Isildur’s Heir

Aragorn forced himself to breathe steadily.  The air was unmoving, arid with cold stone and age and isolation.  His ancestors might have turned their backs on Ar-Pharazon’s heresy and accepted the limits set upon men by the Powers – but what arrogance they had displayed to place themselves so high above their followers!  They were the authors of their own disaster, whatever they might have thought.  Too proud of their heritage to consider even the highest of their lords fit to meet them on an equal level.

He swallowed.  How could they have borne this, those generations of stone-commemorated kings?  This prison, cold and hard and unforgiving?  How would he be able to endure this?

He would fight for Gondor, he would die for Gondor, but would he be able to live this restricted life?  Even for Gondor?

And what of her?  She who, for him, had entered this tumbril?

He glanced down at the crown of her gleaming dark head.  She had left the airy beauty of Imladris and the timelessness of the Firstborn to sit at his feet as if she were not worthy to be beside him.  How could she not resent this … this foolish conceit? 

If it were up to him he would demolish this high throne and bring himself down to a place where he could hear his people’s concerns – and know that they understood his motives.  But Faramir had been horrified at the very suggestion.  The king sat apart.

It was all right for him, Elessar thought resentfully.  He got to sit on a chair within the reach of the crowd, an approachable figure who would hear the pleas put to him and judge them fairly, while anyone wishing to address the king needed to have the voice of a parade ground sergeant and a willingness to share his words with the horde that buzzed round the cavernous hall.

Gradually he became aware of a lull in the busy chatter and looked blankly into the eyes of his Steward.  Faramir was clearly making a heroic effort to conceal his amusement.

‘What think you, my lord?’ Arwen’s musical tones said meditatively.  ‘I am of the opinion that you should consent – if that be your will.’

One rather plump and pudding-like lordling looked scandalised, as if his queen had no right to express her opinion in this bastion of Numenorean authority.

‘Your wisdom is inveterate, my lady,’ he said in prompt defiance.  ‘It is indeed my will.’

Faramir, his back to the crowd, risked a grin.  ‘I will see to it, my lord king.’

A brief unease stirred in his belly as he wondered to what he had just agreed, but the warm laughing presence of his elven queen enveloped him and reassured him.

‘And if that is settled,’ the King said with emphatic determination, ‘it must be time…’   He might not have seen everyone who was waiting here to burden him with concerns they could well settle themselves – but then that would be impossible.  For everyone who addressed him with their carefully-worded complaints, another dozen piled into the back of the hall.  He would have to do something about it!  He only ever seemed to have time to hear the pleas of those who managed to shove themselves to the front of the queue – and they tended to be the rich and powerful, who seemed mostly to be obsessed with ensuring that he never had time to change any of the rights and privileges to which they were all too accustomed.

Perhaps Faramir …. But then again, perhaps not.  Denethor’s son had been raised to this manoeuvring, trained to serve an implacable routine.  Perhaps he, too, would prefer little to change – other than the man sitting in authority.  Perhaps merely being that man was enough to atrophy any individuality or decisiveness Aragorn had once had.

He stood – and the occupants of the room promptly sank into deep curtseys and profound respectful bows, lowering their eyes from his ineffable majesty.  He was not used to this – he did not want ever to become used to this.  It was like being on permanent display.  He sighed, staring down jadedly for a moment before beginning his stately descent.

‘Never mind,’ Arwen murmured as he paused for her to rest her hand on his arm.  ‘At least they keep out of our chambers.’

‘At the moment,’ he groused.  ‘Although I doubt we will hold them at bay for long.’

‘Join us for lunch, Faramir.’  The queen raised an eyebrow at the Steward in a way that reminded her husband that she was Elrond’s daughter by more than blood alone.

‘As you command, my lady queen,’ he said promptly – and proceeded to follow them, a doubtless prescribed number of steps behind.

Aragorn frowned.  Who declared how these matters must be done?  Who would be willing to waste his life recording nit-picking details about exactly who should stand where, wearing what and uttering whatever nonsensical form of words was laid down by tradition?  Were there not better things to do?

As if some unseen signal had restored them to life, the tall guards at the entrance to the room mirrored each other’s movements to open the doors – and without faltering, Arwen led him through, ignoring the clash of metal as the soldiers saluted before moving with precision to shut them out.  A hubbub of conversation surged up to escape the narrowing crack until it was suddenly cut off as the doors clicked closed.

‘My poor Ranger,’ Arwen laughed.  ‘Give you a muddy forest in which to lurk – or a battlefield of orcs to challenge and you are fine, but confront you with a hawk-faced matron doused in precious oils and weighted down with family jewels and you are struggling.’

He groaned and turned towards her, grasping her hands as if she was his only hope of emerging from the quicksand unscathed.

‘Perhaps it would be wiser to take refuge in your apartments,’ Faramir suggested, ‘before – er …’

Arwen grinned mischievously at him.  ‘I cannot wait to see you in the hands of your shield-maiden, my lord.  I doubt she will comply willingly with all Gondor’s tedious conventions!’

A slight flush darkened the Steward’s cheeks.  ‘It is just … there are eyes everywhere, my queen,’ he said.  ‘And ears, too.  And all of them are longing to see or hear something that might afford their owner some advantage in this new situation – or offer food for endless tittle-tattle.’

‘It sometimes seems that no-one around here has anything better to do than talk,’ Aragorn said sourly.  ‘And that Arwen and I are all they want to talk about.’

Faramir and the queen exchanged a long look as the king stepped forward to open the doors that led to the royal apartments.  The guards swayed, as if desperate to relieve him of the onerous task, but his fierce glare returned them to their places and he was permitted the small satisfaction of doing this one thing for himself.

Servants were buzzing around, setting the highly-polished table with a miniature version of a banquet suitable for the king returned, but the long windows were open onto the private gardens and the scent of honeysuckle and roses drifted in on the warm breeze.  Aragorn stared hungrily at the world beyond the Citadel.

‘Thank you.’ Arwen clapped her hands.  ‘That is more than enough – you are dismissed.’  She spoke pleasantly, but the authority in her bearing was obvious.  The servants glanced from her to the neatly-clad servant who had been directing them.  He nodded, clearly slightly affronted at this lack of regard for his efforts, and the attendants bowed and withdrew.

Just for a moment, the three remaining in the wide room held their breath, enjoying the silky freshness of the air and the silence. 

Aragorn released a long-suffering sigh.  ‘They cannot even produce bread and cheese – and a few pieces of fruit,’ he complained.  ‘Look at it!’

‘I don’t think my father was customarily presented with such a display,’ Faramir said mildly, contemplating the table.  ‘But it will take everyone time to grow accustomed to your presence – and your expectations.  It has been a long while since Gondor had a king.  Everybody – me included – is trying to work out just what is expected of us.’

Arwen quietly picked apart the display of food and handed her husband and Faramir each a plate of ham and pickles, ripping a warm loaf apart to share between them.  She filled three goblets with a light white wine and sat down to nibble at a selection of fruit.  She said nothing, but watched Aragorn encouragingly.

‘As am I.’  The king crunched on a sweet onion.  ‘I am no figurehead, Faramir, to be sitting above Gondor, while life goes on beyond me.’  He smiled wryly.  ‘I do not know how many of those audiences I can endure – while devious lords and silver-tongued merchants try to jockey me into favouring one faction over another even as they shoulder out those who deserve to have my ear.’

‘You are confusing them,’ his Steward told him approvingly.  ‘They had not expected a Ranger of the North – a simple warrior – to be quite so alert to their wiles.  Your council, at least, is learning that their king is wise to their attempts to manipulate him – and that he knows far more about Gondor than they would ever have expected.’

‘Mithrandir was right.’  Arwen took a sip from her glass.  ‘You were reluctant to leave your duties in the north – but the value of his advice has been proven.’

‘If only he were here to advise me now.’  Elessar shot a glance at his Steward.  ‘Not that I do not value your words, Faramir,’ he added hastily.  ‘You have grown up in this …’ He waved a hand in the general direction of the hall they had just left.  ‘… this hothouse – and your support is invaluable.’

‘But I am no Mithrandir.’  Faramir’s regret was clearly heartfelt.

Arwen shook her head.  ‘Your depth of knowledge here is more relevant than Mithrandir’s,’ she told him.  ‘And the love Gondor’s people bear for you of greater value.  Aragorn is Isildur’s heir – but it was your willingness to accept him that saw him so smoothly to his seat on that high throne.’

‘Which you cannot change, my lord king,’ Faramir added apologetically.  ‘No matter how uncomfortable it makes you feel.  It is a symbol of your right to rule, as much as the winged crown.’

‘I did not know Isildur,’ Arwen remarked.  ‘But my daernaneth did…’

Faramir turned to her wide-eyed.  Once the sheer novelty of the elven queen had worn off, he noticed that he tended to overlook her age and experience.  It was easier, he found, simply to marvel at her beauty and her intelligence.

She sighed.  Those close to the throne would, she was afraid, simply have to get used to her – she was not going to pretend to be any other than she was.  ‘His life has been overshadowed by its ending,’ she continued.  ‘He it was with the audacity to risk the wrath of Sauron and steal the last fruit of the White Tree of Númenor.  He it was who brought it to Middle-earth.  He it was, who with his father and brother, had the courage to start again.  They strove to rebuild what was left of Elros’s kingdom, here in Gondor.  You cannot expect to achieve change swiftly what has been treasured for so long.’  She offered the king and his steward the fruit bowl and decided to address a point that clearly worried her husband.  ‘I do not mind being disregarded, my love – it is better than being feared – and I know you value my advice.’

‘I cannot live like this for too long,’ Elessar declared.  ‘There are many customs that must alter.  Sauron has fallen, my love, and a new age begins.  I do not want my rule to be remembered for a mindless adherence to long-dead traditions, but as the start of something fresh – something that looks forward instead of back.’  He smiled.  ‘I refuse to be slotted into a mould formed by the requirements of the Master of Protocol’s interpretation of ancient books of etiquette.’  Aragorn prodded the inedibly decorative pastry filled with cream and crystallised fruit and iced to resemble a fanciful castle.  ‘This is not what I want – not what I will endure.’  His gaze insisted on Faramir’s understanding.  ‘For too long the demands of war have allowed stagnation here in the heart of Gondor – but I will not allow that situation to continue.    I will stir up a breeze to blow through these corridors, like it or not.’

‘Winds of change…’ Faramir remarked.

‘A west wind,’ Aragorn said earnestly.  ‘Fresh with the fragrance of the sea, and full of healing rain.  A rain to wash away the clinging dust of the past and bring on the new season’s growth.  A spring breeze, mild and soft after the bitter gales of winter.  One that opens doors and windows to let in the sweetness of new life – of new ideas.’  His smile twisted.  ‘It is not much to ask.’ 

And have it he would, he thought.  He might not be able to bring his high throne down to the level he would wish, but he would scour out old prejudices and guide his people towards a future they would be eager to meet – whether they dragged their heels reluctantly or followed him willingly into this new age.  Because, whether for good or ill, in the wilds of Eriador or in the salons of the White City, in the fury of battle or in days of peace, he was Isildur’s heir.