overhead, but still withheld their rain.  He saw none of it, however; his mind was filled with the shouts of his knights and warriors, the foul voices of the Uruk-hai crying obscenities as their black blood spilled on the streets of Osgiliath, the feel of the Great Horn of Vorondil at his lips, sending out his defiance to the enemies of Gondor.  Boromir clutched a black fur cloak closer to himself as his ribs ached with a piercing cold, and took another sip of the warming wine.

He remembered his battle with the Nazgul, a dark cloak surrounding empty shadows, but whose armored gauntlets wielded a sword with a strength inhuman.  And yet, Boromir drove him back.  He drove his blade forward, stepping again and again into the Black Captain's guard.  His blade found unseen flesh, and the harsh voice of the Lord of Morgul rang out across the battlefield in pain.  The savage Uruks quailed for a moment as their master hesitated, and Boromir pressed his advantage.  With a mighty swing he disarmed the wraith, and knocked him to the ground.

Boromir had felt a moment of triumph rise up in his chest like a living thing, and a great cry filled his throat and echoed across the battlefield, "GONDOR!!!" as he lifted his sword and stabbed downward to slay the Lord of the Nazgul.

But the creature rolled, twisting out of the path of his blade.  He rose again, having drawn a long, thin, dark dagger...

The biting cold in his side was like a thing alive, and chilled him despite the near stifling heat.  He spoke out loud, still looking out the window, "That's enough, Berenor, thank you.  You may step outside and wait in the hall.  Send my son in when he arrives."

"As you wish, my lord."  Boromir heard the boy's footsteps cross the room behind him, and the door to his private chamber creak quietly open and then shut again.

The stark room had little ornamentation, save a few objects of sentimental worth.  Some books of history, genealogy, and military strategy lay open on tables near maps and political treatises.  A tapestry of a number of Dunedain lords hunting the wild kine of Araw in the east with great black bows mounted the wall opposite the window, and a large fire crackled merrily, filling the room with a heat that would drive most outside.  For Boromir, this day, it was just enough.

Boromir, as commander of Gondor's armies under his father, Steward Denethor I, had answered the first major challenge to Gondor since the collapse of Arthedain and the failure of the Line of Anarion. He had managed to drive the Witch-King and his forces out of Osgiliath.  

The most powerful of all of Sauron's servants, who had destroyed the northern kingdom, reduced the heirs of Isildur to be chieftains of a wandering people, and ended the line of Anarion in Gondor... but Boromir had bested him in combat, and repelled his armies.  He remembered the stories of the Witch-King sending out a challenge to Earnur, last King of Gondor, daring him to come face him in combat in the streets of Minas Morgul.  Boromir permitted himself a small smile; no such mocking challenge had come to him since he had taken up the Rod of the Stewards.  The old creature knew his match...

Boromir heard a knock on the door, and Boromir turned to see Berenor opening it to admit his son.  Boromir smiled and set down his goblet of wine, crossing the room to greet Cirion.

The steward's heir was a man of some thirty years, tall, clean shaven and with long dark hair and eyes.  He had already proven himself a capable commander and demonstrated wisdom beyond his years.  Boromir smiled broadly and opened his arms and stepped forward to embrace his son.  

"How are you, son?  How long are you returned to the city?"

Cirion returned his father's strong embrace, "Only since yesterday; this last patrol led us farther into the east than we have gone in some months, nearly to the foothills of the Ephel Duath."

"I imagine that young wife of yours was happy to see you.  How fares Aredhel?  Your mother and I have not seen her in some weeks."

"She is well.  She has only recently returned from Pelargir.  She had not seen her parents since the wedding, and with my absence saw fit to travel home for a time."

Boromir nodded, "Ah, yes... I remember your mother mentioning that... I must have forgotten."

Ciron's brow furrowed slightly.  His eyes flitted to the fire and he wiped from his brow the sweat that had begun to form. "I see... it is the anniversary.  Mother mentioned she'd seen little of you this week.  How is your scar?"

Boromir laughed lightly, but pulled away from his son. "I barely notice it.  The warmth simply helps me think."  He strode across the room purposefully, picking up his goblet and taking another sip.  "If the fire bothers you, however, please open the window."

Cirion stood motionless, an expression of concern crossing his face, but said nothing.

"My sister and Lord Baragund are arriving from Lossarnach in three days time to visit the city.  Perhaps you and Arehdel could join us all for dinner that evening."

Cirion smiled, "It would be wonderful to see Aunt Celebrindal again.  How old is their son now?"

"I believe young Belegund is fourteen.  He has not visited the White City since his mother presented him to the court after his birth.  It is high time he return, see the capital and the rest of his family."

Cirion merely nodded... the silence stretched between them for a few moments.  Boromir turned toward the fire, and spoke with his back to his son.

"Cirion... I called you here today because I have a very serious matter to share with you.  Please, come join me at the table."

The steward sat down and was silent for a time.  He finally asked, "How do you find Ithilien?"

Cirion was somewhat surprised by the question, but took a seat next to his father and answered simply, "It is empty, for the most part. The Uruks have been relatively quiet this year.  We believe they suffered significant losses in last year's sorties, and have not yet had time to rebuild their forces."

"But the rangers continue their patrols of the eastern marches?"

"As always, my lord."

"Good," he took another sip of wine, "I would not have it said that we abandon our people or our territory."

"Father, our people have prospered under your leadership.  Your victories repelled the forces of the east from our borders and we are stronger and more vigilant now than we have been in some years."

"Thank you, son... at times, I see only a Gondor diminished from her youth.  We carry the light of the west and hold it high to drive back the darkness, but our predecessors have made our labour heavy."

Cirion did not respond.

Boromir suddenly stood and paced the room.  If his wound pained him, he gave little sign of it save an occasional hand pressed to his ribs, unaware.

"But on this day, I remember the glory of our kingdom, when we drove back the shadow.  The light of Numenor has not burnt out.  The White Tree still lives, despite the passing of the kings of old.  I remember the standard of the stewards flying next to that of the white tree.  Gondor lives, despite the old creature sitting on the throne in Minas Morgul.  It galls him, I know it, that he could tear Arnor apart, reduce her kings to obscurity, and slay the last king of Gondor, but we still live on, in his despite."

"Still, we are diminished," Cirion replied.

"Yes, my son, I agree, we are diminished.  The Tree no longer flowers, nor bears fruit.  We reclaim territory lost, but the people fear to return to their old homes.  Osgiliath crumbles into the Anduin, Ithilien lies fallow and in waste, and the Southrons of Umbar ever seek to tear away more and more of Harondor.  We are but a shadow of the kingdom of Gondor that once was."  Boromir's eyes glitter in the firelight, and the lines on his face grow hard.  "And it is because we have no life to give to the land or the people.  We embalm it, rather, like the bodies of the dead, preserved incorruptable, but still the decay still eats a little away every year."  His mouth twisted bitterly.  "Because of the failings of 'greater men.' "

"I do not understand your meaning, father."

A growl escapes Boromir's throat, "We await the return of the kings of old.  Our house exercises authority on behalf of rulers whose greatness faded centuries ago, and whose failings left the Dunedain to diminish into obscurity in the face of an enemy that does not rest."  He stopped suddenly, and let out a great breath, "There is not even hope of the return of our lords.  The House of Anarion is extinct; no heir can return to reclaim its legacy and bear the crown of Gondor."

Cirion sat silent for a moment before answering quietly, "The Heirs of Isildur, Elendil's son, once made a claim on the crown.  With the House of Anarion gone, they may yet return."

Boromir barked a single, bitter laugh, "And where are the 'Chieftains of the Dunedain?' Where was Isildur's Heir, when the Uruks cut down the people of Ithilien, once the realm of Isildur?  The people speak of the return of an heir of Elendil out of the north, but the northern line continues to cower in the shadows, while our people bleed and die to protect the kingdom.  They have abandoned all pretense of their royal responsibilities, both in the north and the south.  Isildur's heirs claim not even the title of king of Arnor now, and rightly so.  They have long since become bereft of all lordship."

Cirion stood and spoke softly, but his voice carried a hint of steel.  "Father, your disappointment with the lines of kings is understandable, but where are you leading us?  You have sworn an oath 'to hold rod and rule in the name of the king, until he shall return.' "

Boromir contemptuously swept his hand through the air as if clearing a foul odor, "Words of a ritual spoken so long we have nearly forgotten their meaning.  Earnur was slain by the Witch-king and he left no heirs.  The steward Mardil found the house of Anarion dead; our lords are gone forever.  How shall we rule in the name of a king that can never come?"

"You know line of Elendil is not extinct in the north, father, and despite their long absence, they could still return to claim the crown."

"And then we shall bow to lords who allowed their kingdom to fracture due to petty bickering amongst the royal family, and then fall completely to the predations of the Witch-king.  The line of kings survives when the kingdom fails, and then they would come south to sit upon the throne of another kingdom.  To what end, Cirion?  I will not see the glory of Gondor broken upon the rocks of Mordor or be torn apart in another kin-strife by men whose own kingdom did not survive their misrule."

"How, then, would you remedy this problem, father?  You spoke of the diminishing of Gondor; how might our kingdom be set aright?" Cirion sounded as if he knew the answer his father would give, but had to hear it spoken plainly to believe.

"A kingdom needs a king, son.  No man alive remembers the days of the king, but our histories speak of warrior-kings who drove back the enemies who dared challenge the Dunedain and ruled a thriving realm.  But all the kings have died or surrendered their claim or proven unworthy of that crown.  The realm survives, but that is all it can do. As caretakers of the realm, that is all we can accomplish..."  Boromir's eyes sought Cirion's, with a fervor that took the young man aback.  "But our house is of royal origin, though not of the ruling line.  We are the sons of the daughters of kings, and the House of Hurin permits inheritance through daughters.  We, too, are descendants of Elendil.  The House of Hurin has proven for over four hundred years that we can protect this kingdom.  The House of Elendil surrendered their authority to us, legitimately, when Earnur went to Minas Morgul to die, and we have served Gondor faithfully for all that time.  We have waited patiently for the kings to return and claim their crown, which they have neglected to do.  We have proven ourselves the equal of the Elendil's heirs, and more.  The Witch-king who threw down the northern kingdoms, who ended the line of kings in Gondor, very nearly fell to my blade, and fled in fear of me."

Cirion's eyes widened.  "You mean to claim the crown yourself?"

Boromir stepped toward his son and gripped his arm with a feverish strength.  "We are members of a royal house which the ruling line chose as their successors, son.  We have ruled Gondor for nearly half a millennium, through war and peace, and have conquered the enemies that destroyed the kings of Gondor and the kingdoms of the northern Dunedain.  The southern line of kings is extinct, and the northern line lost their kingdoms and has chosen to abandon any claim to the crown of Gondor.  In the absence of Heirs of Anarion and the abandonment of the Heirs of Isildur, the House of Elendil has proven itself unable and unworthy of exercise their royal prerogative.  As royal descendants to whom ruling authority was ceded and has been exercised in good faith, we must now take the crown in our own name."

Cirion pulled away from his father and walked over to the window, casting it open.  The stifling heat escaped and a cool breeze, heavy with the promise of rain, swept into the room.  Boromir gave no sign he noticed, though inwardly the cold piercing his ribs flared.  Cirion stood at the window, looking out over the city.  He finally turned, and spoke quietly.

"Father, what you propose is impossible.  You have sworn an oath.  If we are men as worthy as you claim, then to foreswear that oath would be to cast aside the worthiness that gives us the right to rule."  He clenched a fist at his side, but his voice came cool and measured.  "You claim that the return of the kings would lead Gondor to destruction at our own hands in civil war, or at the blades of our enemies in Mordor, but to claim the crown in such a way as you claim would surely lead us to civil war all the sooner.  You cannot believe that the Council would support your claim.  You might convince some of the great lords of Gondor, but many will hold fast to the Heirs of Elendil, absent though they may be."  He approached his father, crossing the room slowly.  "You at once debase the heirs of Elendil and then claim that their relation gives you legitimacy to claim the crown, but such a claim demonstrates only hypocrisy."  At this, Boromir's eyes flared, but Cirion raised his hand as if in supplication, "Please, father, I say these things not to challenge you or to impugn your honor, but because I know you would have my honest council.  I will speak the whole truth to you, and not merely what you wish to hear.  This claim will lead us to civil war, beyond all doubt, and far sooner than the return of the heirs of Elendil to Gondor ever could.  And no matter who emerges victorious from such a bloody struggle, our foes in Mordor will be watching, and waiting to take us in our time of weakness and fraction, as they did against Arnor."  The fire in Boromir's eyes dimmed, and he sat heavily in his chair.  He felt Cirion's hand upon his shoulder, and looked up into his son's face.  Cirion's eyes pierced his own with an intensity that spoke of how intensely he believed what he was saying, and restrained himself but for the love of his father.

"Father, we cannot at once claim to be the legitimate rulers of Gondor and also usurp the rightful rule of the kings who gave us our authority.  We exercise the power of the kings in all but name, now, but if you were to claim the title as well, in despite of the loyalty of the other lords of Gondor, it may well force the hand of Isildur's Heir.  How might we then legitimately withhold the crown from him, were he to press his claim as the last rightful heir of Elendil, first High-King of Gondor?  I do not believe the title of king is worth losing our authority, our dignity, and the security of the realm and people."

Boromir looked long into his sons face, and saw wisdom there, heard it in his words.  His pride was chastened, and he responded with a slightly pained voice.

"Thank you, my son, for speaking plainly to me.  You have become a man of wisdom and discernment, and will be a great leader when I am gone."  He embraced his son tightly for a moment, and then pulled away.  "You have given me much to consider; we should not speak of this matter, it would serve only to cause ill-will among the lords."

Cirion nodded, "Of course, father.  You know I would never betray your confidence."

Boromir gave a small smile, "I am glad we spoke."

"As am I."

Boromir sighed, and hearing that the rain had finally begun to fall outside, walked to the window to close it.  "Now, please, leave me to my thoughts."  He turned back to the fire, making it clear that he was dismissing his son.  He heard Cirion's footsteps approach the door, and called out as he heard the door open, "and let Aredhel know of the arrival of Lord Baragund and Lady Celebrindal.  Your mother and I would very much like you to join us that evening."

"I will, father." He heard Cirion say, from behind him, and the door creaked quietly shut.