Denethor:
It had happened again. Minas Tirith was no longer moving. This time, fortunately, it wasn't Denethor's fault. He had not fallen asleep at the wheel. In fact, he was wide awake, steering the city, when it suddenly began to slow down. A mysterious dark smoke began to rise from the lower levels of the city, issuing from houses whose basements connected to the Engine Room.
It wasn't long after when Húrin and the rest of his staff fled the Engine Room in terror. They made their way straight to the Tower, where Denethor was about to send Faramir to see what had happened.
"An evil of the ancient world, it seemed!" Húrin reported in terror, "such as I have never seen before. It was both a Shadow and a Flame, strong and terrible!"
"It was a Balrog of Morgoth," agreed Ioreth. "Of all the engine-banes most deadly, save the One who drives the Fiery Mount!"
"Indeed, I saw within that Engine Room that which haunts our darkest dreams. I saw Taxi's Bane," said Beregond in a low voice, and dread was in his eyes.
"Alas!" said Faramir. "We long have feared that under Rath Dínen a terror slept. But had I known that the mechanics had stirred up this evil in the Engine Room again, I would have forbidden us to enter this race, us and all that would join us. And, if it were possible, one would say that at the last Dwarfy fell from wisdom into folly, sending us needlessly into the net of the Engine Room."
"He would be wise indeed that said that," said Denethor gravely. "Needless were all of the deeds of Gandalf in life. Those that followed him knew not his mind and cannot report his full purpose. But however it may be with the guide, the followers are blameless. Do not repent our our entry into the Race. If our folk had been stranded long and far from Gondor, who of the Dúnedain, even Faramir the Foolish, would pass nigh and not wish to restart their ancient home, though it had become an abode of dragons?"
"Erm, Father..." said Faramir. "We weren't talking about Gandalf... We were talking about Dwarfy."
"Oh. Right. Húrin, please continue. Can you tell me once and for all: are Balrogs wingéd?"
Húrin gulped really hard. "Well, uh... my lord... It's, ah, difficult to say... You see, it's shadow stretched across the Engine Room
like two great wings... but I'm not sure if they WERE two great wings... Why don't we pass by Rivendell and ask Glorfindel? He fought one, after all, and ought to know if anybody does."
"And just how are we going to get to Rivendell if we can't move?" demanded Denethor. "The Engine appears to be completely inert at the moment, and may well be in a state of destruction, for all we know, and short of entering the Engine Room and confronting the foul demon, we have no way of assessing the damage or repairing it."
"I don't suppose we could lure it out?" suggested Faramir.
"What do Balrogs find alluring, I wonder?" said Denethor skeptically.
"I've heard they come flying if you're under attack by giant spiders," said Faramir.
"That's helpful," said Denethor sarcastically. "If we had known, we could have called on their aid at our last problem. What else?"
"Well, they are known to fly from the destruction of giant landmasses, so I imagine any sort of earthquake, flood, cataclysm, or something of that sort might drive it out."
"Oh yes, and we can definitely produce a cataclysm on demand," Denethor rolled his eyes.
"I didn't say this was going to be easy..." said Faramir.
"Milords, I've heard that Balrogs can be dropped off pinnacles to their deaths," said Beregond respectfully. "If we could lure the Balrog up the tower..."
"And then have to clean him off the fourth circle when we're done?" Denethor scoffed.
"How would we lure him up there anyway?" asked Faramir.
They sat glumly in silence for several minutes. Finally, Faramir took a deep breath, and turned to Denethor.
"Father, I know that you've always deeply regreted my association with Mithrandir, but I think being a Wizard's Pupil may come in handy here."
"Why? Are wizards known to be able to defeat Balrogs?" asked Denethor. Faramir nodded.
"Mithrandir defeated and killed the Balrog of Moria," nodded Faramir. "It just so happens that he taught me the basic skills that he used in doing so."
"And?" Denethor demanded. "What are they?"
"Well, to defeat the Balrog..." Faramir hesitated. "Mithrandir had to uncloak his native power as a Maia."
"You mean he was Mithrandir... Uncloaked?" Denethor's eyes bulged. Faramir nodded glumly.
"It is a dangerous ploy," he agreed. "But what options have we?"
"We could always abandon the city, get lost in the wilds of Angmar, lose our minds and join an ancient clan devoted to hedonistic worship of the Witchking," said Denethor.
"I'd rather do that one, milord," said Beregond.
"We cannot!" cried Faramir. "We have our honour as Men of Gondor, and to all those for whom we stand! We are charged with the keeping of the city until the King should return!"
"You don't need to remind me of my oaths," growled Denethor. "Fine. If you think you can do it... go do it... It is not enough, I deem. Go and rest as you may. Tonight's need will be greater."