“Come.” Aragorn’s voice was soft, yet it drew their remainder to him as ever the Dúnedain of the North gathered to their chieftain’s call. Dorhaur son of Daelin turned his gaze from the waiting forms of the King of Rohan and the Prince of Dol Amroth, joining his silent brethren. The carnage spread upon the Pelennor and the deaths of greater than half their own company weighed upon him—weighed upon them all—even accustomed as they were to battle and grief. The scale was not something he might ever have imagined. “There is much for us to accomplish ere nightfall. We must have tents raised, wounds treated, and some small supper prepared.” Aragorn forestalled the demurral with a raised hand. “I realize that no one is hungry, yet we cannot go without. We do not know what may be yet in store.” He squeezed the shoulder nearest him, then nodded toward King Éomer and Prince Imrahil. “I must confer with these for a while yet ere they depart to their own. We will also not leave the bodies of our kinsmen to fester upon this field. They fought with honor, and with honor will they lie in death. There is a vigil to be kneeled this night.”

Indeed. Dorhaur stepped forward to claim his place. “I will go to gather our dead.” His grandfather lay among those who would not rise again, his uncle, his cousin. Much had his family given in defense of their Chieftain this day. Much had each member of the Grey Company given, in life and in kin. Beside him, Haladan struggled to rise. Aragorn put out a staying hand.

“Nay, Haladan. Your wound needs binding ere you lose much more blood.”

“My father—”

“Yes.” Aragorn’s eyes closed briefly, the lines on his face deep with grief. “I know, but you may not see to this duty.”

The sons of Elrond joined Dorhaur, and Elrohir clasped Haladan’s arm briefly. “We will assist. It may be no easy task to find seventeen fallen among so many, though, and we should begin soon to take most advantage of the daylight.”

Aragorn nodded, glancing about their group. “Renulf, you join them. Others will come once the tents are standing, and I as well if I am able.” The young man joined them and they took their leave, moving as one through the unimaginable carnage to that site which had taken the highest toll upon their people. Not all would be found there, but it would be a start.

Little was Dorhaur able to remember of the next several hours. Little did he make the attempt. The sight and scent of blood and death, the insect hum penetrating all. The weight of the dead, so different from the weight of a living man. The ache in arms and back and legs, the stumbling even as they attempted sure footing back across the field with their burden. The sorrow and pride and love and rage and hope washing through him, strengthening his failing grip and carrying him unthinking until the last of their fallen brethren was settled into the vigil line behind the hastily-erected tents of the Dúnedain. The ashy grit of the hot stew thrust into his hands, the metal tang of the spoon. The faces of his kin in repose of death, still grim and strong as they had been in life.

They would not regret their sacrifice. Each man present had gladly given his life as bulwark between their chieftain and the blades of the enemy. Neither would he regret it … and yet he mourned. Such was Arda marred.

Their search had finished with better speed than they had anticipated. The sun had set, but the last of her light had not yet gone from the horizon. It was time. Those of their brethren who did not lie wounded or dying—they would lose yet one more ere this night had passed, despite their chieftain’s healing prowess—were gathering now at the feet of the fallen, scattering among the bodies. Too few were available to kneel a proper Western vigil. It mattered not. Their numbers, such as they were, must suffice.

Dorhaur placed himself between the boots of his uncle and cousin, crouching to settle his tired body with little grace onto his knees. For the moment his mind shied fully from the knowledge of his grandfather lying still upon his Uncle Demedhel’s other side—the man who had first borne his name, who had been beloved friend and mentor to all who called him kin. That sorrow was yet too large to contemplate. Rather, he turned his gaze upon his uncle and his cousin, offering them the honor of looking their death full in the face. It was their way, but it was not an easy one. The grief spiked, raw and terrible. He bent, resting his brow upon his uncle’s still form, gripping Derinadh’s cold hand in his own. Footsteps passed, a hand pressed his shoulder, and he straightened. The weeping would wait for another time.

Aragorn and Haladan appeared to his right. Their chieftain eased the younger man down at his father’s feet, then stayed a moment to rest a long-fingered hand upon Halbarad’s brow in affection and benediction. Elrohir moved to a gap at the far end of the line, Elladan folded with a half-hearted grimace before Baradhald, lips already moving in the traditional Elvish song to Elbereth over his long-time adversary. Taking that cue, though in truth he should not have needed it, Dorhaur reached for the threads of their own death rite in the gray hazes of his mind. The words and ritual, the knelt vigil from the moment the light left the western horizon until the first glimmer of light touched it again, had come through the centuries from Aranarth himself—a form of mourning, indeed, but also a reminder to the Lords of the West (though the Dúnedain would little say such a thing aloud) that Men yet existed who gave their lives in honorable cause and sacrifice.

Not all the scions of Elros Tar-Minyatur and Elendil the Tall had fallen to evil.

Aragorn settled beside Haladan, gazing upon Dorhaur’s grandfather with infinite sorrow. “He was my first friend among the Dúnedain.” The chieftain gripped Dorhaur’s elbow for a brief moment in shared grief. “The first to show me the honor that is yet in Men.” Grey eyes flickered along the two lines, the living and the dead, and he bowed his shaggy head. “The first, but not the last.” Aragorn rested a brief hand upon the still ankle, lips moving in blessing, then settled himself onto his heels, hands upon his thighs, eyes raised to the golden thread of light disappearing even at that moment from the western horizon.

The last glimmer faded. Darkness encased them, pierced by a thousand bright stars. Each Man settled into the silence, the night, their low-toned chant undergirding the lighter strains of the sons of Elrond. His breathing eased, his grief settled.

“Aragorn.”

The word was a blow against their fragile peace, and the entire line stirred to seek its source. Gandalf’s white hair and cloak shone even in the dark as he approached, beckoning the chieftain. Aragorn hesitated, grasped the ankle before him in silent apology, then rose swiftly.

“Gandalf. What need have you?”

“I truly apologize for this intrusion, my friend.” The wizard’s voice held real remorse, even as it continued. “You are needed within the Houses of Healing.”

Aragorn’s reply was wary. “It is not my time to enter the White City.”

“There are those within who may be lost without your aid.”

The chieftain shifted, glancing back to his men before drawing Gandalf further away. Even so, they could hear his low reply. Voices carried far in the still air upon the battlefield.

“Surely the Houses of Healing have healers aplenty.” Aragorn’s sigh was soft, a weary breath. “It is not that I do not wish to offer my aid, Gandalf. You know this. Yet I have told Imrahil that I would not enter the City tonight—I do not think it wise to add to public debate over the command of Gondor’s people and armies while our final Doom is yet undecided.”

“I do not ask you to ride in with banner unfurled!” Gandalf snorted. “That would indeed be foolish at such a time. But the Steward of Gondor—Boromir’s brother—and the White Lady of Rohan lie within under the black breath of the Nazgûl, which no healer of the City can banish.”

“The black breath?” Aragorn drew a quick breath of his own.

“Aye, and along with them Meriadoc Brandybuck also suffers this fate, and many others.”

“Merry! How came this to be?”

“I will tell you upon our way, Aragorn, but we must go or more may be lost.” The wizard gripped Aragorn’s arm. “I think that this foray into the City will not cause the damage you fear. Indeed, it may aid your cause, as a wise woman among the healers has remembered an old saying here—The hands of the king are the hands of a healer.” He shook gently the arm within his grasp. “Those hands would not go amiss now, my friend.”

He must go, Dorhaur realized, even while his heart cried objection to their chieftain’s absence from this solemn night of mourning. He must go—and not just from them tonight. Ever had they understood, he and his brethren who lived under command of Aragorn son of Arathorn, that they would be required eventually to release him. Their time was not one of Watchful Peace, or of growing threat. Theirs was the time of decision, when the world would rise to new heights or fall utterly beneath Sauron’s hammer, and Aragorn was either the King who was to come or the end of the line of Elendil. Once the final Doom was decided, he would not remain among a failing people in a bitterly hard land. He was meant for more.

Ever had they known. Their chieftain loved them and would give his life for them—of this they held no doubt. Yet, his home was not among them. It was in the beauty and grandeur of Rivendell. He did not remain among them for any length of time. Ever had he ventured forth into the wider world, learning the ways of West and East, increasing his knowledge and performing great deeds. He would not marry from among them. His bride would be of the Elder race, the makings of a tale such as that of Beren One-Hand and Lúthien Tinúviel of old. And he would not stay with them. He was destined for the White City of Gondor, for a land worthy of his legacy.

Ever had they known, and each Man and Woman of the Dúnedain felt joy that they had been chosen see these times—to follow and succor this Man in his long journey. Yet … Dorhaur blew out a long, silent breath, forcing back a surge of unworthy petulance. Yet he had not considered that they would have not even a night with him to kneel vigil over their dead, when the time finally came.

Aragorn’s eyes rested upon them, and they did not need the light of day to know the reluctance written upon his countenance. Haladan spoke for them all.

“Go, Aragorn. You must not sacrifice the living for the dead. The numbers we have here will suffice.”

“My Lord?” An unfamiliar voice spoke from behind Gandalf, and the silhouettes of two young soldiers appeared. Whether they had accompanied the wizard from the City—perhaps guided him to the tents of the Northern Rangers—or had been merely passing was impossible to say. Gandalf did not seem surprised, but then, wizards never were. “I apologize for the intrusion, my Lord Aragorn, but is there aught we might do for you here? We do not know what task you leave unfinished, but if we may be of use to you we are yours to command.”

It was not their way to invite others into their vigils—yet, this was more from lack of opportunity than from any stronger objection. Aragorn’s voice betrayed naught. “How long have you?”

“As long as you need, my Lord.”

Their chieftain gestured toward the vigil line. “It is the custom of our people to kneel vigil over our dead until morning. We have not enough to kneel for each man, and my absence will leave us shorter still.”

A quick glance passed between the two. “It would be our honor, Lord, to keep vigil over men who traveled so far to succor us, but we do not know your rites…”

“Your own will suffice.”

“Then we will remain until the sun rises, and gladly.”

It was generous, all the more as the two young soldiers of Gondor—one of the City, Dorhaur saw as they drew nearer, and one a knight of Dol Amroth—were no doubt soiled and exhausted and grieving their own losses. Dorhaur allowed their consideration to soothe the ragged edges of his disappointment, taking solace in a hospitality which extended even to an uncomfortable night upon a man’s knees at the feet of a dead stranger. He returned his gaze to the West as Aragorn settled the knight down their line, murmuring softly, then brought the soldier of Gondor to his own place between Dorhaur and Haladan.

“This man is Dorhaur, son of Dedhalin.” The young man nodded, settling to his knees. “His grandson kneels beside you, at the feet of his uncle and cousin.”

The dark head came quickly around, and Dorhaur felt the weight of his sympathy. “Your loss is great, my Lord. I offer my deepest condolence.”

“I am no lord, but I thank you.” There was little more to say.

“I am Valgil, son of Veregil, and I vow to you that your kin will be as my own this night.”

The simple declaration hit Dorhaur hard. He closed his eyes and bowed his chin to his breast, laying a hand upon the Gondorian shoulder at his side.

Aragon’s hand pressed briefly upon Dorhaur’s head and then the chieftain was gone, pulling the hood of his gray cloak over his head as he followed Gandalf across the field toward the City. The sons of Elrond took up their song again, and the Dúnedain their chant. Beside him, Valgil began his own recitation—not, Dorhaur was surprise to note, so different from their own. The three funeral rites rose into the night, overlapping and swirling and flickering like sparks into the heavens, and they waited upon the coming of the dawn.

Long live the Halflings! Praise them with great praise!

Nine of their original company had they been able to marshal for the final battle before the Black Gate of Mordor, and nine survived. Two lay within the healing tents spread beneath the beech trees, but all would live to return to their homes in the North. Perhaps the company’s distance from their Chieftain in the final battle had returned to the Northern Dúnedain their usual sense of self-preservation—they had been assigned within a greater company of five hundred horse, rather than to ride again into this battle as the very vanguard of Aragorn’s defense. In truth, they suspected among themselves that Aragorn had chosen their place within the ranks full deliberately, wishing to avoid another such culling of the Northern company in his defense as they had known upon the field at Minas Tirith. Yet until this hour he had been theirs, and there was no man among them who would not have traded his life to reclaim that place denied now by circumstance and King.

For King they now had, declared or no. The days of their Chieftain were no more.

Praise them! The Ring-bearers, praise them with great praise!

And Haladan son of Halbarad looked upon the diminutive Ring-bearers, still pale and weak from their great labors, hesitant under the weighted gaze of the crowd, and upon he who sat upon the high seat in acknowledged majesty awaiting them. Aragorn had proven his worth to all those gathered here, in wisdom and battle and healing touch, and sat now the uncontested leader upon their field of victory. He was every bit the King his people had always expected, when that expectation yet dwelt upon a far horizon. Haladan’s pride in the Chieftain of the Men of the North sang in his blood, fierce and glad, and he regretted with every fiber of his being that his father, great friend  and beloved kin to Aragorn, was not present to see it. His eyes prickled and blurred, and he knew not whether he fought tears of grief or exultation.

And so the red blood blushing in their faces and their eyes shining with wonder, Frodo and Sam went forward and saw that amidst the clamorous host were set three high-seats built of green turves.

And Eredhed son of Eredhel lay up on his cot staring upon the green bows above, listening to the murmur of the gathered company as the Ring-bearers came among them. He wondered much that those who were so small in both stature and esteem of the world had such great bearing on this victory of the Free Peoples and upon the new Age to come. He had overheard one of the Hobbits speaking with Gandalf before they had departed the healing tents, and hoped mightily that indeed for this small one all sad things might come untrue. If any had earned such a boon, surely it was this Sam and his companion. For himself, Eredhed closed his eyes and allowed himself to be carried upon the tide of the rising cheers and wondered if he would walk again—and if not, how he was to tell his new bride that she had bound herself to a cripple.

Behind the seat upon the right floated, white on green, a great horse running free; upon the left was a banner, silver upon blue, a ship swan-prowed faring on the sea; but behind the highest throne in the midst of all a great standard was spread in the breeze, and there a white tree flowered upon a sable field beneath a shining crown and seven glittering stars.

And Arestor son of Raenadh eyed the standards set upon either side of the great black banner with the white tree, and wondered that the Steward of Gondor was permitted a representative among the high lords yet no man of the North stood in equal dignity upon Aragorn’s other hand. Perhaps their Chieftain—their King—himself was meant to represent them. Indeed, so stern and fair and lordly was he, this man whose lineage had been nurtured and defended by their people throughout the centuries, who had until only recently prowled the wilds with them as a Ranger among his own kin, that no other representative could possibly be desired. He doubted, though, that any here would look upon Aragorn now and be reminded of the Northern Kingdom which stood also among them. They had answered their Chieftain’s call as well as they were able. It was not with the strength of numbers offered by others, but still they had stood with Aragorn in the very face of defeat and somehow now found themselves in the heady disbelief of that end of which their ancestors could only dream. Yet Arestor grieved that in their moment of victory, the sacrifices of their people seemed forgotten.

On the throne sat a mail-clad man, a great sword was laid across his knees, but he wore no helm. As they drew near he rose. And then they knew him, changed as he was, so high and glad of face, kingly, lord of Men, dark-haired with eyes of grey.

And Mardal son of Ivorheld heard gladly the words of admiration spoken by those who surrounded him, the men of Gondor and of Rohan alike, and saw their awe for Aragorn son of Arthorn, his Chieftain and King. The house of Elendil had triumphed, and now took its rightful place upon the thrones of Gondor and Arnor. Its last scion was a man of might and discernment, reared by Elrond Halfelven and learned over the course of decades from within all the kingdoms of Men and Elves. Aragorn richly deserved all praise and fealty offered him. He thought upon the great White City they had so recently visited, and then upon ruined Fornost and the forgotten remnants of Annúminas, and he grieved that Arnor had forfeited its own claim to glory while Gondor endured. Perhaps it may yet have opportunity to return to its renown of old, yet he wondered if it were better than such a King as Aragorn concentrate his focus upon the men of the South rather than spend time and treasure upon a ragtag people who were surely done with their usefulness having successfully provided a King for the throne. He suspected the North had done with its usefulness to him as well, and Mardal wondered if some position may be available in Minas Tirith for even one so Northern and uncouth as himself.

Frodo ran to meet him, and Sam followed close behind. “Well, if this isn’t the crown of all!” he said. “Strider, or I’m still asleep!”

“Yes, Sam, Strider,” said Aragorn. “It is a long way, is it not, from Bree, where you did not like the look of me? A long way for us all, but yours had been the darkest road.”

And Brendis son of Baladhor looked upon the incredulous joy of their small heroes at seeing the face of his Chieftain, and he knew a fierce satisfaction that they had been saved—that they had come battered but unbroken through their trials, that their home and kin would not await their return in vain. Indeed, a time might now be envisioned, even if it was not yet near, when none (or at least few) would wait in vain for father or son or brother to reappear after long absence, when the sacrifices of a bitterly hard life would not steal away mothers and daughters and sisters from among those who depended upon them. How deeply he longed for that day. The affection between King and Hobbits shone for all to see and he basked in its light, no longer expecting any touch of warmth. Brendis thought of his own father and mother and brothers, and wife, and children, and wondered how it was that having long battled every manner of evil creature in the North, having twice fought the great hordes of the Enemy in the South—having watched his people and fellow warriors fall upon his right and his left—he could not manage to join them.

And then to Sam’s surprise and utter confusion he bowed his knee before them; and taking them by the hand, Frodo upon his right and Sam upon his left, he led them to the throne, and setting then upon it, he turned to the men and captains who stood by and spoke so that his voice rang over all the host, crying:

“Praise them with great praise!”

And Dorhaur son of Daelin thought of his grandfather, and his uncles, and his father, and of all his kin who had spent themselves through the long decades in service of this man and this moment. He was stricken with unworthiness and gratitude that he should be the one chosen to stand now and bear witness to a triumph that belonged so much more to his forebears than to he, and saw himself as part of the long line of his people that had already come and were not yet born, wondered how such an honor to him could have been ordained.  His grandfather had been devoted to their Chieftain, had often spoken of his pride in the man Aragorn had become and would yet be. His father and uncles had ridden beside the man and protected him bodily more times than Dorhaur would ever know—even unto the cost of their lives. Watching the King now, he knew that none of his kin would regret the sacrifices made to this end. Aragorn was everything his family—his people—might have desired. It seemed unfair to him that his grandfather and uncles had not lived to see this day, that his father had been kept in the North far from this moment of victory. Yet Dorhaur vowed silently to them that he would stand proud in their place and be to this new Age what they could not now offer.

And when the glad shout had swelled up and died away again, to Sam’s final and completed satisfaction and pure joy, a minstrel of Gondor stood forth, and knelt, and begged leave to sing. And behold! he said:

“Lo! lords and knight and men of valour unashamed, kings and princes, and fair people of Gondor, and Rider of Rohan, and ye sons of Elrond, and Dúnedain of the North, and Elf and Dwarf, and greathearts of the Shire, and all free folk of the West, now listen to my lay. For I will sing to you of Frodo of the Nine Fingers and the Ring of Doom.”

And Renulf son of Arestor wondered if his father had heard the minstrel’s acknowledgement of the men of the North, and wished too that Arnor had been afforded a place of honor as had Gondor and Rohan, and accepted it. Arestor was jealous of their place in this new Age, ready to push their people forward and to take offense at slights intended or no, but Renulf was too pragmatic to fight the inevitable. The Dúnedain were a fading people, of which nine only now remained within the multitude upon Cormallen field. Gondor and Rohan would accept them, but could surely not see them as an equal. Still, they had endured throughout the long years. They had played their part. From among them the line of Isildur now stepped forth strong and unbroken. If they no longer could boast great craftsmen or lore masters as of old, if they must now take a secondary status to their King’s greater land to the South, yet still they could they stand as a people who demanded respect. The remnants of the Northern kingdom were a hearty breed, determined and unbowed. Their cities would stand strong again, and their children flourish. Aragorn was King not only of Gondor, and he would not be given cause to regret a single moment spent within his old lands.

And when Sam heard that he laughed loud for sheer delight, and he stood up and cried: “O great glory and splendour! And all my wishes have come true!” And then he wept.

And all the host laughed and wept, and in the midst of their merriment and tears the clear voice of the minstrel rose like silver and gold, and all the men were hushed.

And Anladh son of Ardir sat within the cool tent at the bedside of his brother, and listened to the words of the minstrel and the rustle of the wind in the leaves, and let this tale of the great deeds of their own time soak into his soul. Aevar was the poet, the musician—how his brother would hang upon every word and note were he conscious to hear it. He was not, however, so Anladh must remember of it what he was able. He would, of course, butcher it in the retelling, and his elder brother would tease about his inability to carry a tune in a bucket, but still Aevar would appreciate the effort. Perhaps when he was awake and healing Aevar would create his own version of the tale of the Hobbits and the return of the King, and he would polish it upon the return journey, and they would tell it around their campsites and at the hearths of their kin and in the homes of their sweethearts. Anladh longed already for their return—there was in his stern kindred, and in the North’s harsh climes and strange wild beauty, that which would never be matched by Gondor or Rohan or any of the lands between—but that would come in due time. For now, he let the laughter and the tears and the lusty song of all the gathered host lift him and draw forth his own, and when he looked down again he found Aevar watching him drowsily through his single remaining eye.

“Don’t sing,” he slurred, eye closing again. “Prairie dog sings better’n you…”

And he sang to them, now in the Elven-tongue, now in the speech of the West, until their hearts, wounded with sweet words, overflowed, and their joy was like swords, and they passed in thought out to regions where pain and delight flow together and tears are the very wine of blessedness.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Bolded words are from ROTK, The Field of Cormallen.

Aragorn—Elessar—had taken up the throne of the King with little delay upon his coronation and reception into the city of Minas Tirith, and little did Haladan wonder at his haste. For despite the bright elation which hung over all the people within its walls and indeed throughout all of Gondor, many judgements must be heard and many other matters of equal importance awaited the King’s decision. Haladan knew that the petition of his own people to return with all speed to the north was of low import in the scheme of all demanding A—Elessar’s attention, yet he did begrudge that his name had been placed so low upon the docket by whatever Gondorian official had drawn up the timetable. Aragorn—Elessar—had held full court for one day only, after which he had restricted the time of judgements to the morning hours. It was wise, as additional non-public matters were no doubt equally as pressing. Haladan would not, however, come before the King for another four days if the judgements continued at the same pace at which they had passed for the last two mornings. The delay irked him, yet if other recourse was to be had he had not yet found it. He poured with the others into the open courtyard at the top of the city, wondering if he should return down through all the levels to their tents for a midday meal or stop first in the Halls of Healing to see his kindred who had not yet been released.

Deciding there was no point in climbing back to the Sixth Circle in the afternoon when he was already so close now, he set his feet toward the Houses of Healing. He had nearly reached its portal when a flurry of footsteps approached from behind and a young boy bolted around him, pulling up and turning his gaze upon Haladan.

“Haladan Dúnadan?” Haladan offered a curt nod, and the young page thrust a folded parchment into his hands. Barely had the child ensured Haladan’s hold upon the document when he was gone again, disappearing into the crowd and noise as if he had never been. Haladan blinked for a moment, taken aback by the swiftness of it all, then shook his head and turned his attention to the missive.

Your presence is required by the King Elessar in his study at one hour after noon. If you have not yet taken your midday meal, a light repast will be provided. Present yourself to the Tower Hall guard, who will direct you.

--Delvagil, scribe

Well. Apparently he was not to wait four days for Ara—Elessar after all. Alone as he was, Haladan made little attempt to hide his relief at the summons, preemptory though it may be. Indeed, Delvagil the scribe likely had far too many such missives waiting for dispatch to worry overmuch about how his notes would be perceived by their recipients. He himself had little time to dwell upon it, even had he been inclined by nature to read aught into hastily-worded notes—the crush leaving the Hall had been slow to disperse, and he would require good speed to reach his destination by the appointed hour. Haladan tucked the parchment into his belt and turned to retrace his steps back to the Hall from which he had so recently come, wondering how the child had managed to track him down in all the manifold chaos of a great city returning to life.

Despite the bustle in the streets, he had little trouble moving against the stream. Haladan was considered tall even for his own people, and even Mardal, the shortest of their company, stood a head above all but the tallest Gondorians. Although the Men of the Southern kingdom could not be called short, the Men of the North had been somewhat startled to find that they loomed over the people of the South. They had also noted a marked tendency of the general populace to move out of their way when they passed. Often this was followed by a stare or some low comment, but more often than not the murmurs were harmless and it did no good to concern themselves with the fascination or gossip of others. It was just as well, really, when one was in haste.

He did halt several steps away from the Tower Guard stationed outside the doors of the great Hall. The Gondorian soldiers always seemed less pleased than most to be staring up at their Northern allies.

Compatriots? Countrymen? Brethren? What were they to Gondor now? The days of the old Kings were so long past that any sense of kinship was difficult to muster, yet they were bound once again in a very real way. It would, he suspected, take time for both North and South to know what to make of the new relationship, to develop any sense of unity or shared purpose beyond a shared tragic history and their hatred for a dark Maia who would not trouble them again.

The guard glanced at the proffered missive, stirred as if he was uncertain whether to salute—no one, including the Northern Dúnedain, was entirely confident how they ranked as compared to Gondor’s warriors—then simply turned and entered the Tower Hall. Haladan followed, noting that the large room was dim. Shades of some light material, embroidered cunningly to match the stone surrounds, had been drawn across the high windows, likely to facilitate cooling during the hot summer months. It seemed a good system—even now, so soon after discharging the packed mass of petitioners, the enormous room was noticeably more comfortable than it had been at his exit. The guard handed the missive to a man seated at a desk in the near corner, hesitated, then settled on a quick nod to Haladan before returning to his post. He did not wait for any manner of reply from the King’s kinsman.

The secretary studied the note, one eyebrow rising slowly, then turned pale blue eyes upon Haladan. Haladan returned the gaze impassively, noting but refusing to acknowledge the doubt writ upon the other man’s face. He could not be responsible for what such a man saw or found lacking in him. The secretary only nodded, however, rose, and offered a curt wave. “This way.”

He led the way around the great throne, behind the dais, and through a low door set behind a solid pillar. A warren of high halls spread from behind that door, some stark, some covered with intricate tapestries and delicate carvings. Haladan made a point not to stare as they wound through the twists and turns,  reminded again how little of the larger world he and his kindred truly knew. Even the back hallways of Gondor held splendor such as they had not seen. Men and women hurried about them, a low hum of voices over all, each fixed upon his particular task. Haladan spared a moment for jealousy at that—he deeply desired that he and his kindred might have some occupation other than reading and mending weapons and playing darts upon the back wall of one of the tents. The lack of purpose and activity, first at the Cormallen field and now upon the Pelennor, was wearing upon them. Tempers were beginning to fray. Dorhaur and Arestor had been pointedly avoiding each other since the Hobbits had been presented—he knew not what had occurred, but long tension existed between their families and it did not always require much—and Brendis had rarely been seen since their return.

A task—any task—would have been welcome.

The secretary halted before a massive arched door, carven with the White Tree of Gondor surmounted by crown and seven stars, worked in gold and … mithril, unless Haladan missed his guess. The wealth in this door would have fed a Northern village for a month. He clenched his jaw, reminding himself that once his ancestors, too, had known such prosperity and beauty. They had lost it for themselves—their fall into a fading people scratching a living from the rugged hills was none of Gondor’s doing or responsibility.

It mattered not. They might not have gold and mithril in any quantity, but they had brought the line of the King safely through the centuries. He knew which he would choose, were he offered such an opportunity.

The secretary pulled at a bell near the handle, and an unfamiliar voice called for them to enter. Haladan glanced around the room as they stepped inside, taking little note of his surroundings as he searched for his Chie—his King—but Elessar was not present. Instead, a young man with dark hair, grey eyes, and noble countenance stood at ease before the fireplace, cradling a glass of deep red wine.

Faramir, son of Denethor. The Steward of Gondor. This, of all things, Haladan had not expected. He took a moment to be certain that the other would not see the surprise in his countenance. Faramir set aside his glass and approached, nodding a dismissal to the secretary before holding out an arm to Haladan.

“The lord King stepped out, but only momentarily. He bid me make you welcome if you arrived before his return.”

Haladan clasped Faramir’s arm, although he suspected a bow would have been more suitable. He did not, however, intend to make ripples over a thing so small.

“Haladan.”

“Faramir.” The man’s grip was brief and strong. Faramir motioned to a low table set before the deep chairs ringing the fireplace. “The King indicated that you should begin, should he not be present. He should truly be only a moment, and he will join you.”

The table, richly carved and burnished to a deep mahogany gloss, was laid with what Haladan considered somewhat more than a light repast—cold meats, lumps of yellow and white cheese, dark crusty bread, olives, small hothouse tomatoes, dried figs, and a flagon of the red wine in Faramir’s glass. He eased around one of the chairs, chose a plate, and began to fill it. He more than suspected that eating before the King arrived would be considered deeply inappropriate, but if Arag—Elessar had conveyed such a message he meant it. Aragorn was not one to stand on such ceremony.

Elessar.

In truth, Haladan had hardly recognized his kinsman these past days, such grace and majesty had the man radiated since their victory over the great Enemy. He began to wonder how he had never seen aught but the shabby Ranger who patrolled with them and fought in their midst for the past decades. And now that the great task was completed, perhaps indeed the chieftain he had known would disappear, leaving naught but a King he little recognized. The thought grieved him, and yet this was the day for which all the generations of his ancestors had longed. He would rejoice in the return of the King, whoever that King may turn out to be. Still, if Haladan was certain of anything, it was that the man would not tell him to eat and then be offended when he complied.

Also, he was hungry. He had broken his fast well before dawn.

He glanced up to gauge the Steward’s reaction, but Faramir had only returned to his glass and was now watching him with polite interest. Haladan glanced back to the generous luncheon. “You will not eat as well?”

Faramir shook his head, smiling. “I have eaten already, two hours past. As I have been recently wounded and ill, the healers have been more strict with the timing of my meals than usual.” He hesitated, then shrugged and moved forward to scoop up a handful of figs. “Although I don’t suppose they will complain should I eat more than prescribed.”

Haladan laughed softly. “Indeed, I have never heard a healer do so.”

And these healers surely would not, given the obvious pallor and general air of fatigue about the young Steward. Haladan popped a tomato in his mouth, biting carefully in order not to spray its juice upon himself or his clothing, giving himself time to consider. Sympathies were due the man, and yet it was perhaps not his place. Still, rumors regarding Faramir’s illness and the Steward Denethor’s last hours were rife, confusing and contradicting but all rather grim. Faramir would know of the rumors, of course. He could not help but be aware that all in the city and soon likely in the entire kingdom were discussing his father’s end—that everyone knew some version, many several versions, and few versions placed his recently deceased parent in a sympathetic light. It may be that a simple expression of condolence, genuinely offered, would be a relief.

A pang for his own father, so recently gone from him and now laid to rest far from the land of his birth, loosed his tongue before he could reconsider.

“I was grieved to hear of your father’s passing.”

Faramir blinked, recalling his mind from wherever it had wandered in the silence, and offered a brief nod. “I thank you.”

“I have heard that he was canny and valiant both in counsel and upon the battlefield—truly a great foe of the Enemy.”

The grey eyes were yet unreadable, but something about the younger man’s carriage eased. A faint smile flitted across Faramir’s face. “He was. Gondor was fortunate to have been blessed with his leadership in these dark times.” Faramir drifted slowly then to sit in the chair nearest the fire. He swirled the rich red liquid in his glass, took a drink, and looked back to Haladan. “Yet I am not the only man here who has recently lost a father. I grieve for your own loss as well, Haladan son of Halbarad.”

Haladan was surprised that the Steward knew of his father. “I thank you as well.”

“The King loved him greatly.” Faramir stretched out his legs, slowly, and leaned back in the chair, sighing a little as it took his weight. “He spoke of him during a brief moment of respite yesterday. Although it is perhaps not my place to repeat, I do not believe his words were spoken in confidence. He is much conflicted—he was greatly relieved to have your father at his side, yet he grieves to know that your father’s loyalty required his life.”

Faced as Haladan was about to be with this King he had followed for many years yet was about to truly meet for the first time, the Steward’s words were … good to hear. His father had greatly loved Elessar as well.

No. His father had loved Aragorn. He would have loved Elessar Telcontar also, but had not been given that opportunity. It was good to know that the King—Elessar or Aragorn or whatever combination of the two would soon arrive through that door—for his part retained that love.

It wasn’t that he doubted the King’s nobility and loyalty. It wasn’t even that he doubted the King’s love. He was simply having … difficulty, in reconciling this scion of the Kings of Númenor, stern and glorious, who had taken up the throne and spent his days now dispensing justice and mercy to the people, with the man who had so often shared his family’s food and fire and home. He was going to make a fool of himself when Arag—Elessar. 

Elessar. Why could he not remember?

Faramir was watching him, waiting for a response. Haladan gathered the scattered threads of his thought. It would not do to let his inner turmoil show, especially to one with more than enough inner turmoil of his own. “Our loyalty always requires our lives, whether that life is cut short upon the battlefield or lasts the full span of a Man’s years. I wish that … that my father’s had been longer, but he would have considered it well spent.”

The Steward was silent for a long moment, then nodded. “Truly, I see that the King has chosen well.”

Haladan looked around, sufficiently distracted from the whirl of his thoughts, wondering briefly how strong was the wine he had only just tasted. “Chosen?”

Faramir hesitated. “Ah. Perhaps I should not—”

The door opened behind them, and both Men rose in the presence of the King.