A Son of the North

“Treat this house as your own home, my lords,” said their host courteously, as he left them to rest for the night.  Lord Húrin, the Warden of the Keys of Minas Tirith himself, had welcomed them to the stately guest house.   

Dirhael was uncertain of the meaning behind the title Warden of the Keys, but he recognized it as a high position.  This morning, Lord Húrin alone, of the lords of Gondor, had stood beside the Steward of Gondor before the Great Gate, welcoming the King into the City of Minas Tirith. 

After Lord Húrin left them, Dirhael and his kinsmen looked about the house in awe. 

“Our own homes look very different,” Borlas quipped, prompting a few chuckles.  Their laughter echoed softly through the large, lofty chamber. 

The guest house was a two-storey building in the Sixth Circle of Minas Tirith, with eight sleeping chambers, a spacious dining hall, a parlour, and two study rooms.  This house had been set aside for the use of fourteen of the Dúnedain of the North during their stay in the City.  The remainder of their company was lodged in a nearby guest house. 

“Some of you will need to share chambers, my lords,” Lord Húrin had said apologetically earlier. 

Mallor, the eldest among them, had replied with equal courtesy, assuring their host that the arrangement posed no difficulty. 

What he did not say, of course, was that they were accustomed to sharing far smaller quarters with more people. 

Like the City of Minas Tirith itself, the house exuded a quiet elegance.  The floors and staircase were of polished stone, as was much of the City.  The staircase railing and the wall panels were of dark, rich wood, and the ceiling was gilded in silver.  There were no ornate carvings or extravagant displays, but the place spoke of ancient wealth and craft that had wrought such a dwelling, and of a present prosperity that could maintain it, even amidst war. 

The furniture—settees, beds, shelves, tables, chairs—was plain but finely crafted, each piece bearing the mark of skilled hands.  The thick mattresses in the sleeping chambers were covered with linen sheets that appeared as though they had been pressed by some ingenious machine. 

Dirhael had visited Rivendell several times, a place far more beautiful than Minas Tirith.  But Rivendell was the realm of Elves, the fair folk—it was supposed to be beautiful beyond imagination.  He had regarded Rivendell as something akin to a dream, a refuge from the weary world beyond.  But Gondor was real.  To discover that a mortal realm preserved such grandeur as Arnor had long since lost was startling.  To learn that their sundered kin, whom they deemed of less pure lineage, lived in such elegance was unsettling. 

Instead of seeking his bed, Dirhael stepped out into the yard and wandered along the path behind the house.  The moon was but a mere sliver, but the stars illumined his way, and at a night like this, he preferred dim light to garish brightness. 

He breathed deeply.  He relished the scent of pine trees, mingled with the fragrance of flowers he could not name, and a distinct scent he thought must come from the very stones forming the City.  It was unlike anything he had known on the plains or in the woods of the North, yet it was not unwelcome. 

Crickets sang softly, the sound bringing calm to his spirit.  It was comforting to know that the crickets, at least, sang the same song in the yard of a stately house in the South as they did in the wilds of the North.  An owl hooted in the distance, another familiar sound. 

He stepped closer to one of the pines and placed his hand on the trunk.  It was different from the graceful spruces in the North: its shape rounder, its bark smoother.  Yet as he traced the ridges with his palm, a wisp of connection to his home stirred within him. 

Dirhael had grown up on glorious stories of Númenor and Arnor.  His grandmother, an enchanting storyteller, had sparked vivid pictures in his mind of Armenelos, Romenna, and Annúminas, which his rich imagination had filled with colour and detail. 

It was a source of both consolation and sorrow.  On long nights of patrol around Bree, when the wind howled and the rain soaked through his cloak and mail, he would clutch the silver star pinned upon his cloak, reminding himself that it was the King of Arnor whom he served.  The king of the last remnants of Númenor—though he bore neither sceptre nor crown, and dressed as shabbily as the rest of them. 

On the brink of battle with Orcs and other foul creatures, he would recall the towers of Armenelos.  They had risen bright above the sea, unbowed and unbent, just as his people must stand, though no citadel remained to shelter them. 

Yet it was the very thought of his people’s past glory that robbed him of contentment, when he surveyed their humble dwellings and scant weapons, or when he received suspicious stares from the folk of Bree, the very people they were tasked to protect. 

Of Gondor, the other realm of the Númenóreans in exile, he had never given more than a passing thought.  He knew the kingdom endured, though without a king.  He had heard his elders remark that the kingly line in the South had long vanished, unlike their pure lineage in the North. 

His gaze drifted to the Tower of Ecthelion above the City and he sighed. 

Not without bitterness, he wondered: who cared about pure lineage, when the diluted blood possessed marvels like this city? 

His hand moved to the brooch of silver star on his cloak and grasped it firmly, clinging to it as if it was a shield for his pride.  Given only to those guarding the land for the King, each ranger of the North proudly wore the brooch whenever they were abroad.   

He walked back to the guest house.  It had been a long day, and he must rest.  Yet even as he turned towards the fair house, he found himself glancing back once more at the White Tower, with the banner of the King of Gondor at its peak.  His father had brought the banner from the Lady of Imladris all the way to Minas Tirith, and had fallen defending it.   

Seven stars and one white tree—the mark of Elendil, the High King of both the North and the South.  But the mark had come to be associated with Gondor.  So might King Elessar prove to be, Dirhael gloomily thought. 

... 

 

The next morning, as Dirhael entered the dining chamber, he surveyed the sturdy table, its gleaming marble surface, the delicate chandelier above, and the spread of food laid out for their morning meal.  The scent of fresh bread and warm porridge filled the air, mingling with the faint aroma of pine from the open windows and fresh flowers at the centre of the table.  The scene might have been a painting of a happy home.  A sigh escaped Dirhael. 

“Why the sigh so early in the morning?” Mallor said with a wry smile, wiping a small drop of milk from his chin.  “Missing field rations and a hard bed?” 

Dirhael smiled but did not speak.  What could he say—that he mourned his father, fallen in battle, and his chieftain, claimed by the glory of Gondor? 

He took a piece of bread, placed it on his plate and sat between Mallor and Borlas, a stout, middle-age ranger.  Even the bread in Gondor had a refined appearance—the loaves were round, with a thin, golden crust, and soft, light crumbs.  It was different from the hearty, dense bread they favoured at home, but Dirhael found he liked Gondorian bread as well, particularly when paired with the creamy butter set upon the table.  

For a time he said nothing, letting the quiet hum of his kinsmen’s conversation drift past him. 

Naturally, the conversation at the table revolved around the great event they had witnessed the day before: their chieftain, Aragorn son of Arathorn, the sixteenth chieftain of Arthedain, had been crowned King of Gondor. 

“Aragorn was transformed before our eyes,” Borlas said, a reverent tone permeated his usually gruff voice.  “He seemed like another person, filled with majesty and power.  It was as though the weight of many years had been lifted from him.” 

Borlas was not one given to poetic speech, but even the most plainspoken would be moved after witnessing the fulfilment of their ancestors’ long yearning. 

“The people of Gondor surprised me,” Mallor said thoughtfully.  “They accepted Aragorn with joy.  Tell me, if a stranger from the South had come to Arnor and declared himself the High King, would you have accepted him, no matter how noble?” 

“I would, if he delivered my city from siege,” answered Beleg, a young ranger. 

“Nay, nay, do not say that,” Mallor corrected his younger companion.  His hand stopped midway as he reached for another serving of porridge, and he gave his full attention to his words.  “The battle of the Pelennor Field was won by the blood and hands of many: from Gondor, Arnor, Rohan, and other lands.” 

Dirhael raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.  “To think we should hear this from you, Mallor!  Less than two months in Gondor, and already you admit the Southerners’ worth?” 

Beleg and Borlas chuckled softly.  Mallor had often rallied the younger rangers with remarks about the hardy folk of the North, contrasting them with the 'soft Southerners'. 

Mallor himself laughed, never one to shy away from laughter at his own expense.  “Aye, I admit, I have changed my mind about the men of Gondor.  Though how they avoid growing soft, living amidst such bounty, I still wonder.” 

“The looming Shadow prevented it,” Dirhael said, to the nods and murmurs of agreement from the others. 

In the recent battles, they had fought side by side with the men of Gondor, their swords drawn against the same Shadow.  They recalled how Angbor, the Lord of Lamedon, had stood unmoving, his gaze unwavering, as the army of the Dead marched towards him.  Granted, his men had fled in fear, but they had swiftly regrouped under his steadfast command. 

During their journey to Mordor, the Dúnedain had encountered more men of Gondor: the guards of the Citadel, with their disciplined formations and precise movements; the fair Swan knights of Dol Amroth, with steeds as proud as their bearing; the valiant men of Ringlo Vale, Pinnath Gelin, Lossarnach, and many other places whose names sparked fascinating pictures in Dirhael’s mind. 

A quiet, mutual respect had grown between the men of Gondor and the Dúnedain from the North.  But it was with the rangers of Ithilien that they felt the greatest kinship.  Brave men who lived on the very edge of the Shadow, spending their lives foraying and scouting—at times even within Mordor itself—defending their land’s border without a citadel to shelter them.  Dour men who could jest about their desperate fight against the Enemy.  Aye, they were fellow rangers indeed.  Among the rangers of Ithilien, Dirhael had taken a particular liking to Mablung and Anborn, whose skills in scouting and ambushing were praised even by Aragorn. 

Dirhael swallowed the last morsel of bread and took a swig of milk.  The conversation soon turned back to the coronation. They spoke of the Great Gate of Minas Tirith, still commanding admiration, though broken by the Enemy’s cunning; and of the Hall of the Tower, with its gilded high vaults and the long-empty throne. 

“Such a hall was designed to inspire awe and make those inside feel small,” Beleg remarked. 

“You know what struck me even more?” Borlas said.  “When the lords and Captains, one by one, pledged their allegiance to our Chieftain.  They had power and majesty in them, too.  Less majestic than the Chieftain’s, but still formidable.” 

Dirhael nodded.  When he saw the lords of Gondor during the coronation, standing tall in their fine robes, he had protested inwardly: what diluted lineage? What diminished glory? 

“Our Chieftain fits very well among them, do you not find it so?” he said.  “A mighty king, surrounded by mighty lords.” 

He glanced around the table, meeting the eyes of his companions, and saw that they shared his thoughts.  Aragorn, their leader, their kin, like a father to many, was now King of Gondor—a realm far removed from the wild, weathered lands of the North. 

One image from the coronation lingered most strongly in Dirhael’s mind: Aragorn, crowned with the winged helm, standing tall upon the dais, surrounded by noble lords of Gondor who had just pledged their allegiance to him.  Then, a trumpet sounded, soon joined by viols, harps, and flutes, their notes rising in a triumphant harmony.  As the music swelled, signalling the ceremony’s conclusion, a solemn recessional departed the Tower Hall: Aragorn at the head, followed by the Steward and a procession of Gondor’s lords and ladies. 

The men of the North had followed shortly after, and outside, in the Court of the Fountain, they had embraced their chieftain and shared in his joy.   

Yet for a moment, seeing the King amidst the Council of Gondor, with the Tower of Ecthelion and his banner rising behind him, they felt an unexpected pang of loss.  A new age had begun for Aragorn, and where was the Dúnedain’s place in that age? 

“Aragorn will never forget Arnor,” Mallor said firmly, dispelling their unspoken doubts.  But there was a shadow in his eyes. 

Borlas cleared his throat.  “Are you joining the morning drill?” he asked Dirhael, breaking the tension. 

“What drill?” Dirhael asked, frowning. 

“Aragorn sent word last night.  We are welcome to join the guards’ drill if we wish, or we may ride instead.  He will not join us, though; he has a council with the Steward.” 

Leisure riding, another strange idea to Dirhael.  Back home, they had few horses and Orcs were a constant threat.  It was imperative to keep their horses well rested, always ready for a fight or flight.  Taxing the horses for no purpose other than enjoyment was a luxury rarely indulged in.  But Aragorn, their prudent chieftain, had actually suggested it, on his second day in Minas Tirith. 

“I will join the guards,” Dirhael said.

...