The King and the Steward

Chapter 1. The Day After

The day after his coronation, Aragorn rose with the sun.  After a simple meal, he made his way to the White Tower, ascending to the level above the Hall of the Throne, where both the council chamber and the Steward’s study were located. 

The council chamber was empty; the council would not convene until the morrow.  Today was reserved for the King and the Steward to confer.  As he passed the chamber, memories stirred—of the councils he had attended as Captain Thorongil.  How strange it was, to walk here now as King.  Amidst the stone and the silence, he felt both a stranger and an exiled son returning home.   

Home?  It felt almost a betrayal of his kinsmen’s sacrifices to think of another place but the North as home.  Yet he was as much a son of Gondor as of Arnor. 

The council chamber was surrounded by smaller rooms, one of which had its door ajar.  Stepping inside, Aragorn found Faramir seated at a desk, a stack of parchments before him.  As he entered, the Steward looked up, rose, and bowed his head. 

“A fair morning, my lord,” he said.  “I trust you had a restful night?” 

“A fair morning indeed, Faramir,” Aragorn said.  “I slept as well as one could, after such a momentous day.  But tell me, do you always start your day this early?” 

“When I am not engaged in other duties, I am usually here by the second hour.  But I came earlier today, as I do not yet know how early you prefer to begin the day.” 

“Ah, then we are even,” said Aragorn.  “I rose early myself, so as not to keep you waiting.” 

He glanced around the room.  Shelves lined the walls, filled with books, scrolls, and parchments of various sizes.  Two large crates sat on the floor.  The room was modest but bright, with morning sunlight streaming through the large windows.   

“This is not the Steward’s study I remember,” he said.   

For a moment Faramir looked puzzled, then he must have remembered Aragorn’s days as Captain Thorongil. 

“Long after the last king disappeared, the Steward decided to appropriate the King’s study as his own,” Faramir explained, “rather than let the largest and brightest room on this level stand empty.   

“The Steward’s study you remember was originally the King’s, and now we have restored it for your use, my lord.” 

Aragorn's gaze shifted again to the crates.  They must contain the belongings from the old Steward's study, moved out to make way for him. 

Faramir had given up his father’s study for him, then. 

Was this change difficult for him?  Or did he prefer not to use the room, laden as it must be with memories of his departed father? 

“Did you use the previous Steward’s study before I arrived?” Aragorn asked. 

Faramir must have sensed the direction of Aragorn’s question, but he answered plainly.  “I did, my lord.” 

For a moment neither of them spoke, each discerning the other’s preferences. 

“If you prefer to continue using the previous Steward’s study,” Aragorn said, “we can arrange another room for my study.” 

Faramir studied him, perhaps trying to perceive whether Aragorn minded using the room once occupied by Denethor and the former stewards. 

Aragorn met his gaze with a reassuring look, and after a moment Faramir smiled.   

“If it pleases you to use the room, Sire, I am more than content to remain here,” he said. 

Deciding to let the matter rest, Aragorn nodded.  

“Shall we go there now, my lord?” 

“Lead the way, Faramir.” 

Faramir gathered the stack of parchments before him, and together they left the room.  He took also a small casket with him. 

... 

 

Upon entering the King’s study—the familiar room, which in his mind still registered as the Steward’s study—Aragorn smiled to himself.  He could picture Steward Ecthelion seated behind the desk, ready to hear his report. 

They took their seats, and Aragorn began.  “Please tell me about Gondor’s forces.” 

Faramir outlined the present formation of Gondor’s forces: the guards of Minas Tirith, the soldiers at Osgiliath and Cair Andros, the rangers of Ithilien, the fleet at Pelargir, and the forces in each fief. 

When he finished, he handed Aragorn several sheets of parchment—a summary of what he had just shared, with additional details. 

Their discussion then turned to the treasury.  Faramir passed Aragorn more parchments—notes prepared by Meneldil, the Lord Treasurer. 

 “How would you describe the state of Gondor’s treasury?” Aragorn asked. 

“Sufficient, though not overflowing.  Provided we manage the repair of the war damage wisely, we will have enough to expand the fleet or to rebuild Osgiliath afterwards.  Though it would be prudent not to undertake both at once.” 

Aragorn nodded.   

Faramir gestured to the last sheet of Meneldil’s notes.  “Here is a list of lands and wealth that belong to the King, and not to Gondor.” 

Aragorn raised an eyebrow.  “I did not know there was such a thing.” 

Faramir gave an amused smile.  “An obscure footnote in the Annals of the Kings recorded that it began with King Hyarmendacil purchasing lands to be given to his second and third sons.” 

“And over the years the kings slowly accumulated more lands?” 

“Within the limit carefully set by the Council.  Most of Gondor rightly belong to the kingdom, not to any one person.” 

Faramir then handed a small casket to Aragorn.  “Let me return two keys to you, my lord.  One opens the vault of Gondor, the other the vault of the House of Elendil—or the House of Anárion, as some may insist on saying.”  

Aragorn opened the casket, surveyed the keys, and closed it again. 

“Does the Council know of the lands belonging to the King?” 

Faramir tilted his head slightly, recalling.  “It has never been discussed in any councils I attended.  I believe only the Steward and the Lord Treasurer are aware.  Most of the lands are leased out and the Lord Treasurer handles the administration.” 

Aragorn regarded Faramir, silently acknowledging the Steward’s integrity, in disclosing something he could have kept within his grasp.   

His Steward met his eyes steadily, deflecting Aragorn’s unspoken praise.  I am only doing my duty. 

They moved on to discuss the Council of Gondor. 

“There are eighteen main members of the Council,” Faramir said.  “In addition, there are also some elders invited as honorary members.  As you would see tomorrow, my lord, your Council is an assortment of fascinating characters.  The Council sessions are rarely boring.”  

He proceeded to describe the Council’s members, the peculiarities of each lord and captain, the contributions of each fief to Gondor’s treasury and army, and which fiefs might need more attention from the King. 

Another set of parchments was handed to Aragorn.  Only three sheets this time, he observed with some relief. 

A knock at the door interrupted them.  Húrin, the Warden of the Keys, entered without waiting for a reply, his attention fixed on a scroll in his hands. 

“It would amuse you to see this, Faramir.  I wonder if you foresaw...” 

He stopped short, noticing Aragorn. 

“My lord!” he exclaimed.  “I beg your pardon—it was remiss of me not to wait for the Lord Steward’s leave to enter.” 

Aragorn waved off the concern.   “Worry not, Lord Warden.  I am in no haste; I can continue my discussion with Lord Faramir after yours.  Your news seems of interest.” 

“A certain lord has written to me,” Húrin began, “complaining he was seated too far from the dais at the coronation feast, ‘unbefitting his lineage and unparalleled allegiance to the crown’.” 

“As expected of Lord Hador,” Faramir remarked.  “You may name him to the King, Lord Húrin.  Our lord will soon become acquainted, anyway, with the colourful characters in his court.”  He cast Aragorn a knowing glance. 

Húrin read on.  “He ‘politely request that this slight be rectified in the upcoming Council’...”  

“O, we can do better than that,” Faramir said.  “With your permission, Sire, may I handle this trifling matter?” 

Aragorn raised an eyebrow.  “Are we speaking of Hador of Anórien, the one so proud of his royal lineage?”  

“So it is not only in advanced age that he has become inordinately proud?  At least he can count constancy among his virtues,” Faramir remarked.  “Might I suggest, Sire, inviting him for an afternoon repast in the gardens?” 

“And what good would my enduring an afternoon with Hador achieve?” 

“Soothing his ruffled feathers, while instructing him that the King prizes humility, while securing his vote on the tax relief for Lebennin.  He and the Lord of Lebennin are long-time rivals.” 

Aragorn leaned forward slightly. “You planned this, did you not?” 

“It was too great an opportunity to waste,” said Faramir, “—to make him feel slighted, prompt a request, offer flattery, and issue a quiet warning.” 

Aragorn always appreciated a play of wit, spiced with wry humour—which his Steward seemed to possess aplenty beneath his quiet composure. 

“I will do my part,” he said. “You said ‘we’, so I expect your attendance on this enchanted afternoon.” 

Faramir nodded with a smile. 

Turning to Húrin, he said, “I believe other matters may wait until our lord gives me leave, Lord Húrin.” 

“Certainly, my lord,” said Húrin.  “But let me inform you: Meneldil inquired about the bill for the repairs of the Hallows.  The stone mason has not submitted any.” 

“Has Lord Meneldil expanded his scrutiny to bills he has not received?” Faramir said wryly. 

Húrin regarded him.  “You have paid it yourself, have you not, my lord?” 

“You can assure Lord Meneldil nothing is amiss,” said Faramir.  “The repairs are underway and no one is denied their due.” 

He gave a small nod, and offered no further explanation.   

Húrin stepped back. 

“I shall return later,” he said. “It would not do to pester you before the King.” 

Faramir chuckled softly. “Please see to it that no one else pesters us, Lord Húrin,” he replied, his tone warm with gratitude. 

As the Warden of the Keys left them, Aragorn noted how Faramir’s posture, which had relaxed during his conversation with Húrin, had returned to its stiff, formal state.  And he maintained a polite, guarded expression, which must have been honed through years of practice. 

Aragorn glanced out the window.  “It is such a bright day,” he said.  “Shall we continue our discourse while taking a walk?” 

They made their way towards the garden surrounding the King’s House. 

“The lords and captains send reports to the Steward regularly, I presume?” asked Aragorn. 

“Aye, monthly,” Faramir replied.  “In the council tomorrow, some may ask how often you would like them to report to you.” 

“They shall continue reporting to you, unless you mind it,” said Aragorn. 

As he expected, Faramir did not express any objection or surprise, though he did ask Aragorn’s reasons. 

“Because I have a steward capable of directing the lords and captains—one who seems to enjoy doing it,” replied Aragorn.  “They may speak or write directly to me when there is a need, of course.  But I am pleased to leave them in your hands—at least when you are in the City.” 

“Where else would I be, my lord?” 

“I have heard on good authority that you promised Lady Éowyn to dwell in Ithilien and make a garden there.”  Aragorn winked. 

Faramir laughed.  “The King is well-informed indeed.  But at the time, I thought I would not be the Steward anymore.” 

“Yet it would gladden your heart to see Ithilien restored?” 

“Certainly, my lord.” 

“As it would mine.  And who better to oversee it?  We only need to think how you can divide your time between here and Ithilien.” 

Aragorn tapped his chin.  “Emyn Arnen is within sight of the City, a rider can reach it in three hours.  Perhaps a gate at Rammas Echor facing Emyn Arnen?  And you holding the key?” 

Faramir looked at him with growing wonder. 

Aragorn chuckled.  “But I am rushing ahead of the matter.  Do not mind me.  We will see how we can divide the tasks between us as we go along.  For now, it suffices to say that you will be the chief counsellor to the King, the first among the Council members, and my vicegerent when I am in Arnor.” 

Faramir said solemnly, “I will fulfill your trust, my lord.” 

Aragorn nodded. 

They stopped walking and took their seats on a bench beneath a pine tree. 

There, in the garden, with the White Tower soaring above them, no longer confined to discussions on defence and battle, they spoke of more joyful labours: of Pelargir and the revival of Gondor’s sea might; of Anórien and the better use of its lands, of Lebennin and support for its struggling herders, among other matters. 

“I have placed some notes concerning the fiefs on your desk,” Faramir said. 

Containing details of each region of Gondor, no doubt, Aragorn thought, their main produce, the number of people, their pressing concerns,...

“Any other knowledge or wisdom you wish to impart to me today?  Perhaps notes on the seasonal variation of the Anduin’s water depth?” 

Faramir turned to him, a brief sadness clouding his face.  “If I have given the impression of lecturing you, I—”   

But he regarded Aragorn, and stopped his needless apology. 

His stance eased slightly and a faint smile brightened his face.  “I left another set of notes in your desk.” 

“On what matter?” Aragorn asked. 

Faramir hesitated.  “A rough schedule for your visit to the fiefs, so that the people may come to know you.  Needless to say, it is just a suggestion.” 

Aragorn chuckled. “I will try to live up to your expectations, Faramir.” 

He rose and stretched his back.  “Shall we continue our walk?  I would like to see the lower circles and the guards’ quarters.” 

...

Chapter 2. Ithilien

“Does the King require the Council’s approval to create a new princedom?” Aragorn asked.  He kept his tone neutral, as if he were merely curious.  

Only two days had passed since Aragorn entered the City, yet his Steward was clearly growing accustomed to his manner.  Faramir gave no sign of surprise, though he sat even straighter. 

“To my knowledge, it lies within the King’s prerogatives, though the Council has the right to raise objections,” Faramir replied, his tone cautious. 

“May I ask, my lord, are you perhaps considering this as a reward for someone’s valour during the war?”  

“You may call it a reward, though I prefer to call it something else,” Aragorn answered.  “So this can be arranged swiftly?” 

“It can be done,” Faramir said.  “Yet, if I may, would you hear me on this matter?” 

Aragorn held his hand out, gesturing for Faramir to speak. 

“Is my lord’s mind set on this course?” Faramir began. “There are good reasons why, in Gondor’s three-thousand-year history, only one princedom has been created.   

“I believe you know that a principality contributes a lesser sum to the Crown’s coffers.  Their contribution to the army is not compulsory.  There are other means of reward you might consider—perhaps a generous gift of gold and silver, or the granting of a fief, if really deserved.” 

Aragorn nodded.  “Are there other concerns?”  

“The gift of a princedom is effectively irrevocable,” Faramir cautioned.  “The King may appoint or replace the lord of a fief at his discretion, even at his whim—not that I believe you would take such a course—but a princedom can only be recovered in the case of high disloyalty.  There are many repulsive actions that are not considered high disloyalty.” 

Faramir paused, his hand smoothing over the map of the City spread across the desk.  He glanced at Aragorn, perhaps weighing the wisdom of voicing his dissent. 

Aragorn offered no objection, and Faramir continued cautiously: “The man you intend to reward may be valiant, but once granted such great autonomy, will he remain true to Gondor, or seek only to fatten his own house?  And who can vouch for his heirs?  Is it not like ceding a part of your realm to strangers?” 

Aragorn lowered his eyes, suppressing his smile.  He placed a finger on the map, tracing the lines, until it came to rest upon the Great Gate.   

Lifting his gaze back to Faramir, he said: “Ah, but is that not exactly what you have done, my lord Steward?  Only a few weeks ago you entrusted your land to a stranger from the North, of whose heirs you could not possibly have any knowledge.  Your decision is also irrevocable, I would think.” 

Surprise flickered across Faramir’s face, like one caught off-guard by an unexpected thrust in a sword match.  He rested a hand on his chin, carefully choosing his answer. 

“I would not deny Gondor her king,” he finally said.  “You are right, no one can vouch for anyone’s heirs. But one is not so wrong, I think, to trust that the line of Elendil will not fail Gondor.” 

“Some might say that the line of Elendil has failed Gondor for almost a thousand years,” countered Aragorn, “while the line of Húrin has faithfully guarded her.”  

“If you had but asked whom I have in mind, Faramir, you would have spared yourself the worry of a new prince robbing Gondor.  I intend to grant the princedom to you.” 

Aragorn thought Faramir would not have been surprised by this revelation.   

Who else had shepherded Gondor through the transition from Ruling Steward to King?  And what of that frightful defence of Osgiliath? 

Yet, to Aragorn’s wonder, Faramir did not seem to expect it.  His face went pale.  And stranger still, hurt clouded his eyes, like one dealt a blow by a dear friend. 

Silence hung in the air, broken only by the rustling of leaves outside the window. 

When Faramir regained his composure, a coldness settled upon his face—one Aragorn had never seen before. 

“Why would you do this, my lord?” Faramir asked, his tone guarded.  “Were you a lesser man, I would have asked if it was pity or mistrust that prompted you.” 

This conversation did not go as Aragorn had envisioned, but he answered calmly.  “To me it seems only right.  As prince and Steward, you will be my chief counsellor, with higher rank and authority than any other lord.  I would keep close the one I trust.” 

“I am honoured by your trust, my lord,” Faramir said, his tone respectful yet lacking its usual warmth.  “Yet even without the princedom, I would still be the chief of the Council—you have already declared as much.” 

Faramir’s voice sank to almost a whisper.   

“If our regard for each other means anything, my king, or our shared love of Gondor can persuade at all—I beseech you, do not continue treating me in this fashion.” 

“Treating you in what fashion, exactly?” 

“Treating me like a deposed king.” Faramir’s face reddened as he uttered the words.  “I take pride in my oath ‘to rule in the name of the king until he shall return’, and in surrendering my office when the king did return.  I do not need a prize to console or compensate me.” 

Aragorn was taken aback.  He held Faramir in high regard, and had been pleased to show it for all to see.  Yet now he wondered—had his actions been more about assuaging his own guilt over taking Faramir’s place? 

“So that is how the princedom—and perhaps all my actions—appear to you?  Condescension, or worse still, a taunt?” Aragorn kept his voice even, but his disappointment was unmistakable. 

He rose and walked to the window.  Leaning on the sill, he turned back to Faramir. 

“I do not seek to console or compensate you, lord Steward,” he added.  “You need no consolation, and how could I hope to recompense all of Gondor with a single principality?” 

Faramir was silent, and Aragorn pressed on. 

“Ithilien will flourish under your care.  I know you would labour tirelessly, with or without the princedom.  Yet it is only right that one should hold what they have loved and laboured for.” 

At the mention of Ithilien, tenderness surged in Faramir’s eyes. 

“Ithilien,” he said slowly.  “You have chosen your arrow well, my lord.”  

“Unless there is another land you cherish more,” Aragorn said. 

Faramir fell silent again.  His bewildered expression at the thought of receiving honour reminded Aragorn of Halbarad—his steadfast kinsman who had given everything, without ever asking for anything. 

What was so great about the line of Elendil, Aragorn suddenly thought, that he had been surrounded by such noble men? 

Aragorn broke the silence.  “You asked me why I do this.  Faramir, are you the only one who may give?” 

His words, spoken out of exasperation, seemed to have struck their mark. 

Faramir's expression changed, as if a new realization, or even remorse, had dawned on him.  He regarded Aragorn intently, then he lowered his eyes, shifting his focus to the map before him.  His fingers traced its surface, lingering on the familiar, frayed edges. 

After some time, he exhaled deeply and shook his head, as though dispelling troubling thoughts. 

Then he spoke quietly, more to himself than to Aragorn: “I trust you, my lord.” 

Aragorn returned to the desk.  Standing beside Faramir, he clasped his arm. 

“It is neither pity nor reward, but justice.” 

Another moment of silence ensued, but one less fraught with tension. 

This time, it was Faramir who spoke first. 

“Ithilien is Gondor’s main eastward outpost,” he said, and some warmth had returned to his voice.  “It is a great responsibility to guard the eastern border.” 

Aragorn nodded.  “The Prince of Ithilien will be the march-warden of Gondor, guarding the border and clearing Ithilien from remnants of orcs and outlaws.”   

“It would be his duty to ensure Ithilien is peopled and thriving,” Faramir added. 

“Aye.” 

“Would it also be his duty to restore Minas Ithil?” 

“It is too early to venture into that dreadful vale,” Aragorn answered.  “But eventually, yea, that task will fall to the Prince of Ithilien.” 

“All that, in addition to the Steward’s duties?”  There was a quirk on Faramir’s lips. 

“Aye,” said Aragorn, “not to mention fostering relations with Arnor; and reviving trades with Harad, Khand, and any other realms you have in mind.” 

Aragorn paused, letting his words sink.  Then he asked solemnly: “What say you, Faramir?” 

“Aye, my lord, with all my heart.”

...

Chapter 3. Some Were Pleased, Some Less So

Dol Amroth Town House, Minas Tirith, May 3019 T.A. 

 

“Have you heard the news?” Lothíriel asked breathlessly as she sank down onto the settee. 

Amrothos eyed his sister.  She must have been walking very fast, faster than her dress allowed.  Patience was never a strong suit in the Dol Amroth family. 

“Which news?” Erchirion asked, without looking up from the arrow and feathers in his hand.  “There has been a lot happening in the City lately.  The stone mason guild is unhappy about the Dwarves.  The chief of the Easterlings is coming to thank the King for his pardon.  Adanel broke her betrothal to Turgon in favour of Haldan, after...” 

“None of those trifling matters,” Lothíriel interrupted.  “The King is making Faramir a prince.” 

Erchirion and Amrothos looked up, now giving her their full attention.  She smiled smugly, pleased with the effect. 

“A prince?” Erchirion repeated, raising an eyebrow. “I did not realize one could create a principality.  Being a king has its privileges, I suppose.” 

“Please talk some sense, brother,” said Amrothos.  “Of course a principality can be created.  How else did our forefather become the Prince of Dol Amroth?  It is mentioned in the Statutes of Gondor that... o, never mind.” 

Turning to his sister, he asked, “And how did you hear this?  Father has not told us anything.” 

Lothíriel pressed her palms together and flashed a knowing smile.  

“A lady has her sources.  O, is it not simply wonderful?  Prince of Ithilien, Lord of Emyn Arnen, the whole thing sounds so poetic.” 

“What is so poetic about it?  It makes sense: Faramir has been the Captain of Ithilien Rangers for years, he has practically lived there, and he descends from the ancient Lords of Emyn Arnen.” 

Lothíriel rolled her eyes but did not answer. 

Instead, the levity faded from her face and she said, “The King seemed to recognize Faramir’s worth—I am so glad.  Faramir deserves all the good things, after all he has endured.” 

“I wonder how the King convinced Faramir to agree to it,” Erchirion quipped.  “If I know our cousin, the mention of reward would have thrown him off balance.” 

“By telling him it is his duty to make Ithilien flourish, I suppose,” Amrothos said.  “Speak of reward, and Faramir will recoil.  Speak of duty, and he will give his all.” 

“Dear, dear Faramir,” sighed Lothíriel. 

She added, “Aunt Ivriniel is not impressed.  She says this is the least the King can do, after taking Gondor from Faramir.” 

“I doubt even the sight of Valinor could impress Aunt Ivriniel,” said Erchirion.  “But she has a point.  If one were inclined to be cynical, one might see this as recompensing a realm with a small portion of it.  But we are not cynical—one such person in the family is more than enough, and our Aunt plays the role admirably.  So I say we toast to Faramir, and to our wise King.” 

Lothíriel’s eyes brightened, as they often did when an idea struck her.  “What do you think about inviting the King to supper, to thank him properly?  Do people invite their King to their house?  Or should we wait for him to invite us?” 

Erchirion shrugged.  “You can check the book of decorum if you wish,” he said. “Or consult our Aunt, the final word on propriety.  But the King does not strike me as someone overly concerned with such matters.  I believe he would be glad to share our table.” 

... 

 

An excerpt from the journal of Lord Hador of Anórien, head of an ancient noble family in Gondor. 

 

What is the world coming to?   

I had little love for Denethor, but at least he upheld the dignity of Gondor as I had always known it. 

The new King has pardoned the Easterlings and made peace with Harad.  How could he squander such an opportunity to make Gondor an imperial power, a realm before whose name all others would tremble?   

He has also pardoned a guard who left his post during the siege.  Well, I should not be surprised, after what he did with the Easterlings. 

And do not get me started on the Steward. 

For all his mild manner and lowly bearing, I have always suspected that Denethor’s second son is devious.  An apple does not fall far from the tree.  I was proven correct in the end. 

In the Council discussing the claim to the crown, he acted so disinterestedly, and spoke so loftily, declaring that he “will not negotiate with the King”, eliciting sympathy from all.  Even I was compelled to bow deeply to him, thinking that would be the last time we bowed to the Steward of Gondor. 

‘Will not negotiate’, indeed! 

It is not words, but facts, that count. 

See what has happened? Not only did he remain the Steward, but the King also declared him chief of the Council and his vicegerent.  And now, the princedom.  I wonder what other agreements they had struck—to plight their children in marriage? 

Alas for Boromir!  

Out of the Steward family, he was the only straightforward one.  He would have made an excellent ruler: victorious in battle, and one who would have listened to his Council. 

One has no choice but to adapt to the changing times, I suppose.  I will not let my family, who can trace our descent from King Anárion himself, be pushed aside and forgotten. 

I must quickly introduce Írimë to the King—union through marriage is the true and tested way.   Surely the heir of Elendil would seek a pure-blooded Númenórean for his spouse, unlike that wayward son of Denethor. 

He would have been an easier mark, for he and Írimë grew up together.  Though she had enough sense to set her sights on the heir rather than the spare. 

But no, not a Númenórean lady for the Steward.  Not even a lady from the realm.  A bright-haired, sword-wielding lass from Rohan for the Steward of Gondor!  Rohan, rolling fields that dare call themselves a kingdom.   

True, Rohan succoured us in the siege.  But still! 

What is Gondor coming to?  Will my children’s children have to bow to a yellow-haired Steward? 

In this matter, again Denethor’s son showed his cunning.  For though Rohan is of lesser lineage, King Elessar holds them and their young king in high regard.  A union with the sister of the King of Rohan would certainly cement the Steward’s position in King Elessar’s court. 

A backup plan is necessary, should my daughter fail to secure the Queen’s crown.   

Trade? Wealth will be the new route to renown, I foresee, now that the age of peace has come.  Trade with Eriador will soon be re-opened—I must get my son to find opportunities there.  Or perhaps an ambassador position in Arnor—certainly that position will be created. 

What a hassle, to start again at my age! Would that Denethor had endured a little while longer.  He would have denied the heir of Isildur entry, and Gondor would remain as I have always known it, but without the Shadow.  That would have been the golden age indeed. 

... 

 

Minas Tirith, May 3019 T.A. 

 

“Master Halfling, I am sorry to disturb you, but are you the one renowned for your cooking skills?” 

Frodo looked up from his book to find a short (by Big People’s standards), plump woman with a kindly face standing before him.  From her warm expression, the faint aroma of herbs she carried, and the question she asked, Frodo deduced she was a cook herself. 

He smiled, rose, and gave a bow.  “Frodo Baggins at your service, Mistress.  I fancy myself a decent cook, but the best among us is Samwise.” 

The woman gave a practiced curtsey.  Her crisp skirts brushed together with a soft sound.  Must be a select staff of the Citadel, Frodo thought. 

“I am Erien, cook in the Steward’s household,” she said. 

“Then you must be a great cook,” Frodo said.  “You were looking for Sam, Mistress Erien?” 

Erien nodded.  “I heard the King is partial to the mushroom soup made by the Master Halfling, and I would like to learn to make it.  I know cooks are seldom willing to share their recipes, but everyone says the Halflings are courteous and kindhearted, so I thought I would try my luck.” 

“Sam will be happy to share his recipes,” Frodo said, amused.  “But I am curious.  You are not in the King’s household.  May I know, Mistress, why you wish to learn to make the King’s favourite food?” 

“So it is true, then, that the King loves the mushroom soup?” 

“Among other mushroom dishes Sam whipped up,” Frodo replied, chuckling softly as he recalled their shared meals in Cormallen.  “Mushroom is rather underused here in Gondor and in the North beyond the Shire and Bree, we discovered.  Ah, here comes Sam now.” 

“Hullo, Sam,” Frodo called.  “This is Mistress Erien, Captain Faramir’s cook.  She would like to learn how to make your mushroom soup, as a gift for Strider.” 

After exchanging greetings, Sam and Erien joined Frodo beneath the old tree where he had been reading.  The air smelled faintly of earth and flowers, and a soft breeze rustled the leaves above them. 

“I am very fond of Lord Faramir,” Erien explained.  “Not only because I have cared for him since he was born, but for the man he is.  If you spend but a few days with him, you will understand what I mean.” 

“We know what you mean, Mistress,” said Sam.  “We stayed with Captain Faramir for a night in Ithilien, and I’ll tell you, he’s the finest man I’ve met—wise, noble, and all that. And that’s saying something, considering the company I’ve kept lately!” 

Erien looked at him with approval and gratitude. 

“I am deeply grateful to the King for treating Lord Faramir so well,” she said.  “He deserves it, of course, but not everyone treats him as he deserved, and kings—who knows what they would do? 

“Thus I am very grateful, and I wish to do something for the King, even if it is just a small thing.” 

“Strider will not think it small,” said Frodo.  “You will see, Mistress, that the King has a heart of gold.” 

“Why don’t we go to the kitchen now?” said Sam. “If you don’t have other duties, that is.  No? Good!  Follow me, and before you know it, you’ll have a whole spread of Shire dishes ready for Strider.” 

...

Chapter 4. A Steward's Place

Aragorn had first heard of the matter of the Steward’s residence while still in Cormallen. 

The efficient scribe whom the Steward had installed there—as a sort of polite mediator between the City and the King in that delicate period—had mentioned that the Steward was planning to move out of his residence in the White Tower, “which has been his home since he was but an infant, my lord,” the scribe had said.   

Even Lord Erestor of Imladris would have been impressed by how the scribe conveyed his plea as factual reporting, while maintaining a disinterested expression. 

During the feast at the Pelennor, the night before the King entering the City, Aragorn had asked Faramir about it.  Faramir had confirmed that he would indeed vacate the Steward’s residence, once he had finished moving his belongings. 

But you will still be the Steward, Aragorn had almost said at the time.  Provided you do not refuse the office. 

Yet he had not spoken, for he had seen how solemnly the young Steward took his decision to surrender the rod.  Aragorn would not make light of it by carelessly saying, but you will still be the Steward, as though everything would remain unchanged. 

For no matter what honour or friendship Aragorn might offer Faramir, this he would take from him: Faramir’s place as the ruler of Gondor—his birth right, a legacy of a long line of Stewards who had steadfastly guarded the realm, after the last king had unwisely left it bereft. 

Thus, before they had parted, Aragorn had simply said, “Do not move yet, let us speak of this tomorrow.” 

The following day, Aragorn entered Minas Tirith in a grand procession.  Faramir declared him king before all gathered by the Great Gate of the White City.  In turn, Aragorn declared Faramir and his line the King’s Steward. 

When Faramir surrendered the Steward’s rod to him, Aragorn knew that he was content to live without it, and would have continued serving him.   

Yet when Aragorn handed him the rod back, Faramir accepted it readily—no reluctance, no surprise, no complacency. 

That day, the question of the Steward’s residence did not arise again.  Aragorn considered the matter settled.  Where else, after all, should the Steward of Gondor reside but in the White Tower? 

Other matters occupied his mind, too.  Discerning the intentions beneath the smiling faces of the lords and ladies of Gondor, checking that Frodo was well, and reassuring his kinsmen that he was still theirs. 

He could sense the Dúnedain’s concern beneath their joy for him.  Halbarad’s son voiced it, but others shared the same question: would their Chieftain ever return to them, now that he was King of Gondor, Lord of this great city? 

It was from the hobbits that Aragorn first learned Faramir was still proceeding with his plan to move house. 

“He’s finally packed all his books—those were the last to go,” Pippin reported. “It took him many days to pack them, since he often couldn’t resist re-reading one before putting it in the box.” 

“Bilbo would love him,” Merry commented, while munching on an apple.  “Where’s he moving, again?” 

“A house in the Sixth Circle,” Pippin replied. 

“Why, I wonder?  His current house seems fine,” said Frodo, “though I know you think it’s not a proper house, Sam, as it doesn’t open to a garden.” 

“He mentioned something about the Lord of the City,” Pippin said. 

Four pairs of concerned eyes turned towards Aragorn. 

Aragorn frowned.  “This is news to me.  I thought he had abandoned his plan to move house, now that he remains the Steward.” 

The four pairs of eyes continued to look at him. 

“I will see what I can do,” Aragorn said. 

... 

 

He had heard it said that when two men—particularly two lords—met for the first time, they would instinctively measure and try to best one another, be it in strength, might of arms, or wit and wisdom.   

Aragorn had felt this when, as the sellsword Thorongil, he first met Denethor, then the heir to the Steward.  Denethor had gradually developed suspicion and dislike of Aragorn, and Aragorn had to admit the dislike was mutual.  

He had also felt it when he met Boromir at the Council of Elrond.  The valiant prince of Gondor had spoken passionately of his city, his pride in his land and his people.   

In response, Aragorn—who had long been content to be regarded as a simple ranger—had found himself compelled to cast the Sword of Elendil on the table, and even to argue with Boromir, on whose defiance against Sauron had been more thankless. 

In that moment, he had demanded that Boromir see him not as a simple wanderer, but as one worthy to stand beside him—if not above him—in the defence of Gondor. 

But with this present Steward, the other son of Denethor, it had been a different encounter.  Their meetings had unfolded like an ancient rite, where each man knew when to step forward boldly and to step aside gracefully.   

From their first meeting, Faramir had hailed him as king, and placed himself at Aragorn’s service, disregarding his own glory or power. 

In return, whenever Aragorn witnessed the love and reverence the people of Gondor had for Faramir, instead of envy or rivalry, a quiet joy filled him.  He did not covet that affection for himself; rather, he earnestly wished for it to remain with Faramir.  If the land and its people flourish under his kingship, that was reward enough. 

Aragorn had reached the Steward’s residence, and memories surged within him.   

How long ago it seemed, when he had come here to dine with Steward Ecthelion and his family.   

Yet he remembered it vividly—the rich food and the even richer wine; the Steward, wise and noble; the Steward’s lady, graceful and shrewd; and the Steward’s heir, wise, grave, and more often than not, glaring at him, even when they were in agreement on a matter! 

A servant led him into the parlour, her surprise at the King arriving unannounced barely concealed. 

Looking around the chamber, Aragorn noted that it was brighter than it had been in Thorongil’s days.  Was it the paint colour, or the lack of furniture?   

The chamber was empty, save for a settee upon which Aragorn now sat.  There were no tables, no adornments, not even a cushion on the settee.  They must have been packed up and shifted to the Steward’s other house. 

A young man appeared in the doorway, and for a moment Aragorn thought he saw young Denethor, reluctantly welcoming his father’s favoured Captain.  Aragorn smiled to himself and pulled his thoughts back to the present. 

“Faramir,” Aragorn said warmly.  “Have you had your supper?  May I join you?” 

“Certainly, my lord,” Faramir answered.  After a moment’s pause, he smiled and corrected himself: “Certainly, Aragorn.” 

“Supper will be a simple affair, though,” he added.  “I hope you do not mind.  The silverware and most of the kitchen equipment have been shifted to my new place.” 

“Do you forget you are speaking to a fellow ranger? Simple meal suits me well.”  Yet, despite his smile, Aragorn felt sadness over the emptiness of the Steward’s residence. 

“Do you know, I have such good memories of this house?” he said, his gaze drifting around the parlour. 

Faramir raised an eyebrow, then nodded.  “The revered Captain Thorongil must have been invited to dine with the Steward many times.” 

Aragorn nodded.  “Your grandsire was a kind lord.  The first time he invited me, I was not a captain.  It was near Mettarë, when most people had gone to their hometowns to be with their families.  The Steward invited me and two other guards whom he knew had no family in the City.” 

Faramir seemed intrigued.  “I do not know much about him, but my father often spoke of him as a stern father.” 

“Lord Ecthelion could be stern at times, and he expected much from his heir,” Aragorn said. 

Before Faramir could respond, a servant entered to announce that supper was ready. 

As they entered the dining chamber, Aragorn smiled.  “Ah,” he said, “this room has not changed at all.” 

Faramir looked with bemusement as Aragorn’s gaze surveyed the chamber: the chandelier, the imposing marble table, the ornate glass on the wall. 

“People who see you now might think you have come to your grandsire’s house, Aragorn,” Faramir remarked. 

Aragorn’s smile deepened.  “It does feel that way.” 

The food was soon served, and the familiar aroma delighted Aragorn.   

“Ah, the special partridge pie, for which the Citadel kitchen was renown,” Aragorn said.  “Your father’s favourite.” 

Faramir looked at him with an expression of near amazement. 

Aragorn returned his gaze.  “During my time in Gondor, I never felt I was in disguise.  I truly became Thorongil, a young man from the North with nothing but my budding skills and a faint echo of my lineage.  And I lived in joy.” 

“What reasons for this joy?” Faramir asked, curious. 

Aragorn paused to consider.  “My days as Thorongil were the first time I lived among people who knew nothing of me,” he said.  “First in Rohan, then here.  All could see I had Númenórean blood, but nobody knew my father’s name.   

“Thus I experienced many things for the first time: to have some people respect me, others dislike me; my superiors praising me when I did well, scolding me when I strayed.  I made some friends, too.” 

“Did you not feel the urge to declare yourself, my lord?” asked Faramir.  “When you saw the throne, the likeness of your fathers in the Hall?” 

Aragorn shook his head.  “I felt pride when I saw the throne and the line of kings.  But it was no different from what you or any son of Gondor might have felt—pride in our noble fathers.  As to declaring myself, that never crossed my mind. Perhaps the time was not ripe, thus I did not feel the urge.”  

“And did you feel the urge recently, thus you came?” 

“I came because I was summoned,” Aragorn said. 

At Faramir’s askance look, Aragorn continued, “Seek for the sword that was broken.  When your brother spoke that riddle, I knew my time had come.” 

Understanding dawned in Faramir’s eyes. 

As they enjoyed the food and wine, they shared stories of Aragorn’s time as Thorongil.  Briefly, they also spoke of the Northern Dúnedain’s concerns over Aragorn spending most of his time in Gondor.  

Then, as the evening came to a close, Aragorn proceeded to do what he came for. 

“When I came to this house as Thorongil,” he said, “I was glad and honoured that my lord invited me to share his table.  Never once did I think that all the Steward held was mine to reclaim, save perhaps the weight of his duty.  I always thought it fitting that the Steward should dwell in the White Tower.   

“Now that you know this, Faramir, will you still need to leave this house?” 

Faramir was silent for a while.  Presently he said, “Steward Mardil took up residence here, after he became the ruling Steward.  It was for practical reasons, but there was also a deeper meaning.  The Lord of the City, in the heart of the Citadel.”   

Aragorn turned the thought over in his mind, treading carefully.  He remembered Faramir’s ire when he had thought Aragorn appointed him the Prince of Ithilien out of pity or guilt. 

“I felt some sadness when I see this house bare,” Aragorn said.  “I, who only had memories of being invited to supper here many years ago.  What pain it may cause you, I will not even ask.  Pain must be borne when duty requires it.  But I ask you, Faramir, what good can be achieved by vacating this house, leaving it to stand empty?” 

Faramir lowered his gaze and said nothing. 

Aragorn sighed.  “Let me offer you three reasons to stay, my good Steward.” 

“The name of your office means ‘the King’s servant’ in our tongue.  But in the Common Speech, the word is ‘steward’ and it has a different meaning.  To be a steward means to protect and care for something which does not belong to you.  Some lords of the southern fiefs have stewards to run their estate.  You are not the Lord of the City anymore, but you remain its Steward.  Stay in the Tower, guard it for me, if you will.” 

“The second reason,” Aragorn continued, “is tradition.” 

Faramir gave a faint smile.  It was rather obvious that Aragorn appealed to things that Faramir valued highly, but Aragon was bent on achieving his aim. 

“Tradition holds that the King reside in the King’s House, while the Steward reside in his own house, wherever that may be.  Mardil House was not your forefathers’ first residence, as I am sure you know.” 

Still smiling, Faramir nodded. 

“I do not wish to begin my reign by breaking from tradition.  Even if you choose to leave the White Tower, I will not take residence here.  The King remains in the King’s House, the Steward in his residence, which for the last nine hundred years happened to be here.” 

Again, Faramir nodded, but did not say anything. 

“Lastly, now that the King has returned, no one will question who the Lord of the City is, no matter where you or I reside. 

“I do not wish you to leave; I do not think it necessary.  But the choice is yours.  When you are in the City, you have my blessing to stay wherever you wish.” 

Faramir regarded him steadily, then he said, “It is a blessed thing to have a lord, my lord.” 

It was Aragorn’s turn to be amazed.  But then he inclined his head in agreement.  For was that not the very thing that had made him content during his service under Steward Ecthelion? 

Faramir spoke again. “I am honoured to have you share my table tonight, my lord.  I will think on what you have said.” 

... 

Chapter 5. Light Dawns

A few days later, the Steward sought the King’s leave to keep his residence in the Tower. 

Aragorn was standing by the parapet on the great jutting rock in the middle of the City, when Faramir came and stood next to him.  It was nearly sunset. 

“I will not invoke any of the three reasons you mentioned, my lord, though they are all true,” Faramir said.  “I am your steward and your servant; we are following tradition; and there is no question who the Lord of the City is.” 

“What reason, then, Faramir?” 

“Both options—to stay in the Tower or to stay elsewhere in the City—would not hinder me from performing my duties as the Steward.  You have given me your blessing to stay here or in any other residence.”   

Faramir paused for a moment, then continued, “I will stay because I wish to.” 

This surpassed Aragorn’s expectation.  He had intended to tell Faramir to do as he pleased, but he had worried that the thought of placing his own wish above other considerations might unsettle Faramir. 

Faramir gazed towards the Pelennor. His hand moved instinctively to adjust his tunic, as though brushing away an invisible dust.  He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the calm demeanor he usually wore now slipping into something more restless. 

“I believe you have not done something like this in a long time, if ever.  Am I right?”  Aragorn asked. 

Faramir turned to him with surprise, which quickly gave way to gratitude.  His steward, Aragorn realized, was not accustomed to being understood. 

“Allowing my wishes and whims to sway me?”  Faramir let out a mirthless laugh.  “I learned from an early age to set aside such trifles.” 

Aragorn’s heart stirred with pity and respect.  Many sons of Gondor had learned to place duty above their desires.  For Boromir and Faramir, there must have been the added weight of their father’s expectations. 

Faramir’s way of coping was unusual.  Not only had he placed his duty above his own wishes; he had willed himself to love his duty and to desire little else. 

It was noble, and had enabled him to serve Gondor faithfully through the war.  But was it right, was it safe, to let him continue giving without learning to ask, or receive? 

“The Shadow has departed,” Aragorn said.  “There is much to be done to rebuild Gondor, but perhaps now is also a time to loosen your restraint a little.  Do not will yourself to be content all the time.” 

Faramir seemed to understand his concerns.  “I know things are different now,” he said, “and I also know the peril of continuing in my old ways.  I am adjusting to the sunshine, as it were.” 

Aragorn nodded.  “I will get to dine at the Steward’s House many more times, then?” he asked. 

“As many as you wish, my lord,” Faramir replied. “We will serve you a proper supper next time, with the best silverware—which no doubt you remember fondly.” 

Aragorn laughed. 

They stood together a while longer, in peaceful silence, as the setting sun bathed the lower circles in a warm, amber light, casting a reddish hue over the stone walls and streets. 

“I stood here with my father just before I left for Ithilien, only a few days before the siege,” Faramir said suddenly.  It was the first time he had mentioned Denethor to Aragorn. 

Aragorn remained silent, careful not to interrupt Faramir’s reflection. 

“He was proud and always followed his own way, convinced he knew best,” said Faramir. 

“He did know best in most matters,” Faramir added with a wistful smile.  “He had aged much in the last one year.  Being proud, he seemed to think that the fate of Gondor was his burden, and his alone.” 

Aragorn wondered if this was what having a son mean—having someone who would recall your failings with understanding and tenderness.  A longing for a family of his own stirred in Aragorn’s heart. 

Then Faramir seemed to pull himself back to the present.  He turned to Aragorn.  

“You spoke of reclaiming the weight of duty from the Ruling Steward, my lord,” he said gravely, “and indeed, the heaviest burden now rests upon your shoulders.  Yet you need not bear it alone.  Nor should your sons grow up knowing little else but duty.  I will gladly share the weight, for what it is worth to one as high as you, surrounded by wise and mighty friends among Elves and Men.” 

Not for the first time, Aragorn wondered how one could adequately respond to such depth of devotion. 

“I will strive to be worthy of your devotion,” he finally said, “which I value as highly as the crown of Gondor itself.” 

... 

Chapter 6.  Hope Blooms

Aragorn descended the snow-peaked mountain with a warm glow in his heart, cradling the sapling of the White Tree of Gondor in his arms.  The discovery of the White Tree kindled a hope within him that the line of Elendil would not end with his own passing. 

As he neared the City, a pleasant thought crossed his mind.   

Someone else would surely rejoice at the sight of this sapling, perhaps with even greater joy. 

He bade one of his guards ride ahead, bearing a message for the Steward to meet the King at the gate of the Citadel. 

When they arrived at the gate, Faramir awaited them. 

Faramir began to speak to greet them, but his words faltered as his gaze fell upon the sapling in Aragorn’s arms. 

His face lit with great joy and astonishment.  “A shoot of Nimloth, my lord?” 

“Aye, Faramir,” Aragorn replied.  “We found a sapling of the White Tree hidden in an unlikely place.” 

“Just as the line of Elendil lay hidden for many years, Sire,” said Faramir, still in awe. 

Then to Aragorn’s surprise, Faramir bowed low three times—first to the King, then to the White Tree, and lastly to the wizard who had been the mover of the great deeds of the West. 

They walked together into the Citadel, pausing before the dead White Tree.  The great tree, its once noble branches now twisted and bare, loomed in the centre of the courtyard, a shadow of Gondor's former glory. 

A guard fetched a spade, and Aragorn himself dug the earth on the far side of the Fountain, opposite the dead Tree.  The dark, rich earth yielded to his efforts, as though it sensed the great purpose of the task. 

Then he said to Faramir, “Let us place the sapling together, my Steward.” 

The King and the Steward planted the sapling, then covered the earth around it. 

When the task was done, Aragorn stepped back and turned his attention to the dead Tree. 

“No longer will the enemies of Gondor say that we shall wither like a dead tree,” he said.  

“What is your intention for the old Tree, my lord?” Faramir inquired. 

“We shall uproot it and treat it with honour,” Aragorn replied. 

“It had withered and died.  Yet it has not lost its worth, has it?” Faramir asked again. 

Aragorn turned to him.  It was then that he noticed the Steward’s pale face, a stark contrast to the joy he had shown upon seeing the sapling.  Faramir’s gaze was fixed on the dead Tree. 

“It was the seed of Nimloth the Fair, hallowed and noble,” Faramir spoke softly, more to himself than to anyone else.  “Perhaps it was blighted by some plague or evil too strong.  But it had stood proud and strong for many years, fulfilling its duty, before its dreadful end.” 

Aragorn exchanged a brief glance with Gandalf. 

“The old Tree has served its purpose, Faramir, even long after its death,” Gandalf reassured him.  “The sapling that you plant today will also wither and die one day.  That the old Tree was a witness to Gondor’s decay, and this sapling will be a witness to Gondor’s renewal, does not mean that the old Tree is less worthy.” 

“This old Tree is the third White Tree planted in Gondor,” Faramir said quietly.  “The Annals do not record the fate of the second Tree after its death.  Was it buried somewhere, or burned, or lost during the confusion of the Great Plague?” 

Aragorn placed a hand on Faramir’s arm.  “Look at me, Faramir,” he said.  “No one will burn this old Tree.  We will carry it with honour to the Tombs of the Kings.  There shall it lie, while the line of the Kings endures.” 

Faramir regarded him with gratitude. 

“And so shall the name of Denethor son of Ecthelion be recorded with due honour, while my line and yours endure,” Aragorn added, his voice firm.  “A dreadful end shall not erase a lifetime of service, if that is what troubles your mind.” 

“I agree with that,” Gandalf declared. 

Faramir’s expression softened, gratitude mingling with surprise, pride with sorrow.  Slowly, he began to open the formidable gate he had erected to master his emotions, allowing the sorrow within to surface. 

Then, with sudden abandon, he flung the gate wide open: he burst into tears, his shoulders shaking with the weight of his grief.  Aragorn had not seen him weep in such a manner before—not even during the ceremony honouring Denethor and Boromir. 

He placed his arm gently upon Faramir’s shoulders.  Gandalf stepped closer to Faramir, offering quiet reassurance.   

The following day, when they placed the dead Tree upon a table in the Tombs of the Kings, it did not escape Aragorn’s notice that Faramir reverently touched one of its dry branches.  The gesture struck him deeply, for it reminded Aragorn that Faramir had no remains of his father and brother to grieve over. 

... 

 

Planted with hope by the King and the Steward, tended by the green hands of Samwise Gamgee of the Shire, showered with admiration from men and women of Gondor; the sapling grew swiftly.   

In June, when summer grew to its full splendour, the tree bore its first fruit. 

It was fitting that Sam, a prince among gardeners, was the one who first noticed the fruit.  It was also fitting that the first person he alerted was Faramir.   

“No offence to you, Mister Strider, Sir,” Sam said afterwards to Aragorn, “you are the king, but Captain Faramir has been looking at a dead tree all his life.” 

One afternoon, Aragorn and Faramir stood together, admiring the White Tree. 

“How fare you, Faramir?”  asked Aragorn.  “Have you been sleeping better?” 

Faramir nodded. 

“Dark thoughts come less often than last month.  And it was the same thoughts over and over, without new sting—I have known the worst.”   

After a pause, Faramir added, “I slept soundly like a child, the first night after you found the sapling.” 

“You can speak with me whenever you need,” Aragorn said.  “No one should suffer in silence.” 

Faramir nodded.  “I am grateful, Aragorn.” 

After a moment’s pause, Faramir spoke again, his tone lighter.  “I read that one way to alleviate our sorrow is to care for others, rather than focusing on ourselves.” 

“From what I gather, you have always cared so much for so many, Faramir.” 

“Then, take my questions as my care and not idle curiosity:  I hear you ordered watchmen on the wall, Aragorn.” 

Aragorn could not stop himself from smiling.  “I am waiting for the arrival of a party.” 

He had not told anyone of his hope, not even his kin.  But recently his heart had almost burst with joy, and he wished to share it with someone. 

“The arrival of the party will assuage the Council’s concerns about my lack of heir,” he said. 

Faramir raised an eyebrow.  “Your lady is on her way here, with no party from Gondor to escort her?  And what of the preparations?  The Queen’s chambers are still being repaired, and I have heard no word of wedding plans.” 

Aragorn chuckled.  “If you are not careful, Faramir, you will end up worse than Húrin.  There is no need to worry.  No amount of luxury from Gondor’s vaults could match my lady’s worth.  And we have been waiting so long that the simplest wedding would be joyous enough.” 

Faramir’s brow furrowed.  “What has made you wait so long?  Did you take it upon yourself that you should only take a lady after you return to your crown?” 

“Did you not think the same, that you should not bind any lady to yourself while the war still raged?  And in my case, it was said that Arwen Undómiel shall not diminish her life’s grace for any Man less than the King of Gondor and Arnor.”  

A curious expression appeared in Faramir’s face, which reminded Aragorn of the minstrel of Imladris when inspiration struck him.   

“Your lady is of the Elder race?” 

At Aragorn’s nod, the curious expression turned to delight.   

“For little price do Elven-kings, their daughters give—for gems and rings, and thrones of old!” 

Aragorn chuckled.  “Little price indeed.  I pity the man who dares seek your daughter’s hand.” 

They laughed, marvelling at the joy that had visited their days. 

How strange it was, Aragorn thought, to stand here with an unlikely friend, beneath a blooming White Tree, speaking of children yet to come. 

Days would not always be golden, he knew.  New challenges would arise, and evil had left its seeds in many places. 

Yet each season has its beauty.  He would savour the joy and welcome the sorrow of each. 

... 

Author's notes:

Chapter 10. The City of Kings

“Push back the settee and the table,” Aragorn said.  “Let us sit and converse in ease.  As Mallor often reminded us, we are not the stuffy lords of Gondor.”  

He cast a knowing glance, and laughter rippled through the large chamber. 

With the settee and table duly moved aside, they sat on the floor, forming a circle before the hearth in the king’s study in the White Tower. 

Days had passed since Aragorn’s crowning.  The Riders of Rohan and the people from various parts of Gondor were preparing to return to their homelands.  The Grey Company, too, were eager to return to their families. 

“But before that, we must speak,” Aragorn had said, and so they gathered that evening. 

“The first task at hand, I believe, is to clear Eriador of the remnants of Orcs,” said Mallor.  “It may take some time, but we will see it through.” 

Aragorn nodded his agreement.  “It may take less time than you reckon, for we will have reinforcements,” he said.  “The men of Dale will join us in the fight; their king has written to me.  And Gondor will send men to succour us.” 

“Ah, it is certainly different to have the King of Gondor as our chieftain!” Mallor remarked. 

Aragorn shook his head.  “I did not request this, let alone command it.  The Council of Gondor offered it.   

“The Council of Gondor...” another ranger spoke with some hesitation.  “Did they offer aid out of pity, as a rich man might give to their poor neighbour?  The weregild they gave us was already extravagant.” 

“They cannot help but look down on us,” a third ranger added.  “Some of them can hardly mask their surprise at our shabby garments under their politeness.” 

Aragorn raised a hand to still the growing murmurs.  “There are obnoxious men in Minas Tirith, as there are in every land.  But the weregild, and the offer of the Council, were given out of respect and kinship. ‘Our kinsmen from the North came in Gondor’s hour of need.  How can we do less than come to them in theirs?’ were the Steward’s words.” 

A pause followed as the men of the North, long accustomed to standing alone against the pressing foe, took a moment to comprehend friendship, alliance, and sundered kinship. 

Their discussion shifted then to the matters of trade and roads. 

Finally, Dirhael voiced what was on everyone’s mind. 

“When will you return to Arnor, my lord?” 

Aragorn met his gaze, then looked upon the expectant faces of his kinsmen. 

“In a year,” he answered.  Aragorn never minced words with them. He was always direct even when the truth was hard to bear, and his people respected him for it.  But this announcement struck them as ill tidings. 

“A year!” came the surprised murmurs. 

“That long?” 

Murmurs grew, followed by an uncomfortable silence. 

For many years, the people in the North had endured their Chieftain’s many absences. Before Aragorn had embarked on the quest to destroy the One Ring, he had been away hunting for Gollum.  And before that, there had been various errands in far lands.   

They had thought that with the Enemy vanquished, no other quests would pull Aragorn away from them.  But they had not reckoned with the fact that their chieftain, their king, was now the King of Gondor and Arnor. 

A lesser man leading a lesser people might have offered soothing words—that Arnor was not of less priority than Gondor, that he would never forget his land of birth.  But this was Aragorn, heir of Elendil, speaking to the proud remnants of Númenor. 

“Minas Tirith may seem glorious, but behind the strong walls, much needs tending,” he began.  “There were too few people in the City even before the last battle, and much of the farmlands were destroyed during the siege.   

“And Gondor is not only this city—each region has its own burdens to bear.  Lossarnach has more widows and orphans than Arnor.  Lebennin’s livestock has been much depleted during the long years of war.  I do not claim that Gondor’s needs are greater; both Arnor and Gondor have pressing needs. 

“I place Gondor first this time,” he said plainly.  “I seek your acceptance, and understanding, if you can give it.” 

The Grey Company—proud, loyal men—regarded their chieftain.  He met their gaze without hesitation, and they saw his pain.  They knew and respected Aragorn too highly to consider, even in jest, that he preferred Gondor for the magnificence and comfort of Minas Tirith. 

Mallor broke the silence.  All his levity gone, he spoke with the wisdom of an old man.   

“I accept your decision, my lord.  And I daresay I understand.  Gondor has just opened its gates to you. If you leave so soon, will the people remember their king?  Whereas in the North, we are all your men through and through.” 

“As I am yours,” Aragorn replied.  “And know that I do not take your love for granted.” 

Dirhael sighed.  They would have to be content with that for now. 

“When I said I will return in a year, I did not mean I would not come to Arnor at all before then,” Aragorn continued.  “In a few weeks, I will go to Rohan for Théoden King’s funeral.  I plan to travel to Arnor and spend some weeks there before returning to Gondor. And I will send men and resources.” 

Some among them were reassured; others remained uneasy.  Dirhael remained silent throughout the rest of the discussion.  His fingers curled and uncurled where they rested on the polished granite floor. 

When at last the council ended, the men dispersed, some leaving the chamber, others lingering to speak in hushed voices.  Dirhael rose swiftly and made for the door, but Aragorn called him. 

“Dirhael.  Walk with me.” 

... 

 

The White City was quiet in the late evening.  The neat row of lamps along the streets burned brightly, illuminating the houses and trees on the Sixth Circle.  Dirhael walked beside Aragorn, his body weary despite having done no heavy tasks for days. 

“You were silent tonight,” Aragorn observed.  “After you asked the single most important question.” 

“I had nothing more to say,” Dirhael replied. 

“I do not believe that.” 

Dirhael exhaled sharply.  “What would you have me say? That I am glad to hear you will return to Arnor in a year, if at all?  That I am content to wait patiently while you build your life here?” 

Aragorn glanced at him.  “Bitterness does not become you, nephew.” 

A hollow laugh escaped Dirhael. “Do you think I do not see how easily you wear the crown, how perfectly you fit here?  Gondor is mighty, wealthy, and full of great men eager to serve you. It has your army, your fleet, your White City.  And what do we have?  Scattered villages, old ruins, and a people who barely remember what a kingdom means.” 

“A king must seek to serve his people, not the other way around,” Aragorn countered. 

“Father loved you greatly,” Dirhael continued.  Now that he had begun unburdening his mind, he saw little point in restraining himself.  “Sometimes I think he loved you more than he did Mother or us, his children.  He came here only to die—and to be forgotten.” 

Aragorn stopped walking.  There was disappointment in his gaze as he turned to face Dirhael. 

“Forgotten?  As long as I live, Dirhael, I will not forget Halbarad.” 

“O, I know you will remember him, as one remembers fondly memories of one’s childhood.  But what will it matter in the days to come?  Others will take his place in your heart, your duties will occupy your mind, and in no time you will look back at your chieftain days as a tale that happened to others and not yourself.” 

“I am still your chieftain, son of Halbarad,” Aragorn said firmly.  Then he paused, and Dirhael lowered his eyes at the gentle chiding. 

“What do you wish, then?” Aragorn continued.  “That I become the King of Arnor, never to return to Gondor?  I thought you understood that our long fight is to preserve the remnants of Númenor.  The Faithful of Númenor established two realms, not only Arnor.” 

“I am not sure what I wish,” Dirhael admitted ruefully.  “Sometimes I wish we can return to the recent past, before you left to hunt for that sad creature.  Only us, the last of the Edain.  Impoverished, unsure of the future, yet proud and glad nonetheless.” 

Aragorn’s expression softened.  He placed his arm on Dirhael’s shoulders and they resumed their walk.   

Picturesque indeed the City seemed to Dirhael in the soft light of the night, and his bitterness felt misplaced amidst such loveliness. 

“I have spoken like a fool,” he said.  “Nobody wishes to return to the days when the Enemy’s shadow loomed and his victory nigh.  But Father is gone, you no longer belong to us—or only to us, I should say.  I wonder what the future holds.” 

“What the future holds depends on our deeds,” said Aragorn.  “For me, I see Annúminas rebuilt, Arnor once again a prosperous land, trades and kinship renewed between North and South.  Do you not see that, son?  You are gifted with rich vision.” 

Dirhael glanced at him.  “Perhaps I am simply daunted by change.  Strange, I know, for one of my years.” 

Aragorn smiled.  “You are not the only one who feel bewildered.  I, too, am sometimes uncertain of my path.” 

Dirhael had never considered the possibility of Aragorn feeling uncertain.  “What do you do when you feel adrift, Uncle?” 

Aragorn shrugged.  “I do the very task before me.  Take the first step, and accept that I am not all-knowing.” 

As they continued their walk, the streets gave way to broader avenues, and the scent of blooming flowers mingled with the night air.  They had entered the part of the Sixth Circle where the noblest of Gondor made their homes.  Soon, a row of grand houses came into view, each surrounded by a well-designed garden.  One of them was particularly beautiful, and Dirhael had a mind to return in the morning and make a sketch of it. 

He sighed and turned his eyes back to Aragorn.  “You are wise, Uncle.” 

Then, deciding to unburden himself even further, he added: “I bet that is what he also does, if he ever feels lost at all.  You and he must understand each other very well.” 

Aragorn threw him a puzzled look.  “He?” 

“Your Steward,” Dirhael muttered. 

“Faramir?  Why do you suddenly bring him up?” 

“You seem well pleased with him and spend so much time with him,”  Dirhael said, a note of accusation creeping into his voice.  “You even made him a prince.  Well, by all accounts he is a man worthy of your favour.” 

Then he flushed, realizing how childish his words had sounded. 

Aragorn raised an eyebrow, his expression betraying his amusement.  “Do not tell me you begrudge the time I spend with my second-in-command.  You have never been overly fond of your old uncle’s company before.” 

“My father was your second-in-command,” Dirhael said quietly. 

The amused look on Aragorn’s face faded, replaced by understanding.  He gestured to a bench in the front garden of the beautiful house, and they sat down. 

“Halbarad was my second-in-command in Arnor, and would have continued to be, had he lived.  Faramir is the Steward of Gondor.” 

Aragorn’s voice grew gentler.  “You yourself must have more than one person you love—each one dear to you in their own fashion.  No one will replace your father, Dirhael.” 

For a moment, Dirhael said nothing.  He let his gaze wander over the tall, proud towers which dotted Minas Tirith. 

“Do you wish to stay here with me?” 

Dirhael was taken aback.  “What would I do here?” 

“We shall need some of our people to remain here as ambassadors of Arnor.  You can write home regularly to our people, informing them the developments in Gondor, and of me, as well.  You may also join any trade guilds should your interest lies there.  You have a gift for drawing.  Now that we are no longer at war, you may pursue it.” 

Dirhael pondered this.  But it did not take long for him to know where his path lay.  He shook his head with resolve.  “I will go home and do my part to rebuild our land.” 

Aragorn patted his back and nodded his approval. 

... 

 

Perhaps it was hearing from Aragorn that Gondor had its own challenges, or perhaps Dirhael had simply had more time to observe; but when he returned to the guest house that night, it no longer seemed as flawless as it once had.  

There were subtle signs of the strain of war: minor cracks in the wood panels, spider webs in the ceiling, worn-out curtains—things which would have been attended to without delay, had not the war absorbed most of Gondor’s resources. 

The following day, as he strolled through the Sixth and the Fifth Circles, he noticed more signs of the war’s toll: chipped paint on otherwise grand buildings, neglected gardens, houses that seemed empty. 

Had not Uncle Aragorn said that the City had too few people? 

The glory of Gondor had made him feel uncertain of his place, but knowing that Gondor had its own problems brought him no joy.  Nay, he would not have this great city diminish as Arnor had.  He would see Minas Tirith remain the tall and proud city she was. 

When he returned to the guest house, he went to his room, took a roll of parchment from beneath the bed, and unrolled it.  It contained an outline of Minas Tirith, the beginning of a drawing. 

On this journey south, Dirhael had encountered many surprises—the Riders of Rohan, valiant and loyal; the men of Gondor, noble and dour, not unlike their Northern counterparts. 

But nothing had compared to his first sight of Minas Tirith.  The City of Kings, his father called her.  Dirhael's first glimpse had been through the haze of battle, when the Shadow of Mordor still hung heavy over the land. Even then, he could not help but marvel at the elegant shape of the seven-walled city. 

The morning after the siege, the Shadow had lifted, and he beheld Minas Tirith in her glory.  He was a son of the North, and would always be.  Yet the sight of the city had moved him deeply.  He stood still for a long moment, drinking in the scene, appreciating the perfect proportion of height and width, the sheen of the white stones under the sunlight, and the majestic mountain that seemed created simply as a backdrop for the City. 

Despite his grief, he had found himself smiling that morning after the battle.  He did not begrudge his father’s death defending a city that belonged to strangers, how could he?  The Southerners might be strangers, he thought then, but the City was not.  She was clearly the city of Elendil, and no man of Númenor would think it vain to lay down his life defending her. 

On the day they set camp in the Pelennor Field, Dirhael started his drawing of Minas Tirith.  He might never visit this city again, and this would serve as a weregild to remember his father and his chieftain. 

After the coronation, he had pushed the drawing aside.  He could not bring himself to work on it, for his wonder had been tainted by the bitterness of losing his chieftain to the city. 

But now, he believed he was ready to continue.  He would unabashedly revere the Citadel of Gondor, yet remain a loyal son of Arnor.  As the Noldoran once said, one may love two ladies, each differently, and without diminishing one love by another.

... 

Chapter 11.  A Son of Gondor (Part 1)

Dirhael wandered through the First Circle of Minas Tirith, without any particular destination in mind, when the paintings in a shop entrance caught his eye.  Curious to see what manner of artwork was favoured in the City, he stepped inside.  Perhaps he might also purchase some charcoal for his own work. 

Inside, the air carried the faint scent of oil paint and wood.  Canvases lined the walls—some small, others large enough to span an entire wall.  Most of the paintings had softer, more muted colours than what he often saw in the North.  Dirhael was more inclined to sketch buildings and towers than vast landscapes, and he preferred the simplicity of black charcoal on a plain parchment. 

Oil paints in every hue were neatly arranged in their pots, and stacks of canvases in varying sizes leaned against one another.  Beside them, he saw an ample supply of charcoal, from soft greys to deep blacks. 

Upon learning from the friendly shop owner that the upper floor housed a collection of charcoal drawings, Dirhael made his way up a narrow staircase.  There were a few customers in the lower level, but the upper room was quiet, save for a servant stacking provisions in a corner. 

At the rear of the upper room, a small balcony overlooked the Pelennor Fields and the Anduin.  He lingered there, feeling the cool breeze on his face as he surveyed the view.  Repairs were underway on the farms burned during the battle.  Some scorched patches still marred the green fields—a reminder of the battle that had claimed his father’s life. 

Then another scene drew his attention. 

Separated by a building from the painting shop stood a blacksmith’s workshop.  From the balcony, Dirhael had an unobstructed view of the smithy's backyard.  A large forge sat at its centre, surrounded by a grinding wheel, an anvil, and hammers of various shapes and sizes. 

It was just after the eleventh hour, yet the day’s labour seemed to have ended.  No smiths were in sight, only a teenage boy holding a broom.  Perhaps a young apprentice, tasked with clearing the yard. 

What drew Dirhael’s eye, however, was the tall figure standing in front of the boy.  The man was no smith; that much was evident from his attire and bearing.  Dirhael could see the boy’s face, but the man’s back was turned to him.  Though he could not hear their words, he could see an unfriendly exchange unfolding between the unlikely pair.  The boy’s face flushed with anger, and his hand gripped the broom tightly. 

Suddenly, the boy dropped his broom, balled his fist and struck the man’s chest, the highest he could reach.  Another blow followed.  Strangely, the man neither evaded nor blocked the blows.   

The boy raised his fist again, ready for another strike, but then he stopped as abruptly as he had started.  His arm fell limply to his side, and he stamped his foot in frustration. 

For a long moment the two figures on the yard stood unmoving.  Dirhael felt a twinge of discomfort at witnessing such a private moment, yet his curiosity prevailed. 

At length, the boy moved a few paces away.  Then he slumped onto the ground, hugging his knees.  After a pause, the man followed suit, sitting within arm’s reach from the boy. 

It was then that the man’s face became visible to Dirhael.  As he had suspected from the man’s height, he was none other than the Steward.   

What matter could have possibly brought the Steward to a blacksmith’s yard?  And why did he allow such insolence from a servant boy? 

After some time, the boy rose and resumed his work.  The Steward, too, stood and worked quietly alongside the boy: gathering iron bars, hammers, tools, and carrying them into the smithy.  No further words seemed to pass between them.   

When the last of the tools had been stored, they began to sweep the yard.  Dirhael shook his head, though by now, he was not truly surprised.  It seemed exactly the sort of things the Steward would do—performing menial tasks for one who had just struck him.   

When the boy placed his broom and the dustpan in a corner, Dirhael hastily descended the stairs, paid for the charcoals he had chosen, and stepped outside.  He had just reached the street when, as expected, the Steward emerged from the workshop and began to walk down the road. 

Seeing Dirhael startled the Steward.  Less composed than usual, yet still maintaining his characteristic politeness, he bowed his head in greeting.  “Purchasing something, Lord Dirhael?” 

Dirhael returned the bow.  “Aye, some materials for drawing.  And what brings the Lord Steward to the First Circle?” 

The Steward smiled faintly.  “The Steward does not just stay in the Citadel,” he said. 

Then, proving that the scene in the smithy had shaken even the poised Steward, he added: “Pardon my abruptness, Lord Dirhael, but I find myself not inclined to converse at present.  I must take my leave.” 

“No pardon is needed, Lord Steward,” he replied.   

It was not abruptness, he thought, certainly no worse than his own curt manner during the gathering at the hobbits’ place. 

The Steward walked pass Dirhael, a guard following silently behind him.  As Dirhael watched the Steward’s retreating form, he reflected on what he had just witnessed.  The Steward, like any other man, had his own challenges and strains.  This revelation began to dissolve the aversion Dirhael had harboured towards him. 

Glancing at the smithy, Dirhael wondered what had drawn the Steward there.  It was tidy and well-maintained, yet it was not exactly the sort of establishment where nobles would commission new swords or armour.  And even if the Steward had commissioned a piece, it was more likely that the honoured blacksmith would have come to him instead. 

Dirhael turned back towards the main road leading to the upper circles.  To his surprise, the Steward was nowhere to be seen.  He looked to his left and right, scanning the streets.  Where could the Steward have gone so quickly?  The man had been a ranger, he knew, but even a ranger could not vanish into thin air. 

... 

 

Perhaps it was the knowledge that the Steward had his own burdens, or perhaps his mother’s insistence on good manners had taken deeper root than he had thought; after their encounter in the First Circle, Dirhael felt an increasing urge to remedy his previous curtness. 

He briefly wondered what he hoped to achieve by seeking the Steward.  Easing his conscience?  Aye, perhaps.  Befriending the Steward?  He was not sure he wished it.  And it was presumptuous to think the Steward would be interested in his friendship.  

Nor did he know whether the Steward would welcome him.  But what was the worst that could happen?  A curt dismissal? That was no worse than what Dirhael had done. 

So one morning in May he went to the White Tower to request an audience.  A guard was about to go upstairs to inquire, when the Steward himself appeared, accompanied by an attendant.  They appeared to be on their way to leave the Tower. 

The Steward greeted him with his characteristic poise. 

“The King is in the guards’ quarter,” he said.  “A guard can take you there.” 

“I have come to seek the Lord Steward, not the King,” Dirhael replied. 

The Steward tilted his head slightly, his interest piqued.  “Then I must importune you to wait,” he said, “for I am expected at the First Circle.” 

“No matter,” Dirhael replied.  “I will return later in the afternoon.” 

The Steward turned to his attendant.  The Steward spoke no word, not even raising an eyebrow, but the young, intelligent-looking attendant—a scribe, Dirhael bet—readily answered him. 

“I informed the chief mason you would see him at the third hour, my lord.  Then, continuing the round to the families—the plan is to cover four or five before noon.  Nuncheon with the Prince of Dol Amroth.  In the afternoon, a visit to the Lady’s Healing House in the Third Circle, and a meeting with the captains.  You had said you wish to spend an hour in the Archive afterwards, but I fear it may have to be after supper.” 

Dirhael blinked.  He had not imagined the Steward’s days to be consumed by duties.  Or was the Steward subtly declining to meet him?

But the Steward chuckled and raised a hand to his attendant, halting the recitation of the following day’s schedule. 

“If you do not mind speaking while walking, Lord Dirhael,” he said, “shall we walk together?  It would give us ample time to speak.  And you might find something of interest in the lower circles.” 

Dirhael hesitated.  The walk to the First Circle was not a short one.  If the conversation faltered, how would he excuse himself?  And there were the attendant and the guards, must he apologize within their hearing? 

As if sensing the reason for his hesitation, the Steward added, “We can always part ways whenever you wish, if something along the road catches your interest.” 

And at a small nod from the Steward, the attendant stepped back, and with the two guards, followed them at a discreet distance. 

When they reached the Sixth Circle, they crossed paths with an elderly lord, one of the lords of Gondor who could barely conceal their disdain of the Dúnedain, kinsmen of the King or not.  His residence was in the Sixth Circle, not far from the guest house where Dirhael and his kin were lodged.  He often pretended not to see them when they met along the way. 

Now, as they met upon the road, the lord bowed to the Steward and greeted him stiffly.  He looked askance at Dirhael, and said nothing. 

Having been raised to be respectful to the elderly, Dirhael bowed instinctively.  The old lord lowered his head almost imperceptibly. 

“A bright morning, Lord Hador,” the Steward cheerfully returned the perfunctory greeting.  “I seldom see you about this early; I hope no urgent matter presses upon you.” 

Lord Hador grunted something about recurrent pains in his knees and incompetent healers. 

“Ah, you are bound for the Houses of Healing, then?  I shall not delay you.  But you have not greeted Lord Dirhael,” said the Steward.  “Or have you not yet been introduced?  Lord Dirhael is a valiant ranger, and the son of Lord Halbarad, the King’s right-hand in the North.” 

To Dirhael he said, “Lord Hador is a respected elder of Gondor.  His house is known for its pure lineage, thus they may claim the closest kinship to the men of the North.” 

The Steward’s voice carried a note of faint amusement—and did he actually wink? 

Reluctantly, Lord Hador inclined his head to Dirhael.  Dirhael returned the gesture. 

The rangers of the North had keener hearing than most men.  After they parted ways, Dirhael could hear Lord Hador muttering to his servant: “Impudent lad!” 

He chose to ignore the remark, believing no one else had heard it. 

But he was mistaken. 

For the Steward spoke: “In case you are wondering, Lord Dirhael, he meant me, not you.” 

The Steward spoke in a neutral tone, as if he were merely remarking on the weather.  But there was an amused spark in his eyes, and after a moment, they both laughed. 

“So even the Steward of Gondor does not meet his standard?” Dirhael remarked.  “That rather takes the sting out of his haughtiness towards us.” 

The Steward’s grave expression returned, and he said quietly: “I apologize for his haughtiness, Lord Dirhael.” 

Dirhael shook his head.  “You cannot be responsible for everyone in Gondor.  And he has reason to look down on us.  We hardly resemble the people of Elendil, despite the pure lineage we often boast of.” 

“If you mean rugged appearance and simple garments, is that a reason to look down on people?  Those very things gave me hope.” 

“How could shabbiness inspire hope?” 

The Steward smiled faintly.  “I had heard of the rangers of the North, how the descendants of the kings kept watch over the land, despite their reduced circumstances.” 

“You had heard of us?” 

“Gondor has many scouts,” the Steward replied.  “My father was very well-informed, and he imparted some of his knowledge to me.” 

“And did your scouts describe our hopeless patrols, humble dwellings, and meagre weapons?” 

“In great detail,” the Steward said.  “What I heard gave me hope that even if Minas Tirith should fall, and we were reduced to exile, it would not be the end of Gondor.  You endured, and kept doing your duty—if you could do it, so must we.” 

“When I finally met the rangers of the North,” the Steward continued, “I saw that my hope was not misplaced.  I saw the power and honour within you, which hundreds of years of hardships could not erase.” 

From another man, such words might have sounded like flattery or even condescension, but one who listened to the Steward could not doubt his sincerity. 

“That is high praise, coming from the Steward of Gondor,” Dirhael said, his voice trembled slightly. 

He decided to offer his apology before the Steward could disarm him with more graciousness. 

“Do not think I say this because you have spoken so well of us,” Dirhael said, “but I owe you an apology.  That afternoon at the hobbits’ place, you spoke sincerely of my father, yet I cut you short.” 

The Steward regarded him closely; in some ways, his steady gaze reminded Dirhael of his elder brother, who had always understood him well.  At length the Steward nodded. 

“I accept your apology,” he spoke softly. “And it is only natural to feel some resentment towards the City and the people that caused your father’s death, and claimed your chieftain as their lord.” 

As the Steward spoke, Dirhael saw the quiet resignation in his face—not one of defeat, but of acceptance.  This man understood that he owed his life and his City’s deliverance to the sacrifices of many.  Hence, he had chosen to bear the resentment and anger from those who begrudged the sacrifice. 

The scene in the smithy returned to Dirhael’s mind.  Now he had an inkling of what had happened there.  The boy was likely the son of a soldier who has fallen in battle, perhaps under the Steward’s direct command.  The Steward had reached out to the boy with kindness, yet the grieving child had been unable to respond with anything beyond anger. 

And now the Steward extended the same understanding to Dirhael, another son who had lost his father in the same war.  He had recognized Dirhael’s resentment, not only over his father’s death, but also over Aragorn’s residing in Gondor.  And rather than taking offense, he had accepted the resentment as natural, bearing it without judgement. 

“Nay, Lord Steward,” Dirhael countered.  “You have mistaken my childish fancy for a rightful grievance.  As for my father—no man of the West would rue shedding his blood defending this queen among cities.” 

Surprise and delight coloured the Steward’s grave face.  His smile reached his eyes; unlike the guarded, faint smile he often wore. 

“Ah, a kindred spirit,” he said.  “So Minas Tirith has moved your heart, Lord Dirhael?  I am looking forward to the day I might behold the rebuilt Annúminas, and love her.” 

It was very difficult to continue disliking this man, Dirhael thought with resignation. 

They continued to speak as they walked, offering glimpses of themselves, commenting on things they saw along the way.  They discovered some similarities: both were second sons, both enjoyed archery and were skilled at it, and neither of them would mind if they never had to go to battle again. 

In other matters they proved contrasts: Dirhael took no pleasure in reading, while the Steward’s idea of leisure was poring over ancient scrolls in the Archives.  And when, through their conversation, Dirhael chanced to mention he had been his father’s closest confidant, a strange, wistful look crossed the Steward’s face.  But it was quickly replaced by his customary faint smile.

...