This chapter appears also as a stand-alone story in the collection known as "Moments in Time."  I found that said story begged to be expanded upon, leading to the writing of the chapters that follow this.  "Vocabulary Lessons" was nominated for a MEFA in 2008, and "A Maid Waiting" received said honor in 2009.  I am pleased to restore this chapter to this tale once again.  Enjoy!

Vocabulary Lessons

            “Master Balstador?”

            The seneschal of the Citadel of Minas Tirith looked up from the requisition from the Mistress of Laundresses for six new wash tubs and two dye vats to see one of the younger pages standing at the door to his office.  “Yes, Sephardion?”

            “The door herald would see you, sir.  Ivormil son of Canelmir, lord of Bidwell in lower Lossarnach, has arrived, and would present his father’s letter of greetings and service to the King.  He has been told that the King is not within the city, and he is most displeased.”

            Balstador groaned as he rose.  With all the fuss of the coronation and the coming and going of the great ones at all times of the day and night, or so it seemed, he was beginning to wonder if there would ever again be a time when a Man might actually get some of the more needful work of the Citadel done?  Or did the lords of the city think that washtubs and dye vats remained usable indefinitely?

            He walked with the page down the corridor, hearing the heels of the boy’s dress boots clicking on the black and white marble while his softer-soled slippers made a distinct shushing sound.  “What is the problem with the Man?”

            “He appears to believe, sir, that the King ought to have had the courtesy to remain within the Citadel until he arrived and presented himself and gave his missive into the King’s hands.”

            Balstador gave a sideways look at the boy.  He might be young, but Sephardion was far from dull-witted, and had obviously taken this lesser lord’s measure quickly and found it wanting.  “I see.  Was there any notice that Lord Canelmir was sending his son to Minas Tirith to present his duty correspondence before the King?”

            “None that I am aware of, sir, although there has been discussion between our Lord King, Master Galador, Prince Faramir, and Lord Húrin as to which of the lords of the land had yet to swear their fealty, and the name of Lord Canelmir was given as one who had not yet done so nor sent word as to when he might be expected to do so.”

            “The young lord has been greeted with courtesy and offered the hospitality of the Citadel?” asked Balstador.

            “He’s been shown to the lesser retiring room that he might refresh himself, with instructions he is to be brought afterwards to the northern waiting room and that he then be served his choice of ale, juice, or wine and breads and cheeses and what fruits we have on hand, sir, at least until we learn what more we may be required to offer him.”

            Balstador nodded.  “It sounds as if you and the door herald have it well in hand, then.  I’ll see him and find if we will be required to offer him one of the suites for the minor nobility, then.  Who’s attending on him?”

            “Iorvas, sir.”

            “Good--he will have no cause to complain for service, then.  Is there aught else you should tell me or that you need to do with this one?”

            “No, sir--merely to announce you as you arrive, sir.  The door herald felt the young lord would take it amiss should that not be done.”

            “I see.”  They were approaching the main doors into the Citadel, and he  greeted the door herald, listened to his report and found it the same as the boy’s, and agreed that all had been done to welcome this Ivormil with as much courtesy as could be expected for one who came unannounced.           

            “He appeared most displeased our Lord Elessar was not within the Citadel to meet with him immediately, Master Balstador.  I explained that the Lord King holds regular audiences in the mornings four day a week while he is in residence, and that had he come yesterday morning he might have been properly introduced before the entire court.  He waved his hand as if the King’s schedule was of little import.  Even our Lord Steward Denethor held his public audiences on a regular basis, if not as frequently as does our Lord Elessar.  I do not understand why he appears to believe the King is answerable to him--save he is very young, I fear.”

            Balstador gave a great sigh.  “I will speak with him and see if we can placate him, not that, as you’ve noted, that should be necessary.  You have done your duty well--I will take over the matter from this point.”  The door herald bowed, relief that someone else had taken responsibility for the young intruder obvious as he returned to his regular post on a stool near the station for the inner guards for the great doors.

            Sephardion preceded Balstador back down the hallway toward the passage to the northern waiting room.  A single guard stood there now, one of those extra who’d stood within the great doors as was proper.  Balstador halted short of the doorway and asked, “How many did he bring to attend on him?”

            “Two guards and a valet, sir.  They’ve been taken to the visiting servants’ hall.”

            “Good.  All right, I believe you may announce me now.”

            “Yes, sir.”  The boy approached the door and knocked, then opened the door, stepping in and holding it as he announced formally, “Master Balstador, seneschal for the Citadel of the White City, my Lord Ivormil.”  With that he gave a graceful bow as the seneschal entered the room, after which the boy withdrew and, Balstador was certain, also gladly left matters in Balstador’s hands.

            Balstador stopped some yards short of the visitor and made his own bow.  “My Lord Ivormil, as you’ve already been told, our Lord King Elessar is at this time out of the city examining the damage visited on our defenses and seeing what repairs have been wrought so far so as to establish what yet remains to be done.  I regret it falls to me to greet you, but I do so in his name.  If there is aught that we might do for you while you must wait, you are free to ask it of me.”

            Ivormil son of Lord Canelmir was indeed young--perhaps eighteen, his beard still establishing itself; and it was obvious he was rather a dandy with his pointed boots and his clothing that was flattering but would restrict his movements were he called upon to defend himself or do aught of a useful nature.  He was also plainly in a pet.  “What you might do for me?” he fumed.  “I am brought to a darkened waiting room, served cheese and breads and fruit but no meats, and offered substandard beer and wine--and juice as if I were a simpering maiden.  Then I am greeted not by one of any rank but by heralds and other servants!”  And it was obvious by the way he spat out the word he felt servants were beneath contempt.

            The King’s seneschal felt his hackles rise.  In the past few weeks their new Lord had made it plain that he would see all serving within the Citadel treated ever with honor, and that he honestly was both grateful for the service rendered by all who labored to keep this great edifice functioning properly and respectful of the work they performed.  And here came one who resented being greeted by such as himself when the King and his folk all were courteous and expressed thanks regularly?  Balstador carefully restrained himself, taking deep breaths before he spoke.  “I grieve that this must be so, my lord, but so it is at this time.  Not only has the King ridden out, but most of his advisers and the lords of the realm currently in residence within the city have gone with him or have retired to their own houses, so I fear that there are but few of any rank within the Citadel to give you proper welcome.”

            “Surely the King’s Lady wife----”

            Balstador could feel himself stiffen the more.  “As yet our Lord Elessar is unwed, and he has not appointed a chatelaine.  His kinsman, Lord Hardorn, he has appointed to oversee the running of the household until such time as he takes a wife; but Lord Hardorn is also the captain of the King’s own Guard as well as Master of the Privy Purse, and he rides at our Lord’s side.  Nay, I fear the only lords of any rank----”  He paused.  Did he dare?  He found he had to labor to keep from grinning evilly at the idea of it, but it would serve the foppish popinjay right!  He gave a cough, covering his mouth to hide any sign of a grin until he could properly school his expression to one of apparent courteous solicitation.  Finally he continued, “Pardon me, my lord.  As I began to say, the only lords of any rank currently here on the level of the Citadel are two of the King’s Companions, one of whom is enjoying the gardens and one of whom is studying documents in our Lord Prince Steward’s private office.  If you would wish to accept their greetings?”

            “That will do,” Ivormil said with a careless wave of his hand, the idea apparently appealing to his vanity.

            “As you will, my lord.  If you will follow me.”  He turned to Iorvas and noted the tension and relief the servingman barely hid.  “Does Lord Iorhael have all at hand he might wish for?”

            “Yes, Master Balstador,” Iorvas answered, “and before I came to offer what I might to Lord Ivormil here I’d just taken Mas--Lord Perhael bread rolls with cheese and meats and some drink.”

            “Very good, Iorvas.  And could you tell me where I might find him within the gardens?”

            “He was near the rose arbor, sir.”

            “Excellent, and I offer you my thanks for that information.  I will take Lord Ivormil there, then.”

            Balstador saw the amusement rising in Iorvas’s eyes.  “I shall carry the refreshments there, then, sir, before I must return about my regular duties.”

            “Very good.”  The Seneschal turned to the visiting heir to Bidwell.  “Young lord, if you will follow me, then?”  He turned and led the way out of the room back toward the vestibule and the way toward the Hall of Kings.

            “I am sorry, my lord, that you have found our refreshments less than satisfactory,” he continued as they walked.  “However, due to the serious nature of the siege against the city and the destruction of many of the storehouses in the First Circle by the Enemy’s siege engines and the fires he rained upon Minas Tirith and the destruction of farms upon the Pelennor there have been shortages of food and goods experienced within the capital.  Our Lord King refuses to feast at the expense of the rest of the city, and has ordered austerity measures until more shipments arrive from throughout the rest of the realm.  We are to take delivery of vast stores of grain from Lebennin tomorrow, I am told, although he has directed most of it is to be made available to the bakeries and malt houses lower in the city; and a shipment of beef cattle and hogs that arrived two days since from Anorien is to be made available to the public markets in the First, Third, and Fourth Circles while he has agreed to accept a shipment due tomorrow from Lamedon for the purposes of the Citadel.  What meats we have available are being saved primarily for full meals, although for those of the King’s Companions who took the worst hurt he has ordered they be given meat whenever they desire it for the sake of their health. 

            “As for the ale and wine--he has granted some of the best from the Citadel’s cellars to the butteries for the Men of the Guard both for the Citadel and for the city at large.  Our Lord Elessar explains that he has only the greatest respect for those who braved all for the defense of the city during the siege and the long war with Mordor, and for those who went willingly to face Sauron’s forces at Cair Andros, Osgiliath, and before the Black Gates and throughout Ithilien in the last several weeks of the War.”

            “I see,” Ivormil commented, and for a moment Balstador thought he detected a trace of discomfort in the eyes of the young Man.  However, that was swiftly forgotten as they entered the Hall of Kings and Ivormil first saw the reflection here of the greatness of the realm.  The chin of the young heir to Bidwell raised as he looked upon the statues of the Kings and Stewards chosen to reflect the greatness of Gondor’s past and as he beheld the great dais on which the throne of Gondor sat, with the two chairs upon its lowest step.  He paused, turning to the seneschal.  “For whom has a second seat been made available?” he asked, indicating the one draped in grey opposite the black seat for the Steward.  “For Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth?”

            “Indeed no,” Balstador replied.  “That is the seat of Lord Halladan, kinsman to the King and Steward for Arnor.  Our Lord King is, after all, ruler of two realms now.”  He resumed his stride up the Hall toward the doors leading back into the residential wings.  “Will you and your servitors be requiring lodging, Lord Ivormil?” he asked as they passed the dais and the Guardsmen who stood by it.

            “Yes--we will be remaining within the city for at least a week, I must suppose--time enough for the King to compose a fitting response to my adar.”

            “I understand,” Balstador commented, privately thinking that Lord Aragorn might consider making this insolent pup wait even longer, considering how Canelmir had neither come to the defense of the realm nor sent more than the most symbolic of troops to the defense of Pelargir and nothing to the needs of Minas Tirith itself.  He nodded his thanks to those guards who opened the doors to the hall to the living quarters and led his charge through them.  “I will send word to have quarters made available to you.  You brought three with you, I understand?”

            Ivormil seemed surprised the seneschal already knew this.  “Yes.”

            “Very good, sir.  I will see things made ready, then.”  He led the way to the right, past a great carved screen that marked an area where low couches had been set for residents and visitors to take their ease, and approached the doors at the north end of the hall.  Here two guards also stood at the ready.  These had followed the King to the Black Gates, and their uniforms still bore the traces of that fight with slight dents to their armor and helms and a certain battering to the great spears they held.  Balstador gave each a profound bow of respect as they opened the doors they guarded, and saw them straighten at the recognition. 

            Ivormil, however, glanced back at them with a fastidious revulsion to be seen in his eyes.  “The King would be served by Men so accoutered?” he asked.

            Balstador felt himself stiffen.  “Again,” he said, carefully modulating his tone, “we must remind you that we have just finished with a most grievous war; and we have not as yet been able to replace all arms and uniforms.  I assure you that the King honors these as they appear, knowing how it is that their armor and weapons came to be damaged.”  Good, there was another moment of thought actually forcing itself on the youth.  Balstador hoped it would do the fool some good.

            He led the way past the grounds prepared for the King’s herb garden toward the more formal flower gardens beyond the residential wings.  They were soon amongst the roses, and indeed near the great arbor they found their quarry.

 *******

            Ivormil was disturbed by the quiet indications of disapproval he sensed in his guide as well as the indications the King had ordered austerity measures for those residing within the Citadel.  He would give the best wine and ales to mere Guardsmen?  What kind of King was he, then, this Lord Elessar, this stranger from the far north, or so it was said?  What did such a one know of the honor and dignity due the Lords of Gondor, coming from a land where their rulers had refused to accept the title of King for the past thousand years?  And how could the line of Isildur have indeed survived for so long, in a place it was told of wilderness and ruin?

            Now here, in the Citadel of Minas Tirith--here was grandeur befitting the rulers of the known world, those who had brought civilization to the Mortal Lands!  He was proud to walk through it.  And as they reached the flower gardens his pride grew the stronger, for here was proper beauty to delight the lords of the nation, not like that garden place they’d just passed that had obviously only recently been cultivated, and that had the look of a common kitchen garden to it so far.  He smiled with satisfaction at the pillars to the arbors for great and obviously well tended climbing rose bushes, then paused at the sight of a child laboring over a bush beyond them.  Balstador had also seen the small figure, and also paused.  “There are a few things to know about Lords Perhael and Iorhael,” he began.  “You see, their nobility is a matter of----”

            “I need no reminders on how to behave toward nobility,” Ivormil interrupted, annoyed at this apparent attempt to instruct him in proper deportment.

            Balstador examined him momentarily, his right cheek twitching briefly.  “I see, my lord.  However, you should be aware of the fact they prefer to be addressed as----”

            Even more annoyed, Ivormil glared at him.  “Would you seek to advise one born to become a lord of the realm in how to address others of his own rank?” he demanded quietly.  He was pleased to see how the seneschal stiffened, obviously realizing the impropriety of trying to offer instruction to a lord of his quality.  Once he was certain his point was taken he asked more graciously, “These Lords----”  He gave Balstador an inquiring look.

            “Lord Perhael and Lord Iorhael,” the Man returned formally.

            “Perhael and Iorhael?  I see.  Which is it that I am to see first?”

            “It is Lord Perhael that enjoys his time in the gardens today, my lord.”

            “They are from the north?”

            “Yes, my lord, from their own small country within Eriador.  They came south accompanied by our Lord King and our Lord Captain Boromir and Lord Mithrandir and four others.”

            “Mithrandir?”  Ivormil felt uncomfortable again at mention of the Grey Wizard.  He’d met Mithrandir but once, and he suspected that the Wizard had made uncomplimentary judgments about him.

            “Yes, my lord.  Our Lord King Elessar holds the greatest of honor for Lord Mithrandir and his wisdom, you must understand.”

            “I am told that Lord Boromir did not return to Gondor.”

            “He died upon our borders, on the slopes of Amon Hen just this side of the Argonath, or so I am told.  Curunír’s Uruk-hai attacked them there, slaying our Lord Boromir with arrows when they could not overcome him with their swords or spears.  I am advised by those who saw him fight and die there that he fought most valiantly.”  Ivormil saw the respect and grief the seneschal’s eyes held as he made this report.  Boromir had been greatly loved by those within the White City particularly, although his repute was honored throughout the whole of Gondor and beyond. 

            Then Balstador straightened and his eyes turned back toward the bushes beyond the rose arbor.  “Come, my lord,” he said, and he led the way away from the arbor, toward the child.  “Master Samwise,” he said with a surprisingly profound bow, Ivormil thought, “this is Ivormil, son of Lord Canelmir of Bidwell in lower Lossarnach.  He has come to bring his father’s duty letters to the attention of our Lord King.  However, as our Lord Elessar has ridden out of the city he has demanded to meet with one of the other ranking lords of the realm.”

            The small figure looked up, obviously surprised.  He wore a rather plain surcoat over a sturdy shirt, and dark trousers that didn’t quite reach his ankles.  His face flushed markedly as he set the pruning scissors he carried aside on a nearby garden table, then looked up to meet the eyes of the young Man.  Ivormil was surprised, for the eyes and face were not those of a child at all, but indicated an individual who was definitely an adult.  He found his own attention caught by those eyes, and he barely noticed the second bow given by the seneschal before he swiftly headed back the way he’d come.  “A rankin’ lord it is you’re wantin’ to see, is it?” Master Samwise said.  He looked after the way Balstador had gone, shaking his head.  “Must o’ been his idea of a joke, I suppose,” he added.  He looked back up at Ivormil.  “Well, sit down there and let me know your business so’s I can get back to my task.”

            Ivormil made no attempt to hide the insult he felt.  “He brought me to a gardener?” he asked.  “He told me he was bringing me to meet with Lord Perhael.”

            Again the small being flushed.  He reached to the table where a covered stein of ale sat, thumbed the lid open and took a swig, then let it fall shut again with a small musical sound as he again examined Ivormil’s face, the line of his jaw more firmly set.  “Yes, sir, I’m a gardener, not as that’s nothin’ to be shamed of, mind.”  He watched as Iorvas approached and set his tray on the other side of the table.  “This for him?” he asked the servant.

            “Yes, Master Samwise,” Iorvas said with a bow.  “And is there aught else I can bring you?”

            “No, not right now.  Any idea as when Lord Strider’s to be back?”

            “None, sir.  And they may choose to stop for a time with Prince Imrahil in his house in the Fifth Circle before returning here to the Seventh Level.”

            “I see.  And I thank you, Master Iorvas,” Master Samwise added with an inclination of his head.  “Thankee kindly.”

            “My honor, small Master,” Iorvas said, his stance a bit straighter before he gave a bow and turned away.

            Ivormil was now totally confused.  Master Samwise set his stein back on the table, then lifted a cloth cover over a plate and brought out part of a bread roll--one that obviously held slices of ham within it--and took a bite, then set it back on the plate and covered it as he chewed thoughtfully.  Ivormil had no idea what to think of this--this personage to whose presence he’d been led.  A gardener, obviously, and common as dirt, from what Ivormil could tell.  Yet he had not the look of a mannikin to him.  Who and what was he?  Finally the young Man asked, “You are employed by the Citadel here?”

            Master Samwise looked startled by that question.  “Employed here?  No, not at all.  I am employed as a gardener, but not here--back home in Hobbiton, it is.  I just happen to love flowers is all, and I’m allowed to help here as I’m moved.  A bit odd it is, to be prunin’ not ’cause it’s my job but ’cause I want to.  But there you have it.”

            “What brought you to Minas Tirith?”

            “Come to help my Master as he needs it, I did.”

            “And how did he come here?”

            “Same way’s me.”

            “And where’s Lord Perhael?”

            “And if’n I was to say as you’d found him?”

            Ivormil realized that Master Samwise didn’t appear to like him much, not that he’d ever say so.  Ivormil felt the disgust growing in him rise.  “Then perhaps I should speak to your Master, sir,” he suggested, putting every ounce of sarcasm within him into the last word.

            “You’d see my Master, eh?” commented the small gardener.  “Yes, mayhaps you ought t’ do just that, my lord.  If’n you’ll come this way.”  He started to turn away, then paused and looked back.  “Suppose as I should take this with us, so’s you’ll have it when you feel the need of it.”  So saying he reached to take the tray brought by Iorvas in one hand, balanced perfectly as one accustomed to carrying such things would know, and giving his own tray one last look he led the way back toward the same doors out which Ivormil had been led so shortly before.  They passed a gardener with an apron over his livery, and there Master Samwise paused.  “Pardon me, sir, but I’ve left my things back at the table there near the arbor, I have, but only till I can return, like.  If’n you’ll see to it as none bothers it, I’d be most grateful.”

            “Certainly, Master Samwise,” the gardener said with a deep bow.  “I’ll see to it none disturbs it.”

            “Thankee, Master Dolrad,” the small one said.  He looked back over his shoulder at Ivormil.  “Well, you comin’ or what?”

            They were soon back inside the Citadel, doors opened automatically for them by bowing guards.  As they passed the screen the small gardener paused somewhat uncertainly.  “Suppose as I ought to go through the Hall o’ Kings,” he muttered to himself.  “Regular warren of a place this is, after all.  Well, come on, you,” he added to Ivormil.  “Sooner as I lead you to my Master the sooner I can get back to the roses.”

            Back they went through the Hall of Kings, going this time down an opposite passage off the vestibule from the way he’d been led to before.  At last they came to a door some way down the hallway.  He knocked at it, and a light tenor voice bade them enter.  The small one reached up and managed to move the latch sufficiently to allow the door to open and they went in, obviously entering the Steward’s own office.  Here a low table appropriate for older children had been set, and behind it sat what again appeared to be a boy--a boy with an aristocratic face, fine featured with most expressive eyes.  He looked at the tray Ivormil’s companion carried and looked dismayed.  “I’ve no need for more, Sam--they brought me more than enough not that long ago, you know.”

            “Oh, this isn’t for you, Master, but for this one.  Ivormil son of Lord Canelmir o’ lower Lossarnach, I’m told, and too good to speak with a mere gardener.  Wants the Lord Perhael or the Lord Iorhael, he does.”

            The small figure at the table grew pale save for his cheeks, which reddened somewhat.  “I see,” he said.  He too looked up, giving Ivormil a searching examination as he rose to his feet.  He was perhaps an inch or two taller than Master Samwise.  “And how may I help you, Lord Ivormil?” he asked.

            “It’s not you I expected to see, but Lord Iorhael,” the Man insisted, not understanding why he was being passed from one odd small personage to another.

            As had happened when he was left with Master Samwise this one’s mouth thinned somewhat.  “So, it’s Lord Iorhael or no one, is it?”  He turned to the gardener.  “Set that on the visitor’s table there, Sam, and be off with you.  You must have far more productive ways to spend your time than dealing with the likes of this one.”

            “That I do, Mr. Frodo, sir,” Master Samwise agreed, and he carefully set the tray on the indicated table.  “And is there aught as I can get you?”

            “No--Aragorn’s seen to it the staff is aware of anything at all I might possibly need, and as a result I have more than I can even use.”

            Master Samwise gave a throaty chuckle.  “Then I’ll be off, back to the roses.  I only hope as that cousin o’ yours is takin’ care of those at Bag End.”

            “I’m certain Lobelia won’t let them languish, Sam.  Enjoy those here.”  Mr. Frodo was smiling indulgently as he watched the gardener leave the room, pushing the door closed behind him.  Then he turned his attention back to his clearly unwanted guest.  “I welcome you to the White City, Lord Ivormil.  Why don’t you sit down?” he suggested indicating the guest’s chair.  “They’ve been most accommodating for us and have done their best to see to it that our size is provided for, although I suspect this table hasn’t seen the light of day since Boromir and Faramir outgrew it years ago.” So saying, Mr. Frodo sat himself behind it on the matching chair.  On the table were several large tomes, one open before him, and a board to the left with writing paper partly inscribed in Westron affixed to it.  An inkstand held two bottles of ink and both a quill and a steel pen; there was a box of drying sand there as well, and a sheet to use in gathering the sand after use to return it to its box.  A narrow tray held a goblet of wine, a tumbler of water, and two carafes as well as an assortment of sliced meats, cheeses, whole fruits and vegetables, as well as a napkin.

            Not knowing what else to do, Ivormil sat.  For a few moments the small person behind the table waited patiently.  “You still will not let me know your purpose in coming?” he finally asked.

            “I thought I was to see either Lord Perhael or Lord Iorhael,” the Man persisted, wondering when the situation would become plain to this Mr. Frodo.

            “And if I were to suggest you’ve seen both?”

            Was this some kind of game?  “If you will please have Lord Iorhael apprised of the fact I am here,” Ivormil said stiffly.

            “Oh, I assure you he is well aware of the fact you are here within the Citadel,” the small one said.  He waited some moments longer, then sighed.  “Well, if you will not tell me why you wish to see Lord Iorhael, then if you will excuse me I will return to my work.  I am doing some research for Aragorn, you see.”  So saying he turned his attention back to the open book and began reading it, now and then stopping to take notes on the paper affixed to the board.

            So they sat for at least three quarters of a mark, Ivormil now sufficiently bored he’d almost forgotten the insult given him.  He was realizing this was no boy, but also an adult of his kind.  Again, there was nothing to indicate this was a mannikin, but he was totally puzzled as to what kind he was.  Finally his curiosity won out.  “Mr. Frodo?” he said.

            The small one raised his head inquiringly.  “Yes, Lord Ivormil?”

            “You are from where?”

            The small one sighed, and wiping the pen he held with a small cloth he removed from his sleeve, set it on the inkstand and closed the lid to the ink.  “Sam and I are from the land of the Shire, sir.”

            “And he’s your gardener?”

            “My gardener and my friend for many years.”  He folded his hands on the book before him.

            “And your people are called...?”

            “We refer to ourselves as Hobbits, sir.”

            “I see.”  The answer told him nothing.  He’d never heard of Hobbits, after all.

            “And will you tell me of Bidwell?”

            “It’s a small city near the southern borders of Lossarnach.  My father is Lord there.”

            “I see.  Yet you did not come to help in the defense of your capital?”

            Ivormil felt himself flush.  “We were seeing to the defenses of our own lands, you understand.”

            “Then Bidwell lies near the Anduin or its tributaries, does it?”

            “No, far from it, actually.”  Ivormil felt himself redden more at the admission.  “And what do you do here in Minas Tirith?”

            “We also sought to serve as we could in the defense against Mordor.”  There was a finality in the way this was said indicating that Mr. Frodo wasn’t likely to say much more on the subject.

            Ivormil examined his companion.  “Your folk sent you out to the needs of Gondor?” he asked, amazed.

            “It’s not the first time folk from the Shire have gone out to fight against the servants of the Shadow, sir.”

            “It’s just that you do not have the look of a warrior.”

            “I have proven to be anything but a warrior, my lord.  I did not come to fight Sauron’s orcs.  And I will say that neither do you have the look of a warrior, either.”

            Ivormil felt himself redden once more.  “I am trained in the use of a sword,” he said stiffly.

            “We were schooled in the use of weapons also, but I proved rather a failure at it.  We Hobbits rarely need to fight, although we can and do defend ourselves at need.”

            After a pause Ivormil asked, “And where is your land?”

            “North and west of here.”

            “How did you come to Gondor?”

            “We walked, mostly.”

            “Walked?”

            “Can you not imagine that walking can get one from one place to another as surely as pony--or horse?”

            “Do you ride?”

            “Of course I can ride.  However, it was thought to be more appropriate and inconspicuous if we were to walk, so walk we did.”

            Ivormil was uncertain what more he could ask.  The--Hobbit took up his tumbler of water and drank from it, his eyes examining him over its rim.  It was as he went to set it down, however, that Ivormil noted that Mr. Frodo was missing a finger on his right hand.  He felt his scalp tighten--he’d heard something about a finger from the messengers who brought the word of the victory against Sauron, although he had no idea what significance there was to it.  He’d barely listened.

            At last Mr. Frodo asked, “And what has brought you to Minas Tirith?”

            “I was sent by my father to bring his duty letters to the King.”

            “Oh.  Then there is little I myself can do to assist you even if you were brought to me.  I believe there is to be a public audience tomorrow morning at which time you can present them.”  At Ivormil’s nod he continued, “Then why did you ask to see Lord Perhael or Lord Iorhael?”

            “I am not a simple commoner to need to deal with mere servants,” Ivormil explained.

            The Hobbit’s right cheek twitched much as Master Balstador’s had done earlier.  “I see.  Well, I assure you I am no mere servant, and although Sam has been in my employ for years neither is he.”

            “And am I to deal with clerks and gardeners, then?”

            Mr. Frodo stood up, his expression unreadable.  “I fear, my lord, that you have a good deal yet to learn about the nature of service.  If you will excuse me, I am finding myself entertaining a headache.  Please feel free to bring with you the two trays here, and you may freely help yourself from the one brought me earlier.  I’ve eaten all I can of it.”

            “The seneschal said that except for proper meals there was no meat save for those who have been ill,” Ivormil commented.

            The Hobbit gave him another look.  “And what does that tell you, young lord?” he asked.  He set a marker in the book and closed it, and was coming out from behind the table when he paused as if listening.  Ivormil heard nothing at first, then finally became aware of distant voices and a stir back toward the vestibule, apparently questions and answers, and finally approaching footsteps and voices.  “I understand that Master Samwise brought him to the Steward’s office, my Lord, to see if Master Frodo could speak sense to him.”  Hearing that, Ivormil felt his face flame.

            “Thank you, Master Balstador.  I will see to it from here.”

            A moment later there was a knock on the door, and Mr. Frodo, his face now alight as Ivormil hadn’t yet seen, called out, “Do enter!”  The door opened, admitting quite a tall fellow dressed in well-worn green riding leathers over a rich maroon shirt.  “You wore that, Aragorn?” asked the Hobbit of the Man, his eyes filled with disapproval.  “Certainly you must have some more fitting riding outfit by now!  Bilbo would be most discomfited to see you looking so far from your current station, you know.”

            The Man Aragorn laughed.  “Not yet, small brother, save for ceremonial garb that is unfitting for tramping the bounds of the Rammas in.”  He turned his attention to Ivormil, who’d risen uncertainly.  “You are from Lossarnach, I understand?” he asked.

            “Ivormil son of Lord Canelmir of Bidwell in lower Lossarnach, sir,” admitted the younger Man, not certain what to think of this newcomer.

            “And the purpose of your visit?”

            “Must I answer to you?” Ivormil asked, suspicious of this stranger.

            The tall Man paused, his face losing its humor, giving Ivormil a very thorough scrutiny.  “I see,” he said at last.  “You came, I am told, to present correspondence to the King?”

            “Yes,” Ivormil said, pulling himself as straight and tall as he could.  “And I will give it only into the King’s hands, mind.”

            The tall Man gave a single nod.  “So it shall be, then.  You may present it in the morning at the public audience, I suppose.  Iorvas has advised that quarters have been readied in the guest wing for you and your three attendants.  If you will take yourself to the vestibule he waits there to show you the way.  One thing, young lord--I suggest that you consider the nature of nobility, honor, service, and humility before you present yourself tomorrow before the King.”  So saying, he turned coolly away from the young lord, back to the Hobbit.  He looked him over quickly.  “Headache?” he asked.

            “Yes, some,” Mr. Frodo answered.

            “Will you dine with me in my private quarters, then--you and Sam?  The rest intend to visit with Gloin and the deputation from Erebor tonight.”

            “But Mistress Loren----”

            The Man was shaking his head.  “I stopped by the guest house to advise her I was making the invitation, and she was relieved.  As she’d seen none of you today she’d not prepared anything.  And how goes the research?”

            “I found a few references,” the Hobbit said, then paused.  “If you would go first, my lord,” he suggested formally to Ivormil, “I will then have the chance to secure the Lord Steward’s office as he requested of me.”

            The young lord’s son rose, feeling himself again flushing.  “I am sorry,” he said. 

            He turned and preceded the other two out of the room, at which time the Hobbit turned, and pulling a key from his pocket fitted it into the lock and turned it, then replaced the key, giving Ivormil a surprisingly graceful bow.  Then looking up with a smile quite different from the air he’d displayed to the young Man from Lossarnach he said to his tall companion, “Sam was last out amongst the roses.  Shall we fetch him first, do you think?” as the two disappeared with more rapidity down the passage than Ivormil  had expected, followed by a Guardsman in uniform.

 *******

            Ivormil rose early the following morning and enjoyed the meal delivered to his quarters.  With the assistance of his long-suffering valet he was finally dressed to his own satisfaction, and he at last left the room where he’d spent the night, ready to attend the King’s audience.  However, once he got into the hallway into which the guest wing opened he found himself uncertain as to which way he ought to go next.

            It was at that moment he spotted what appeared to be a page coming down hall past him.  “You, boy!” he called out.

            The child stopped and turned toward him, obviously surprised.  “Were you addressing me, sir?” he asked, his voice rather deeper than a child’s voice usually was.  Ivormil at that point realized the livery worn was a replica of the uniform worn by the Guards of the Citadel, complete with a sword girt at his waist.  The face was guileless, the expression open and curious.

            “Yes, you--I need to be taken to the Hall of Kings.”

            “The Hall of Kings?  As an observer, or do you wish to be presented?” the youngster asked.

            Annoyed at what he saw as inappropriate curiosity, Ivormil said, “I have letters to present today.”

            The boy examined him as had so many in the past day.  “You must be that one,” he said almost to himself.  “Oh, well.  I can’t take you the whole way for I myself am on an errand for our Lord King; but I will put you into a page’s hands to see you brought to the heralds.  This way, sir.”  He led him down the hallway to a door where he knocked then opened it and leaned inside.  “I need a guide for this young lord, please,” he said, then pulled out, swiftly followed by a page garbed as had been the one Ivormil had seen the previous day.  “Please escort this Man to the herald that he might be properly presented to the King,” he instructed.

            “Yes, Captain Peregrin,” the boy returned.  At that the young one in the Guardsman’s livery gave a salute to the boy and a brief bow to Ivormil before hurrying off on his own errand.  It was as he neared the end of the hallway adjacent to the pierced wooden screen, just before he turned into one of the other residential wings, the young lord first noted something unusual--his former guide, rather than boots, appeared to be wearing rather hairy slippers--or so it looked from behind.

            His new guide led him out the same door used the previous day.  “If you are to be put into the hands of the heralds you will need to enter from the vestibule, Lord Ivormil,” the boy said, obviously recognizing him from a description given him by the previous day’s page.  He turned right to lead him around the Citadel, past the Tower of Ecthelion and the entrance to the Feast Hall of Merethrond toward the front doors to the Citadel.  There he was left in the charge of a herald, who took down the information on a list he carried, then pointed to a place near the back of the Hall of Kings where he might wait until his name was called.

            Unfortunately, it was difficult to see what was going on there near the dais for the throne.  He saw a tall and regal figure ascending the steps to take his place on the High Seat as the voice of the Lord Prince Steward Faramir rang through the room announcing the opening of the day’s audience, but as the surprisingly thick crowd muffled most of what was said Ivormil was soon totally lost as to what might be happening and found himself even more bored than he’d been the day before.

            It was quite some time before his own name was called, but at last Ivormil found himself being directed up the aisle left by the observers toward the dais.  He looked up and saw, on the head of the Man above him, the Winged Crown itself, worn indeed in pride as it had not been worn for almost a thousand years.  He saw the great sword of Elendil laid across the King’s knees.  He saw the Ring of Barahir on the King’s hand as he raised it briefly to his chin.  He saw the great green Elessar jewel clasping closed the white mantle he wore.  He looked into the regal face and saw----

            He stopped in his tracks, muttering, “Oh, sweet Valar!”  If only the floor would open and swallow him up!

            The King rose and, casually hooking the hangers for his sword’s sheath to his swordbelt, paced slowly down the stairs to stand between the seats for his two Stewards.  Prince Faramir was at least familiar, his face deceptively mild as ever, youthful compared to the King and his fellow from the distant north.  The Steward of Arnor had a broader face than either the King or Faramir, rather austere yet equally capable, Ivormil thought, of appearing stern or kindly.  The King, however--the calculation he’d seen in the Man’s eyes the preceding day was nothing to what he saw now.

            At last the King spoke.  “I believe, Ivormil son of Canelmir, that it is time for me to properly introduce myself to you.  I am Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar, born Aragorn son of Arathorn, Lord Chieftain of the Dúnedain people remaining within what had been Arnor and heir of Elendil and Isildur through Isildur’s son Valandil and his descendant Arvedui, and of Anárion through his descendant Ondoher of Gondor by way of his daughter Fíriel, wife to Arvedui.  And these are my Companions----”  He gestured at a group standing to one side.  “Gimli son of Gloin, kinsman to Thorin Oakenshield, Dain Ironfoot, and now Thorin Stronghelm, Kings under the Mountain of the Dwarf kingdom of Erebor.”  A russet-headed Dwarf gave a slight bow, fixing him with a close stare.  “Legolas Greenleaf of Eryn Lasgalen, son of King Thranduil.”  A tall Elf with eyes blue as skies and hair golden as sunlight looked down his nose at him.  “The Istar Mithrandir, known in the north as Gandalf the Grey, now the White of his order.”  Ivormil swallowed to see the changes in the Wizard, the Light that appeared barely veiled beneath the surface of him. 

            “Sir Meriadoc Brandybuck of the Shire, Holdwine of the Mark for Rohan and heir to the Master of Buckland.”  He indicated a--a Hobbit dressed in finely wrought chainmail and a leather gambeson decorated with the White Horse of Rohan, a most strange swordbelt of silver leaves enameled with brilliant green about his waist, the sheath for a sword made to fit his stature hanging from it.  There were signs this one was usually given to good humor, but the expression in those clear eyes was now stern.  “Captain Peregrin Took of the Shire, Guard of the Citadel and one of my own personal Guard, heir to the Thain of the Shire.”  The King indicated behind himself, and Ivormil saw the one who’d served briefly as a guide to him this morning, properly on guard with drawn sword, those green eyes watchful and competent. 

            “Samwise Gamgee of the Shire, the Lord Perhael of all the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, the Steadfast, Esquire to the Ringbearer.”  Ivormil looked on the small gardener he’d met the day preceding and closed his eyes.  “And Frodo Baggins of the Shire, the Lord Iorhael of all the Free Peoples of Middle Earth, Iorhael na I·Lebid, Bronwë athan Harthad, Cormacolindor, the Ringbearer.”  Opening his eyes reluctantly, the young Man found his attention caught by the small, dark-haired individual with whom he’d spent so much time the day before, now garbed as befitting a prince.

            “I thought I was to see either Lord Perhael or Lord Iorhael,” he’d said.

            “And if I were to suggest you’ve seen both?”  That was how the interchange had gone, wasn’t it? 

            He looked about--there were other Elves and Dwarves, and Men dressed in garb to indicate they came from other realms ranged about those identified as the King’s companions.  The King indicated them.  “The deputations from Erebor, Dale, and the great woodland realm of Eryn Lasgalen, come to give our land honor on its acceptance of its new King. 

            The King’s eyes were again scrutinizing him closely.  “Yesterday you demanded greeting from a lord of the land, and you were brought to both of those remaining within the Citadel, lords not only of Gondor and Arnor but of all other lands and peoples who claim for themselves the distinction of Free Peoples of Middle Earth.  Then when I came to greet you myself you refused to recognize the possibility that I could be anyone of consequence any more than you recognized that possibility in the persons of the two to whom you’d been brought.  You were very much upon your dignity, I noted and had confirmed to me by these my most honored friends, demanding your due as the heir to a minor lordship.”

            “Yes, my Lord King,” Ivormil admitted miserably.

            The tall crowned figure before him gave a nod of acknowledgment before continuing, “Master Balstador attempted to advise you that these were the Ringbearers and that in respect to their personal preference they were addressed by the title of ‘Master,’ but he informs me you cut him off, insisting you needed no instruction in proper etiquette to other members of the nobility.”

            Feeling the heat in his face indicating he was flushing fully, the young Man lowered his eyes in shame.  “This is true, my Lord.”

            The King continued relentlessly, “As we went to part from you, it was my suggestion that you think on the nature of certain concepts.  Do you remember what they were?”

            Dredging his memory, Ivormil said, “Nobility, service, honor, and humility, my Lord.”

            “Your memory is not faulty then,” Lord Elessar noted.  “You have correspondence to give me?” he asked.

            The young Man carefully removed the message pouch he held and, kneeling properly, presented it to the King’s hands.  The King accepted it, opened it and removed the correspondence it held, examined it briefly, then turning beckoned forward a second Guardsman, who accepted it, then turned to return the pouch to Ivormil.  “You may rise.”  Then after further scrutiny he continued, “I would have you aware of certain truths, Ivormil of Bidwell.  I will not have serving as lords of this realm those who do not exhibit the traits you just recited to me.  Lordship must be earned--it is not merely a birthright.  I will honor those who display honor, no matter what their birth.  I will respect all who offer service properly, and it is expected that all who enter the Citadel of this land or that being rebuilt in Arnor will do likewise.  For it is in how you treat those who are least in the land that shows whether or not you exhibit proper nobility in yourself.  Do you understand?”

            “I believe so, my Lord.”

            “And, as you have undoubtedly noted, these, the greatest among us all, are themselves shining examples of humility, taking no airs to themselves, treating others with the respect they expect to receive to themselves and not allowing themselves to become discomfited when they do not receive it.”

            “Yes, my Lord.”

            “It is as you serve those who are placed under your protection that you prove your own honor to the land of Gondor.  Do you understand this?”

            “I believe so, Lord.”  Ivormil met the eyes of the King and looked into the grey depths of them--grey with hints of blue and green such as one saw in the Sea, and swallowed deeply.  Life in Gondor, he realized, was going to be profoundly changed from what he’d known in his eighteen years so far. 

            “That is good.  For if your father wishes to be confirmed in his office by me, and if you desire to inherit that office when the time comes, it needs to be demonstrated that both of you understand these truths.  It is said among those who raised me and trained me to ready me for the day when I must accept this--” he indicated the Crown he wore, “--that much is expected from those to whom much has been given; and that those who will not serve as is right and proper will have in the end all that they have known in goods and privilege taken from them.

            “Your father did not lead forth troops to the defense of Gondor when the realm was attacked, going neither to the defense of Pelargir nor here.  This certainly does not speak well of his honor to the nation that has granted him title of Lord.  Nor did he send you in his stead if he is too infirm to raise a sword to the needs of the land.  If he wishes to be confirmed in his current office it will be required he present himself before the throne within a month’s time and explain himself, and he must be ready to prove his loyalty to Gondor through the service he offers both the land at large and more especially those entrusted to his leadership and protection.  And I tell you this--the latter will be true of you as well.”

            Ivormil dropped his eyes.  “Yes, my Lord.”  He looked down, and noted that the three Hobbits of the Shire near him all also appeared to be wearing hairy slippers, then realized their feet were bare and covered with hair much the same color as that on their heads.  He turned his eyes back to meet those of Frodo Baggins, filled with hard-won wisdom and experience, realizing those bare feet had trod the many, many leagues between his own land and the slopes of Mount Doom and those eyes had seen terrors the likes of which he, heir to the Lord of Bidwell, could not imagine.  Humbled in the face of true greatness, Ivormil made the first bow of honest respect he’d ever offered.  “I ask your forgiveness for my discourtesy yesterday, my Lord Iorhael,” he said with a sincerity he’d never felt before.

            “Please,” the Hobbit answered him, “please address me as Master Frodo if you must use any title.”

            Confused, Ivormil looked back into the eyes of the King, saw the pride and love held for this one, and began at last to understand what the Lord Elessar had meant about developing an understanding of the true nature of honor and humility.

With grateful thanks to RiverOtter for the beta

A Maid Waiting

A Late Return

            “Well, look what’s dragged back in at last,” Caliendel, who was large and broad and substantial, said as the young, fairer maiden from Dor-en-Ernil set her bags upon her bed in the younger women’s dormitory and began opening them.  Systerien pointedly turned more of her back toward the bigger girl as she began removing clothing from the larger one and carrying it over to stow in the chest and wardrobe assigned to her as one of the chambermaids of the Citadel.

            “Took you long enough to come back,” commented Alisië, who had the next bed.  “We’ve been back for five weeks already.”

            “Maman was unwilling to allow me to return,” Systerien said shortly as she once again delved into the larger of the bags on the bed.  “She had thought perhaps I might catch the eye of Lord Delrond when he came home, but it appears he is now crippled, and she would not ally me to someone who cannot sit a horse.”

            “Count on her mother seeking to make a lady of a chambermaid,” murmured one of the girls down closer to Caliendel in low tones.  Systerien shot her a glare and continued her unpacking.

            “Well, you’ll find things have changed greatly since we were sent away,” Alisië continued.  “Lord Denethor is no more.”

            “We’d heard he’d died,” Systerien admitted, pausing with a night robe in her hands.  “He died facing the Enemy?”

            “No!” one of the younger girls who worked in the pantries said, rather excited at being the first to tell her the gossip of the past months.  “No, he didn’t face the Enemy at all--he killed himself!”

            Berenthien, one of the older and steadier girls who worked in the cleaning of the public chambers, shook her head, plainly annoyed.  “Linnariel, why must you delight ever in the misery of others?  It is not a story to be repeated to any and all.  It is not our place to repeat the shame of it here in what was his house, after all.”

            “Then who is Steward now?” asked Systerien.  “It is said Lord Boromir is dead, also.  The Lord Faramir?  But we were told he was hurt unto the death as well!”

            “And so he was,” Alisië said, “but he was healed, beyond all hope, and by the King himself ere he was crowned.”

            “And so we do indeed have a King?” Systerien asked, her eyes calculating.

            “That we do indeed,” Caliendel affirmed, “and he has been confirmed by Lord Faramir himself, and by Prince Imrahil and the full Council.  But if you think to beguile the King, I would suggest you not even try.”

            “His wife is comely?”

            “So far he has no wife, although he has given Master Galador to understand that he will not have the beauties of the land paraded before him, as his future marriage is none of his affair.”

            “And how is it none of the affair of the Master of Protocol that the King has no wife?” demanded Systerien.

            “He is now the Lord King, and so far none has dared to challenge him overmuch--not as he has the support of both our Lord Faramir and Prince Imrahil and most of the major lords of the realm.”

            “Then if he is not married, why might none think to beguile him?” Systerien asked.

            Berenthien was shaking her head, a faint smile on her face.  “You have not yet seen him, although you shall, soon enough--him and Lord Hardorn, his kinsman who was made ruler of the household until the day comes he takes a wife--or so he has made it clear.  He is not one to be beguiled by the likes of us, you’ll find.”

            “This Lord Hardorn--who is he and where did he come from?”

            “Out of the northlands and through the Paths of the Dead, following behind our Lord King Aragorn Elessar, or so it is said.  They came to the relief of the city in the very ships wrested from the Corsairs of Umbar--and the folk of Umbar are thrown into disarray at the news of it, or so it has been told.  Mordor defeated, their ships taken, and the Nameless One gone out of the Bounds of Arda--it is a matter of terror and confusion for them, and wonder and joy for us.  And we find ourselves liking this new rule--or at least all of us with any sense like it.”

            The door opened and a girl came in, one about fifteen, with a slender body devoid of much in the way of womanly curves, a pale, almost colorless face with an expression both somewhat wary and shy, her hair pale as yellow wine, her eyes grey-green.  Linnariel greeted her, “So, Airen, you’re finally through with your duty?”

            The girl nodded.  “Yes.”

            “And what service did you know today?” Linnariel persisted.

            The new girl shrugged.  “I’ve been assigned today to serve the King’s Companions while they are within the Citadel, and they only now left to return to their guest house.”

            “They are a group to capture the attention of any and all,” commented Alisië.  “Led as they are by Mithrandir, and including Elves and a Dwarf....”

            Systerien paused in the act of hanging one of her nicer gowns within her wardrobe, looking over her shoulder in shock.  “The Wizard--he is here?”  Then the rest of what was said hit her, and she straightened, the gown dropping unnoticed to the floor.  “Elves?  A Dwarf?”

            Berenthien answered, “Yes, Wizard, Elves, and a Dwarf.  You did not hear that, down in Dor-en-Ernil?  It was Mithrandir who came first, the Ernil i Pheriannath before him on his great silver horse.  Then came the Rohirrim from the north, and then the King came up the river on the ships of our enemies taken at Pelargir, others of his companions and kinsmen with him, the guards tell me.  Folk out of legend have now walked abroad through the Citadel and White City.”

            Systerien continued to look at her in disbelief.  “I’d not thought such folk yet lived within Middle Earth,” she said.

            Alisië shrugged.  “Apparently they linger yet in the wilds of the northern lands, and there is no question that they honor our King.”

            Caliendel asked the new girl, “Did you serve the Cormacolindo?”

            “Oh, yes, I did.”

            “His eyes--they are very beautiful.”

            The new girl nodded.  “Oh, yes, but they are.  And he is ever so kind.”

            “Ringbearer?” Systerien asked.

            “Yes, so they address him,” Alisië commented, distracted as the girl Airen approached her own chest and wardrobe, pulling out of them a night robe and slippers.  “I’ve heard he speaks Sindarin,” she said to Airen.

            “Yes, some, at least.”

            “Has he spoken with you?”

            The girl returned to her bed, one that a friend of Systerien had slept in before the war, before Systerien’s own mother had asked she be sent home until the city was declared safe.  “He speaks to me, but mostly to ask for something or to thank me for a service offered.  He is most polite.  But he is rather quiet when it is but himself or when he listens to the others speaking.  He reads Sindarin--he and Master Samwise both do, I’ve found.”  She slipped out of her grey garb, and now dressed only in her shift sighed.  “If you will excuse me.”

            As she left, Systerien looked after her.  “Colorless creature,” she said, rather cruelly as she picked up the dropped gown and saw it hung.

            “Her mother died some years ago, and her father died in the defense of the City.  She was given a place here that she not be forced to live on the streets,” Berenthien answered rather severely.  “She’s proved a good girl, and an apt learner.”

            It was at that point that Mistress Gilmoreth, housekeeper for the Citadel, entered.  “So,” she said, her voice also severe, “the truant has returned at last.  We’d almost thought you’d been taken by slavers, not having heard from you for so long.  Well, I must take you before Lord Hardorn, so change swiftly into your livery that you might be ready to go to him.”

            “Why is this?” Systerien asked.  “Such a person has never been a part of the Citadel.”

            “He is now, and master of it on the King’s own orders.  He and the King have made it plain they will know all who serve within this House, and so now you’ve come back you must go to meet him.”

            Systerien ended up shoving the clothing she was holding back into the bag from which she’d just taken it, and hurried to change into her livery.  Alisië offered her own brush to allow her friend to smooth her hair before following Mistress Gilmoreth out of the room at almost a run.  “And what kept you so long in Dor-en-Ernil?” the woman asked.

            “My mother thought perhaps she’d managed to find a good match for me, but it was not to be so she sent me back.”

            “And you could send no word?”

            “We don’t have reliable message riders who travel to our part of the province regularly,” Systerien pointed out.

            The snort given by the woman spoke to her disbelief.

            But it’s true, the girl thought rebelliously.  Hers was a seaside village of fishermen and farmers, fairly far off the major roads, much less anything resembling a beaten track.  Lord Delrond was a minor lord who’d led to Minas Tirith his small guard and a group of fisherfolk who’d begged to be allowed to go to the defense of the realm.  He’d come back in a horse litter from Dol Amroth, where he’d traveled by ship.  He spoke nothing but praise for the new King he said had saved him from death, but what other changes might have occurred within the capital he’d not said.  As they approached the hallway where were situated the offices for those who oversaw the work of the Men and women who served the Citadel, Systerien asked, “Will I continue to work in the Steward’s Wing?”  Then, as an idea struck her, “Or perhaps the--the King’s chambers?”

            “Lord Faramir has chosen his own staff,” Mistress Gilmoreth said, pausing and shaking her head.  “As for the King’s chambers--I will tell you this--the King made it very clear that for the Royal Wing at this time he wishes that those women who serve him directly be mature--and happily married.  And in case you think to capture his attention by slipping out into the gardens in his path--you should know that such has already been tried, and by the Lady Butterfly, and it did no good for her at all.”

            “And is it true that Lord Boromir will not return?”

            The housekeeper’s face grew solemn.  “Alas, but yes, it is true.  He fell on the slopes of Amon Hen, we are told by the King himself, who was by him when he died.  He died protecting the Ernil i Pheriannath and his kinsman from the orcs of Curunír.  We believe it was the knowledge that such had befallen his beloved son that robbed our Lord Denethor of the will to live, and that the belief that Lord Faramir would swiftly follow his brother broke him completely.  If only he could have held his hope but a day longer--our Lord Elessar came and proved he has the hands of a healer indeed, calling not only our Lord Faramir and the Lady Éowyn of Rohan but many others back from the very Gates of Death--even the Cormacolindor, found as they were in the wreck of Orodruin itself, or so it is said.  A canny leader, a warrior, we are told, even greater than was Lord Boromir, a healer of great power and skill, wise and courteous, just and merciful.  We are blessed, I say, to see the King returned in our day, and such a King at that!

            “Ah,” she continued, “I know it has been your ambition to marry well, but there has never been a possibility that Lord Denethor would have allowed you to marry one of his sons, even if either had ever shown any interest in you.  The King has made it obvious that his own marriage is his own affair, and by requesting older, married women to serve him personally he has made it plain he does not wish to have anyone serving within the Citadel seeking to beguile him.  So far none of those who has visited the Citadel has shown you any interest, although I admit that might change.  However, I would not count on such an event.”

            “What about these companions of the King I’ve been told about?” Systerien asked rather boldly, feeling she had nothing to lose by being as frank as Mistress Gilmoreth.

            The older woman appeared first surprised, and then amused.  “The King’s Companions?”  She shook her head.  “Well, I’ll wish you the luck of that.  As for the King’s kindred who remain here as yet--how many are married and happily so I have no idea, although I suspect that should you seek to catch the attention of one who has no interest, he will let you to know swiftly enough.  But we are not presenting you before Lord Hardorn, which is what we are supposed to be doing at this time.  Come.”  So saying she led Systerien to the door of the office that had once been given to Lord Boromir, not that the older son of Denethor had ever willingly spent much time there.

*******

            “Well,” Alisië asked in a whisper from her bed once Systerien returned as the southern girl changed from livery to her night robe.  “How did it go?”

            Systerien shrugged, unwilling to say aloud just how unsettling she’d found her first meeting with the new Lord King’s kinsman who was at the moment the ruler of the Citadel.  He was fully Dúnedain, with those piercing grey eyes that had characterized Lord Denethor, but even more keen, if that was possible.  “Well enough, I suppose.  He’s allowing me to offer some of the personal service to the King’s Companions while they remain here in the city, at least, although my primary service will be in the wing for visiting nobles from within the realm.”

            “Well, that should be heartening to you, I’d think,” her friend returned.  “At least you’ll have the chance to meet some of the most important lords and ladies in Gondor.”

            “Hmmph,” Systerien snorted shortly.  “As if that were the same as serving in the Steward’s Wing.  Who does serve there now?”

            “None of us here.  It’s the ones whose families have served in the Citadel for generations, and mostly older ones--women Lord Faramir’s known all his life.  But as he’s to be handfasted to the Lady Éowyn of Rohan soon I would suppose that he would not wish to have younger women around him who might cause her to know jealousy.”

            The southern girl quickly finished stowing her clothing and belongings in chest and wardrobe, then came over to sit upon her bed.  “That new girl--she also serves the King’s Companions?”

            “Yes--and she’s been here but since the day before the King’s Coronation--her father’s brother is one of the artisans who cares for the masonry, and he begged a place for her here.”

            “What happened to Pegien?”

            “We don’t know.  As you arrived this evening at the Harlond--did you not see how the Pelennor has been almost completely stripped?”

            “Yes--the Enemy did all that?”

            “Oh, yes, and more.  All the women, children, and those Men who could not fight were supposed to be sent to the fastnesses in the mountains there from the Pelennor just as it was with us from here within the city, but not all would agree to go.  We don’t know if her family was one of those that refused to leave their lands and homes or if they went far into Lossarnach or what, only that where the village she was born in used to be there are now only scars upon the land.  It was destroyed by the forces of Mordor and she never came back or sent word.  It’s possible that if they survived and came back, once they saw that their lands were so defaced as to be unrecognizable they just turned about and went to live with kinsmen elsewhere.  Didn’t she say her mother’s brother lived far west in Lossarnach, close upon the mountains going southward?”

            Systerien nodded.  “So she did.  I’m almost surprised they didn’t give the new girl my bed.”

            Alisië, who was sitting up on her elbow, shrugged.  “We knew that none of the Enemy’s forces were marauding there in Dor-en-Ernil--not as they did along the river and throughout the ruins of Osgiliath or across the Pelennor.  It was likely you’d return; but no one knows about Pegien or her family.”

            “And your parents didn’t send for you as my maman did?”

            Alisië shook her head.  She had been born the daughter of senior servants of Lord Eldred, a lesser lord in Lamedon, and had been sent to the White City some three years previous on the recommendation of their lord.  “No--they felt I would do better to remain with the others rather than to chance the roads in such uncertain times.”

            “Is it true the Butterfly has already tried to waylay the King?”

            “Yes, she did--Dalrod Gardener saw the affair.  It was two evenings after the coronation--she managed to come to the portion of the gardens near the Royal Wing.”  Suddenly she giggled.  “She pretended to feel faint, and the King all but laughed outright at her.  It does not do to pretend to illness before one trained as a healer, I fear.  And if she thought her beauty and rank would capture the eyes of every Man, she was much mistaken.  The King and his kinsmen all seem to dismiss her equally.”

            “Have you set yourself before him?” Systerien asked in lower tones.

            The other girl’s face grew somewhat solemn in the dim light of her friend’s candle.  “No--not after seeing and hearing him on that first day after he was crowned King.  He--he is different, Systë, from any I have seen elsewhere.  He will not be impressed by any who comes before him under false pretenses, any more than he accepted the Butterfly’s false faint.”

            “What of the King’s Companions?”

            Alisië was searching her face, then dimpled with amusement.  “Ah,” she at last said in a whisper, “that I will allow you to see for yourself.  I think you will find them--different.  But I will advise you--don’t go before them with any artifice, for I think all of them see through such equally.”  She straightened her pillow.  “Well, that is enough for now--I must present myself for my duty shortly after dawn, and I must get some sleep if I am to do a decent job of it tomorrow.  I’m glad you have returned, Systë.  Good night.”

            So saying, she laid herself back down and pulled her coverlet over her ears as she preferred to sleep, leaving Systerien with much to think on as she slipped between her own sheets.

*******

            It was odd to waken again within the Citadel instead of in her own bed in Dor-en-Ernil, and to once more hear Caliendel chiding her for being a slug-a-bed.  But it was a new day, and for the folk of Gondor a new beginning as they looked at how the return of the King would affect them.

            As she followed the other girls down to the servants’ dining hall she found herself seeing many faces she failed to recognize, more than she expected amongst the servants and far more amongst those who wandered the halls as Guards, courtiers, and guests of the Citadel.  And the number of those she saw of that last category was shockingly large.  Always there were a few guests from elsewhere throughout the realm, and often a few from Rohan or even the Brown Lands said to lie north of Rohan.  But under Lord Denethor, there had been progressively fewer and fewer guests in the past three years, although she must suppose that during the last weeks before the assault on the White City there must have been many nobles from distant parts of the land of Gondor who had led their Men here to the defense of the City who’d known the hospitality of the Citadel as they’d met in council or been given assignments for themselves and their Men during those last days and hours before the enemy had arrived before the walls.

            But now there were so very many newcomers of all sorts.  She saw courtiers she’d not seen for most of the past year; visiting lords come to confirm their offices under the new King and to report on the condition of their holdings or to present petitions on behalf of their lands and peoples; Rohirrim in far richer garb and greater numbers than one usually saw; more Men of purer Dúnedain descent than she’d ever seen dressed in worn riding leathers and grey, silver, or green cloaks with silver stars on their shoulders, noblewomen such as she’d not seen at court for well over a year; servants in liveries such as she’d not seen at all.  Once they entered the staff dining room, she saw that Mistress Gilmoreth and Master Balstador, Seneschal for the Citadel, sat together at the table where senior staff generally ate, discussing matters with three dressed in the livery of the Citadel and one Man in the garb of the Guild of Weavers and Tailors she failed to recognize. 

            Alisië, apparently divining the focus of her attention, nudged her with her elbow.  “We have a new mistress of seamstresses and master tailor, now that so much has needed to be renewed within the Citadel.  And the plasterers and painters have been everywhere for weeks!  They had to prepare the Royal Wing, of course, as it’s not been used since King Eärnur disappeared into the east.  And the to-do about the King’s own chambers and the rooms for the King’s Companions!  Never have I seen such discussions--the King sent detailed descriptions of how he wished some rooms prepared for others, but hardly any indication of what he would wish to do for his own quarters.  Master Balstador and Mistress Gilmoreth were all but in despair before the Coronation the other day, for fear they’d not have everything done rightly.  But in the end the King proved remarkably easy to please--there’s been little to do over, save he prefers greens to golds in his decoration.”

            Systerien found herself filing this information away for future reference as she looked about the room.  The tables for visiting servants were filled with unfamiliar faces and garb, and many were visiting the sideboard where the food was set for them to take their choice that they might eat hastily and be swiftly about their duties.

            There was, she knew, a special dormitory near the kitchens for those who served the cooks themselves that they not disturb others when they must rise much earlier to see to the baking and preparation for earlier meals.  Those she saw bringing out basins of foodstuffs and removing empty ones were quite cheerful such as she’d not seen in months.  As she and the others with her waited for their turns to serve themselves Alisië confided, “For now there’s no meats to be served between meals save for those who’ve been ill, and you’ll note that there’s one on watch to see that only one serving of meat is taken by each of us.  But it’s much better than it was as we prepared for the battle, for then we might be lucky to have a single portion of gruel and a slice of bread with no butter or drippings for a morning meal--at least we now have fruit offered us, and at least two slices of breads or rolls, and an egg apiece if we wish it.”

            As usual the tables filled by age, gender, and form of service, she noted as she and Alisië took their place with other girls from their dormitory.  There was much laughter to be heard, and faces were relaxed and--and filled with a degree of hope she realized she’d never seen in this room.  As for the food itself--it was, she had to admit, tasty such as she’d not seen here, either.  She and those with her ate rapidly and with appetite, saw their dishes onto the clearing carts, and hurried off to the chamber where they met with those who oversaw their work.

            “Our Lord King has gone down to the Houses of Healing, and will probably return with a few of his Companions.  They will then go to the meeting of the Council.  Those of you who serve the Royal Wing, see to it that the rooms prepared for the King’s Companions are ready in case any should require rest during their time here today.  Master Frodo tends to tire very easily, and Master Samwise is also still recovering from his ordeal.  The kitchens have been advised of the needs for the Pheriannath, and those of you who are to serve them while they are in the Citadel will only need to speak the name of the one to whom you are assigned and bring what is given you to the one indicated at the place where he might be.  Should any of the King’s Companions retire to the Royal Wing to rest and you are not one of those recognized as one with permission to enter there, ask one of the guard to call forth Iorvas or Belveramir, who will then accompany you to the appropriate room and back.”

            After two and a half marks spent in the guest quarters for minor lords, Systerien at last had a break and returned to the day chamber for the chambermaids, finding Mistress Gilmoreth standing over three girls who cleaned the dormitory area, Berenthien standing to one side, looking distressed.  “And I don’t care how unpleasant you consider her to be--folding the bedding so as to make it impossible for her to get into it will never be acceptable behavior!” she was saying.  “This is the second time in only a week you have thought to return what you consider a slight with deliberate pranks.  Once more in the next month and you will be dismissed from the service of the Citadel--do you understand?”

            A bell rang, and the housekeeper looked up and about, and seeing Systerien waved at her.  “Main audience chamber behind the throne room.  Go--it’s likely to be the Ringbearers.”

            Frustrated she’d not been able to get a drink for herself, Systerien turned and hurried out and up the steps to the main level of the Citadel until she came to the doorway to the chamber indicated.  She smoothed her hair as well as she could with her hands and straightened her shoulders, then knocked at the door, hearing the call “Enter” and opening it.

            What appeared to be a boy sat on a remarkably low divan that she did not recognize.  He was dressed in mail with a carefully made leather gambeson over it such as was worn by the folk of Rohan.  By him knelt one of the Rohirrim, a finger under the boy’s chin, tipping up the face so he could examine the eyes and color.  “You’ve spent far too much time the last three days at Éomer’s side, Master Holdwine,” the Man was saying.  “It is not only the Ringbearer who yet recovers from his ordeal, you know.”

            “But it’s been over a month--almost two!” the young one objected.

            “That’s as might be, Sir Meriadoc, but one does not recover from such wounds all of a piece, you realize.  I suspect that the relief of it all is just now catching up with you--your own weakness and prolonged recovery, seeing all your countrymen brought back also from the very Gates and how badly injured each had been, the rapid ride from the Field of Cormallen and excitement of the Coronation, and four days’ constant attendance on Éomer King--you need to rest yourself from time to time, you know.”  He turned the younger one’s face to one side, then nodded as he looked toward Systerien.  “Greetings, young mistress.  Please--hurry to the kitchens and see if they have ready a tray for one of the Holbytla--tell them it is for Éomer King’s esquire, Sir Meriadoc.  I thank you.”

            She curtseyed and hurried out, thinking on the contrast between the two, both dressed similarly but the taller one clearly a Rider of Rohan with blue eyes and hair the color of sun-ripened wheat, the smaller with more closely cropped hair of warmest brown curls and fine, if exhausted, eyes.  He had not the look about him of Rohan, and she wondered how it was a stranger’s child had come to earn the trust of their people such that he would be allowed to wear their colors.  And to speak of such a boy as “Sir Meriadoc”!  She felt herself smile.

            “Well, which fine lord is it now who feels the need of sustenance so he can’t wait until the next formal meal?” the cook present demanded as she entered the room where such requests were filled.

            “I was bid to ask you if there is a tray for King Éomer’s esquire, Sir Meriadoc.”

            The cook straightened, her face growing attentive and respectful.  “For the White Lady’s companion?” she breathed.  “Oh, but of course!  We have it in the cold room, for it was not sent for until now.  One moment----” as she turned to scurry from the room, returning with a tray of cold meats and cheeses, soft bread rolls, a goblet and smaller stein and three carafes, and a selection of fruit segments.  “Present him my compliments,” she added as she waved Systerien out of the room.  Before the door closed behind her the maid heard another voice ask a question and the cook answer, “Yes, that was the tray for the Witch-king’s bane--I’m surprised it wasn’t called for before now.  Poor thing must be fair withering away.”

            It was a different voice that called for her to enter this time, and a particularly tall and elegant figure, his dark hair long and smooth and braided at the temples, rose to his feet, examining her and the contents of the tray she carried.  She stopped, arrested by her first sight of what must definitely be an Elf.  Her mouth worked some, but she found she couldn’t speak.  Eyes as grey as any amongst the Dúnedain reflected a degree of amusement.  “For Master Meriadoc, is it?” he asked, his voice melodic and eminently memorable.  At her nod he took it.  “I thank you, young mistress.  He will do well for it, I believe.”  So saying he set the tray on the low table beside the small one, examined the three carafes swiftly, identified the one containing ale and poured some into the stein, presenting it to the boy sitting on the low couch.  “Here, small Master,” he said respectfully. “I suspect that this will aid you to feel better.  And I believe they have cut into a new round of cheese for you.  Tell me--what did you eat this morning before you left the guest house?”

            “I had only a roll and a half mug of tea,” came the reply.  “Lord Éomer had indicated he wished to speak with Strider alone before he left for the Houses of Healing, as both of them were to attend the meeting of the Council.  And since then, there’s not been much chance to snatch anything.”

            “Not until you almost fainted standing behind your young King’s chair,” chided the Elf as the other sipped from the stein.  “Did Pippin get as little as you did?”

            “He was up earlier and was working on an apple and roll when I came into the kitchen this morning,”

            “Well, if you don’t begin taking better care of yourself I shall speak of this to your cousin and have him take you in hand--or perhaps Master Samwise would be a better one to set over you?”

            “You wouldn’t do that!” exclaimed Sir Meriadoc.  “You’d set Frodo and Sam on me?  You don’t know how much bother that would stir up!  They’re both equally relentless!”

            “And that, Master Merry, is probably just what you need if you are not to become ill.  Do you understand?”

            “Yes, my lord Elladan,” the other answered grudgingly.  “Are you this demanding with Cousin Bilbo?”

            “We have been when he needed it,” the Elf assured him, smiling indulgently.  “But when you admit you did not eat a proper first or second breakfast, I will not be surprised to see you nearly fainting as elevenses come nigh.  Eat slowly now, but fully.”

            “Yes, my lord.”

            The Elf looked back at Systerien.  “Was there aught else you need to do at this time?” he asked courteously enough, although rather pointedly at the same time.

            She found her voice at last, shaking her head.  “I’m sorry--the cook did ask that I present her compliments.”

            The small one looked at her fully for the first time, pausing with a breadroll on which he’d laid some of the sliced meat and cheese in his hand.  “When you see her again, then give her the thanks of a starving Hobbit.”  He smiled as he bit into his roll, giving her the slightest of nods.  Recognizing dismissal, she withdrew, her head whirling some, for those were not the eyes of a boy at all.

            During lunch she was kept busy ferrying trays to the visiting lords' wing for those who would not come to the common dining hall, and there were other trays, she noted, being carried to the Council Chamber.  Then she was fetching trays back, then assisting in the cleaning of bathing chambers and renewal of towels and linens.  It was late afternoon when Mistress Gilmoreth’s assistant saw her again heading for the servants’ hall and called out, “Systerien--there’s a tray ready now in the kitchens that needs to be taken to the gardens near the Royal Wing for the Ringbearer.  Take it and stay by him for a time to see to it he needs nothing else.”

            Giving a sigh, she turned obediently toward the kitchens.  The same cook saw her coming in.  “Come for Lord Frodo’s tray this time?”

            “For that for the Ringbearer,” she explained.

            The cook nodded.  “Yes, we have it ready.  Young Airen isn’t to deliver it this time?”

            “I’ve not seen her,” Systerien said, rather affronted.  “But I understand I’m to take it to the gardens near the Royal Wing.”

            “I understand there’s a bench there he favors as he sits to read.  Well, there it sits--been waiting for some quarter of a mark, almost.  Do hurry--it would not do to allow him to remain hungry--needs feeding up desperately, that one.”

            Systerien took up the tray, seeing it was as filled much as had been the last one she’d carried.  She soon was up the stairs and out through the doors that led to the gardens, heading to a portion where few enough other than Lord Faramir and the gardeners had ever tended to spend much time in the past.  There had been a time when she and Alisië had spent a fair period of their own free time here, seeking to put themselves in the way of the Steward’s younger son.  He’d allowed it for a time, but finally spoke to them and let them to know he had no interest at all in such as they, and then had spoken with Mistress Gilmoreth herself, after which the two of them had been kept far too busy for such pursuits for quite some time.  It was odd to look at the windows to the wing and see them not blank and staring but now open, with fluttering draperies hung within.  There were three benches nearby--she found someone at the second one, and paused, uncertain.

            As with the vaunted Sir Meriadoc, this was a small personage with dark brown hair.  He was dressed as a virtual prince in rich greens and soft golds, save, she noted, for his bare feet, which were covered with dark curls of hair similar in color to the curly hair on his head.   Systerien stopped with surprise, and was certain, once her mind was clear enough to think on it, her mouth must have fallen quite open.  He looked up, his striking eyes seeing her.  “You may approach,” he said coaxingly, as if speaking to a shy child.  “They sent you out with more food for me, have they?  Aragorn has apparently made it clear to the kitchen staff I am in danger of expiring from starvation.”  Then after a moment he repeated, “Do come forward--I assure you, we Hobbits don’t bite!”

            Systerien recalled herself, decidedly shook and then straightened herself, and came to his side with what dignity she could summon.  “Please forgive me--I was asked to bring this to the Ringbearer.”

            “Thank you, not that I’m all that hungry, although I could do with a drink.”

            She set the tray down on the low stone table that sat nearby and examined the carafes that sat upon the tray.  “It appears they have sent you water, juice, and a fine wine from Anfalas,” she reported.  “Which would you prefer I pour for you?”

            “Some watered wine,” he decided.  “If it’s the wine Aragorn’s been pressing on us, it’s quite good, and not terribly strong.  And if you’d put some water into the second goblet?  Thank you so very much.”

            He accepted the watered wine from her, and watched over the rim of his glass as she poured the desired water as well.  “Young Mistress Airen was not available?” he finally asked.  “She appears to have been the one they’ve sent most often to see to it I don’t waste away from lack of food.”

            She found herself stifling a giggle, and cut a look at him, noting he was watching her closely and was pleased at her desire to laugh.  As had been true of Sir Meriadoc earlier, his eyes were fine, but tired, as if he were recovering from a grave illness.  Yes, there was gauntness to his face, as if he’d carried far more weight on his frame, and not that long ago.  And there was about him an aura of isolation and loss, one that caught at her somehow.  Systerien, without consciously realizing it, was caught in the web of his charm, and lost a part of her heart to him.

*******

            When she went to get her early dinner within the servant’s dining hall she found herself taking the place beside the girl Airen, who sat alone toward one end of the table.  “You’ve been the one to serve Lord Frodo most of the time?” she asked without preamble.

            “Yes, although today I was pressed into bringing trays to the doors to the Council Chamber so Iorvas might take them from me to serve the King and his Councilors.  Did you bring him his afternoon tray?  I’m glad.  You can see, looking at him, that he lost a good deal of weight, going through Mordor as he did.”

            “He went through Mordor?”

            Airen gave a small nod.  “He doesn’t like to speak of it, although the others will.  The King is most concerned for him, for he’s not as he was before he and his friends left their own land.  Did he speak of the Shire with you?”

            “I thought he didn’t speak much to you, from what you said last night.”

            Airen flushed slightly.  “He doesn’t speak a good deal to me, but he did mention the Shire this morning.  It sounds a beautiful place--and so different to Gondor.”

            Systerien nodded absently.  “Yes, it does.  And he came all this way, from far to the north and west, all the way here?”

            “Yes, having gone first into the Enemy’s land to see his Ring destroyed.  But he won’t speak of that at all, or so Sir Meriadoc has warned me.”

            “So you know Sir Meriadoc?”

            Airen was nodding as she toyed with a piece of bread.  “And Sir Peregrin and Lord Samwise--only he also doesn’t wish to be addressed as ‘Lord’--both he and the Ringbearer himself prefer to be addressed as ‘Master’.”

            “And they call themselves Hobbits.”  Systerien still found this new people fascinating to contemplate.

            “Aren’t they funny?  Or, at least they seem that way at the first, when you’ve but seen them.  But they’re very much grownups, all four of them.  Oh, Sir Meriadoc and Sir Peregrin will cut up a good deal when they’re not on duty, and they love jokes and comic songs--you should hear them at it!  They had me quite laughing late yesterday, they did.  But then they’ll go silent, for all four of them faced the Enemy’s worst folk, and you can see the horrors hiding at the edges of their silences, seeking to present themselves yet again.”

            Systerien examined her companion closely, for it was an excellent description of what she’d seen for herself in the eyes of both the Hobbits she’d seen that day.

Royal Recognition

            There was a great excitement the next morning as all trouped to breakfast.  There was to be a special audience this day, and the rumors were rife that there was to be special recognition for many given during it, and a good deal of discussion as to what was to become of Beregond of the Guard, who was to be called before the King for judgment for having left his post without permission and----

            “He shed blood in the Hallows?” Systerien asked Alisië, unwilling to believe such a rumor.

            “Yes--for Lord Denethor had gone quite mad and was intent on slaying himself and Lord Faramir both,” the other girl answered in extremely low tones.  “He sought only to preserve Lord Faramir’s life, Beregond did.  And it is said for that he must die!”

            It was a sobering thought, that one who’d thought only to save the life of the Steward’s son might die for such loyalty.  Systerien found herself hoping fervently that she’d not be one of those sent to cleanse the stone of the Court of Gathering of the Guardsman’s blood.  If the ruling was death, then that would be where it was done, according to tradition.

            There was a gallery near the back of the Hall of Kings, directly over the main entrance to it, where many of the servants of the Citadel with no pressing duties might gather to watch audiences, and she set herself to be one of the first within it, for with this special audience all of the visiting lords and ladies would be gathered to watch also.  Alisië came soon after her, leading Airen by the hand, and the three stood in the leftmost corner where they could see well enough--undoubtedly better than most of the lords and ladies gathered below, Systerien thought.

            “The King plans to reward the Guardsman,” Alisië confided in a whisper.  “He won’t order him dead.  And there’s something afoot for our Lord Steward Faramir as well, though none will speak of it.  But Balstador and Mistress Gilmoreth are both all but in rapture with the delight of it, you see.”

            Below them the footmen and heralds were all in a dither, and there was much subdued but excited rushing about as they saw various people settled here and there.  Then a whisper spread through the crowd in the hall below and the servants bunched in the gallery above, followed by a profound silence as the King entered, dressed in formal armor this day, and Systerien had her first glimpse of their new sovereign as he took his place on the bottom-most step of the dais to his throne beneath the stone canopy made in likeness to the Winged Crown itself.  Beside him today stood the small form of Lord Frodo and the tall form of Mithrandir, dressed not as he’d been when Systerien had last brought wine to him in the archives beneath the Citadel a year and a half past, but in shining white, his new staff elegant in his hand.

            A low chair had been set for the slender Hobbit in the shadow of the Throne, and after a time he was dismissed from the King’s side to sit there.  Iorvas and what she thought was the Elf she’d seen the previous day attended on him, seeing to it he had food and drink and that he was made to partake of it.  Another low chair was set near his own, and on it sat another Hobbit, a far more substantial one than Lord Frodo himself.  Systerien gave Airen a small jab with her elbow and indicated him, and was rewarded with the whispered identification, “Lord Samwise, Esquire to the King’s Friend.”  Systerien nodded.  Airen continued, “I haven’t seen Sir Peregrin yet today.  He must have been sent to attend upon Lord Faramir.”

            The audience was long, but when Lord Faramir was called forth and came out in formal armor and a black and silver mantle fitting to his office all went fully still, unwilling to miss a single word spoken.  Those in the gallery could easily see the Rangers Damrod and Mablung coming forward carrying a shining garment of silver and white between them, and Lord Húrin with something shiny upon a black pillow.  The Pherian Frodo had again risen to stand at the King’s side as he stood once more on the bottom-most step of the dais with Mithrandir, while the new young King of Rohan and his sister had come to stand on his other side.  Beside Lord Faramir stood his uncle, Prince Imrahil, and another Man who’d been sitting in the new grey chair that sat on the opposite side of the dais who stood now at Lord Faramir’s shoulder, with Lord Elphir, Prince Imrahil’s oldest son, standing behind, and two Guards of the Citadel, one absurdly short, on either side.

            “There’s Sir Peregrin!” Alisië murmured excitedly.

            “My Lord King,” began Prince Imrahil, and all went still once more to see why it was that their beloved Lord Faramir was so called before the King.  As small Lord Frodo received the coronet of mithril and moonstones from Lord Húrin and presented it to the King, Systerien could see how brilliant was his smile.  For a moment she felt somewhat apart from herself, as if she stood slightly out of touch with her body, and she realized something--that the King and Lord Frodo both had about them a distinct mithril Light as if they reflected the light of a myriad stars, while Lord Samwise, who’d risen to stand protectively at the Ringbearer’s shoulder, seemed to stand in a beam of the Sun’s light as he rested one hand on his friend’s upper arm.  As for Prince Faramir--Tilion himself might have been standing at his side!  And Mithrandir!  She shook her head, for it seemed she saw a shining flame of purest Fire in his heart as he stood there, observing all as Faramir was made Prince of Ithilien at the King’s hand.

            More were honored, including the King of Rohan’s small esquire and Sir Peregrin as well, and Systerien found herself cheering with the rest.

            But it was Beregond of the Guard and the judgment to be given him that all awaited now.  More whispers that the King would not see him dead were uttered there in the gallery, but they were silenced as the former Guardsman presented himself.  When the doom of banishment was spoken Systerien felt the disbelief of those who stood nearby, but she was watching as a movement from behind the throne indicated a second garment of white and silver was being brought forward.

            “He’s going to give him to Prince Faramir!” she heard herself whispering to her two companions, and so it proved indeed.

            None cheered, but there was clapping, a clapping that spread throughout the Hall of Kings, both on its floor and in its gallery, as all greeted the King’s justice with awe and respect.  Beregond might never again enter the White City, but he went forth not in disgrace but with the highest honor such as he might expect--far higher honor than any had thought to see.  All bowed with respect as he passed them, his face shining also in light of what had transpired, and all smiled as he went forth, and from outside they heard at last the cheers none here within the Citadel had uttered, as the gathered Guard of the Citadel saw the joy in the face of one of their own, and recognized the import of the white and silver mantle laid about his shoulders.

            Then suddenly all there on the gallery were being chivvied away, back to their duties.  There would be lords and ladies who would wish refreshment or to change their attire or to take baths, the hall below would need to be swept of petals fallen from flowers tucked into hair or carried by this lady or that; and there were meals to prepare, gowns to shake free from folds and surcoats to be donned.  But those who went out to offer these services and more went with their hearts lightened, rejoicing to know that they served such a King who offered such honors to those who deserved it.

            Airen and Systerien found themselves being sent to the Royal Wing with trays for the King’s Companions who were gathered there in the receiving room at the end of the hallway.  Iorvas accompanied them past the guards, having made their names known to them, and the guards having examined the trays with approval.  “I hope Lord Frodo can be brought to eat fully of that sent,” commented one.

            Lord Frodo sat on a low divan, a goblet already at his hand.  His Light was less discernible, and he looked rather fatigued but still happy at what he’d observed that day.  His smile brightened as they came forward, not so much, Systerien realized, for the food brought as at the recognition of Airen and herself.

            A door opened behind them, and once she’d seen her tray set upon the table set to receive it, Systerien turned, and realized the King himself was approaching, now relieved of his armor but still wearing the padded shirt that had protected him from his hauberk.  “Ah,” he sighed.  “It seems forever since I last had aught to drink.  I thank you, Airen, and ...?”  He looked at Systerien in question.

            “Systerien, my Lord King,” she said, curtseying deeply.  “Systerien of Celebstrand in Dor-en-Ernil.”

            “Ah, yes--Hardorn had told me one had returned late to take up her service.  You have served in the Citadel how long?”

            “Three and a half years, my Lord King.  Lord Delrond sought to offer honor to my father, who died in his service some four years since, by promoting me to a place here in Minas Tirith, and Lord Denethor allowed the preference for me.”

            “A fine Man, Lord Delrond.  I grieve he chose to return to his place so early, but I can understand why he did so.  I would gladly have honored him before the nation this day as well.”

            Systerien felt pride fill her for her proper liege lord.  “I thank you for him, sir,” she said, holding her head up joyfully.  “He is a fine Man, my Papa always said.”

            “And you, Mistress Systerien,” he continued, “what do you wish for yourself?  It is a question I’ve asked all within the Citadel with whom I’ve come into contact.  Some have wished to remain in service here, while others have indicated that when Lord Faramir’s house is built they might follow him and serve him there, while still others have desired to retire from service at all.  What is your preference?”

            She realized he was searching her face even as she found herself examining his, noting the nobility reflected there, the skin darkly tanned, lines some deeper than they’d looked at a distance, indicating he was older than he looked and inclined equally to sternness as to laughter, his eyes of that piercing Dúnedain grey.  Her lips parted some, and at last she answered him, “I’m not yet certain, my Lord King.  Perhaps I might desire to follow our Lord Steward----”  She found herself smiling, suddenly.  “Our Lord Prince Steward,” she amended.  “That was well done, sir.”

            He smiled, as brilliant a smile as that of Lord Frodo, and gave her a nod of the head.  “I am honored you approve, young mistress,” he said.  He looked to Airen.  “You, too, approve?”

            “Oh, my Lord King, all of us who serve the Citadel approve and rejoice in this,” she answered, then flushed to realize she’d answered so much.

            “Then it appears I did the right thing,” he replied.  “Now, off with the two of you--we can serve ourselves from here.  And I thank the both of you.”  He gave them a brief wave of his hand, and turned to Lord Frodo, commenting, “Now, my friend, I believe they’ve sent the segments of orange fruit particularly for you.”

A Young Lord Disgraced

            A week later, during a break in her duties, Systerien found herself walking in the more public parts of the gardens.  Lord Samwise was standing with the gardener Dalrod near the rose arbor discussing the condition of two bushes; Lord Frodo was within the Citadel, having retired to the chambers prepared for the Pheriannath to rest; the King himself, after the morning’s audience, had gone to his office to speak with the Commander of the Navy regarding the state of the realm’s ships, two of his kinsmen who had knowledge of the shipping of the northern lands and Captain Peregrin with them; Sir Meriadoc was gone off to the Hallows to stand with the Guard of Honor before the tomb where King Théoden’s body rested for the nonce; and most of the lords of the realm had dispersed in the past few days to their own holdings.  The Citadel seemed almost empty at the moment, and its rhythms had begun once more to slow and find themselves as all accepted the new order for the land and this house.

            As she approached the end of one hedge of boxwood she realized another was also taking the air.  It was, she noted, young Lord Ivormil of Bidwell in Lossarnach, who’d arrived but the day before.  She examined him closely, for word was that he’d managed to offend all with his demands for special treatment, including Lords Frodo and Samwise as well as the King himself.  He’d had a distinct comeuppance, it was said, at the morning’s audience.  Well, his expression certainly confirmed that word, for his brow was furrowed and he looked most discomfited.

            He noticed her presence, then paused, rather warily she thought.  At last he spoke.  “Are you a great lady in but simple dress, or are you indeed one of those who serve the Citadel?”

            Perhaps she ought to have felt insulted, but instead she found herself fighting the impulse to laugh.  “Please, my lord, my name is Systerien, and I am one of those who serves as a chambermaid within the Citadel.”  But her curiosity got the better of her, as she found herself asking, “Is that how it was you came to insult the Pheriannath?”

            He rolled his eyes and turned his head away.  “I must suppose my great blunder has been told throughout the King’s household.”  He glanced back at her and caught her nod, and sighed.  “It’s just my luck, I must suppose.  But who has ever believed there were really Pheriannath in the world?  I mean, had you ever thought of them being real, before you saw them?”

            She shook her head.  “No, my lord, I never did.  And when I first saw Sir Meriadoc I thought him but a boy, until I truly looked at his eyes.  Then I realized he wasn’t.  But then I saw Master Frodo’s feet and realized these were not Men at all.  But there was no question of them not being treated with respect, you see, from the first time I saw one of them.  And what did you think?”

            He shrugged.  “They weren’t mannikins--even as big a fool as I could see that.  I ought to have thought it through--when they told me that only those who’d been ill were being given meat between meals....”

            She nodded.  “I know.” 

            “Can you remain here for a time?  Or must you hurry back to your duties?”

            Systerien was surprised--no one had asked such a thing of her before, certainly not any of the lords she’d put herself in the way of purposely since she’d begun working in the Citadel.  “Oh, no--this time is my own, although I must return at the eighth bell.  We are allowed to walk in the gardens, or down to the gardens for the Houses of Healing and to the barracks area where we watch the sparring.”

            “It’s just that you’re the first to not look on me with scorn since I got here.”

            She shrugged.  “I can’t imagine Master Frodo looking at you with scorn, really--he’s not given to such sentiments, I think.”

            “Well, he didn’t, really--not until....”  He trailed off, taking a deep breath and letting it out with a great sigh.  “How was I to know that the Lord Perhael and Lord Iorhael were Pheriannath?”

            “Didn’t they tell you?”

            “Well, the King explained today that the Seneschal had been trying to tell me, but--but I cut him off.”

            She couldn’t help herself--the laugh escaped without her intention.  “You cut Master Balstador off when he tried to explain that they were Pheriannath and preferred to be addressed as ‘Master’ rather than as ‘Lord’?  Ah, sir, you must have wished you could but disappear in a puff of smoke and never be seen in the White City again!”

            Reluctantly he began to smile as well.  “Yes, something along those lines, really.  When I looked into the King’s face today and saw it was the one Master Frodo had addressed as Aragorn----”  He shook his head and looked heavenward.  “But you would never have done the same, I’m certain.”

            “Oh, don’t be so sure.  I’ve seen so many of the northern Dúnedain now--they’re all over the Citadel, you see, and I have no way of telling which are simple men at arms and which are lords of the northern realm at this point.  It’s merely simpler, I have found, to treat each as if he is indeed a great lord and thus avoid making a fool of myself.”

            “As I ought to have done yesterday.  I have the distinct feeling Lord Perhael dislikes me intensely, and that it’s little better with Lord Iorhael.  I apparently sparked a headache in him.”

            She became more solemn.  “His quest took him through great fear and anxiety.  The minstrel who wrote the Lay of Frodo of the Nine Fingers sang it to us in the servants’ hall last evening, and spoke of how it was he learned what had happened to Masters Frodo and Samwise as they went alone from Amon Hen where Lord Boromir died to Mordor.”

            “I wish I could have heard it.”  She nodded in response, and after a time he asked, “Have you worked in the Citadel long?”

            “Almost four years.”

            “You are not from the city, though?”

            “No--I am from Dor-en-Ernil, from a small village near the sea.”

            “Then how did you come here?”

            “My father served Lord Delrond well, and died saving his life.”

            “There was an attack by Corsairs?”

            Almost she agreed, for it was the story she’d told some of the other girls who served alongside her here in the Citadel, but something had changed in her since she’d unwittingly given her fealty to Ringbearer and new King.  At last she admitted, “It was a foolish thing, you see.  Lord Delrond had become drunk, riding out with friends and planning a race along a particular track in the rain and the dark.  A wooden bridge over a particular stream had become rotted, and as the four of them pounded over it, the wood gave way.  Lord Delrond was the last over, and his horse fell through, and he was pitched into the water.  Papa was his personal guard and had counseled them against the race--he leapt into the stream and managed to find his lord lodged between stones.  He was able to free him and thrust him onto the bank where his friends could get him to safety, but he could not scramble out himself.  So heavily did it rain that the stream rose and washed him away before they could devise a way to save him, too.

            “Lord Delrond felt terribly guilty when he recovered, and so he asked my mother how he might properly make it up to us.  She felt that only if somehow I might meet someone wealthy and of some rank and make a good marriage perhaps that might help restore our family’s fortunes, so she asked if he could put me in the way of some service that could allow me to meet many people where I might find perhaps a worthy patron or husband.  Every few years the Citadel sends out calls for servers from other provinces so that some servers will always know the best courtesies to offer to visitors from the farther reaches of Gondor, so he agreed to put my name forward.  So it is that I am here now.”

            “And you’ve not yet found any who holds any interest in you?”

            She shrugged, for the first time embarrassed by the real reasons she was here.  “Maman had suggested I put myself forward as one who would work in the Steward’s Wing and make certain I was made visible to the Steward’s sons and their friends; but in truth neither was here that often, both being gone most of the time upon their duties to the realm.  When they were here they had not time for dalliances with chambermaids.

            “Now he is Steward himself our Lord Prince Faramir has chosen his own staff, all older individuals, Men and women both, whose families have served the Citadel for generations, and most of whom have indicated that when he has his own home built they wish to accompany him to Ithilien.  Since his heart at last is stirred and he courts the Lady Éowyn of Rohan he does not wish for any reports of improprieties to be returned to her.  Obviously he did not choose me in that number, nor would I wish it, really, as I’m uncertain I would wish to follow him across the river.”

            He nodded as he considered what she’d told him.  “I never thought what I would wish to do with my life, for it seemed certain I would merely follow my father as Lord of Bidwell, and what should I care beyond that?  I never questioned why Ada did not send any to the protection of the capital, or why he did not go himself or send me with the few he sent to the defense of Pelargir.  And now--after this morning I realize that my father may well lose his office due to that decision.  And if he is no longer Lord of Bidwell, what future might I look to?  He and I must prove ourselves to the King and Council.  I was not truly trained as a swordsman--after I was advised to think on the meaning of nobility, service, honor, and humility I took my sword and asked where those who are nobles practice their weapons, and was sent to the training grounds near the barracks in the Sixth Circle.  I watched mere Guardsmen who handled a sword far better than I ever will, and one boy who with a practice foil could probably disarm me within minutes.  Then some of the nobles came and I watched them--I was amazed.

            “My father would not brook me dallying with the servants within our household or women within the town; but none of the maidens we met when we visited with other noble homes appeared to hold any interest in me.”  He said, with some bitterness, “Now I must suppose this was because they saw my family as the King now does--shallow and interested in lordship only for the benefits to be reaped, and with no interest in seeing or meeting any responsibilities.”

            They’d paused beside a garden bench, and he sank down on it, one hand clutching the seat on either side of his thighs.  “A fine lord I am--insulting the one who came out of his own land to carry the Enemy’s greatest weapon so far and with so little hope of recompense, and then not recognizing the King.”

            “Was he dressed yet in his worn riding leathers?”

            Again he nodded.  “They looked most disreputable.  Master Frodo was most critical of them.”  He started to smile, and in moments they were both grinning, then laughing.  Neither saw the looks given them by Master Samwise or the gardener Dalrod, or the smiles those two shared with the Wizard Gandalf, who had been standing behind the hedge, listening with a degree of satisfaction.

Lord in Question

            “What do you mean he would not confirm me?” demanded Lord Canelmir of his son.

            “The Lord King has made it clear he will not blindly confirm those who have served as lords of the realm merely because they have known such office in their past, Adar,” Ivormil repeated.  “Yes, many lords he has confirmed, but they have fought the Enemy--sent troops to the defense of the capital or fought by him on the wharves of Pelargir, sailed up the river with him, and followed him out onto the Pelennor.  He has the record of service to the realm of each lord as he presents himself read to him, and has requested at least five others so far of similar rank to yourself to come before him with the records of their administration of the lands under their authority that they may prove they are indeed loyal to the realm and offer proper leadership to their folk.”

            “And did you speak with him directly?”

            Ivormil winced.  “Twice--once privately on the day I arrived when he returned to the Citadel; and once the next day, in formal audience.”

            “And he has confirmed only those who personally went out to fight the enemy?”

            “I was told he has confirmed two who did not go out to fight or send their sons out to fight, but these sent sizable forces either to protect the river or to Minas Tirith, and their reasons for not going forth themselves were compelling.  In one case the lord and his family were all ill with heavy fever, and in the other the lord was elderly and infirm, and his heir is his grandson, who has seen but eleven summers.  The fact we sent but six Men to the river was noted unfavorably.”

            “I see.”  Canelmir fingered his elegantly groomed beard.  “And he is indeed from the remnant of the northern kingdom?”

            “Yes, Adar,” Ivormil answered formally.  “He is attended by many of his own kindred, all of whom wear the Star of the North at their shoulder; and he came with Pheriannath, Dwarves, and Elves.  I am told he wears the Elendilmir as often as he does the Wingèd Crown; he has raised the Standard of Elendil over the city, he wears the Elessar stone at his throat, and wields the Sword Reforged.  Plus they say he commanded the Army of the Dead.  None appears in any question as to who he is or his right to claim Crown and throne as Isildur’s heir.  And I am told he is the greatest warrior ever seen.”

            “Then he has little education in the ways of Gondor....”

            “I would not take that on blind faith, my father.  He does have our Lord Prince Steward Faramir and Prince Imrahil and Lord Húrin all three at his side, as well as Master Galador as his Minister of Protocol.  I was told that Galador may have been a commoner and clerk, but none save Lord Faramir knows the intricacies of the nobility of Gondor better than he.”

            That gave Canelmir pause.  Full well did he know the expertise of Galador son of Garenthor, toward whom he felt great distaste on principle.  During his last visit to Minas Tirith a feast had been held, and he had been seated most unfavorably.  When he sought to complain, however, he’d been referred to Master Galador, whose reasons for placing him as had been done were impeccable, as definitely the birth and connections of those whose seats he’d most coveted did indeed place them above him at table.  He’d come away from the interview most disgruntled, and wondering if he ought to have sought to make a gift of some sort to Master Galador--a consideration he dismissed when he learned the last individual to try such an act had ended up being consigned to the foot of the table for the next three feasts.  Nay, in spite of being a commoner Galador had his pride and was respected for his knowledge of the realm by all, including, apparently, this new King.

            “And he came with folk of different races?”

            Ivormil nodded. 

            “Tell me of these Pheriannath.”

            “I am uncertain of what I can say.  As the old stories tell, they are of small stature, somewhat better than half the height of a tall Man.  As they do not produce beards, at first they can be taken for children, until one sees their faces and eyes and realizes these are anything but.  Lord Iorhael is quite solemn and quiet; Lord Perhael at first seems quite common, but has to him a marked dignity and watchfulness.  Both are highly esteemed by our Lord King and all others within the Citadel; and by their own request they are addressed not as ‘Lord’ but as ‘Master’.”

            “I see.  And Lord Iorhael is a noble amongst their folk?”

            Ivormil shrugged in response.  Canelmir thought he detected a reluctance to answer more fully in his son.

            “And you met both Lord Iorhael and Lord Perhael personally?”

            “Yes--I was presented to each as those of highest rank within the Citadel at the time, the King and most of the ranking nobles within the city having ridden out to do a survey of the Rammas Echor.”

            Something in his face indicated to his father that perhaps these interviews hadn’t gone particularly well.

            “And folk of other races came with the King?”

            “Yes, when he came out of the ships of our enemies, I was told that at his side were three Elves and a Dwarf, and behind him a company of his own folk from Arnor.  And Mithrandir was already within the city, for he had come earlier to bring warning of the treachery of Curunír against the Rohirrim, or so I was told; and with him when he came was the one they call the Ernil i Pheriannath.  I am told this one acquitted himself well within the city and later fought before the Black Gate amongst those who went from among the Men of the City.  He wears the black and silver of the Guard of the Citadel and is among those who guard the person of the King himself.  And I saw him with the other Guardsmen working with his sword--he is a competent swordsman.”

            “Elves, Dwarves, Halflings, Men of Arnor, and Mithrandir.”  Canelmir spoke that last name with some distaste--he held no love for the Grey Wizard.  “And all are at the King’s side.”

            “Yes--and now there are more Dwarves and Elves within the city, for they came with word of victory against the forces of the Enemy from their strongholds within Rhovanion, and to show him honor.  It appears they have known him for some years and rejoice he reunites the north and south kingdoms.”

            Canelmir thought on this for some moments.  At last he asked, “When must I appear before the King?”

            “He told me within a month of the day on which I was presented before him in formal audience.  I was made to know you must bring with you the records of your stewardship of Bidwell, and all financial records as well as records of justice offered in the Lord’s name.”  He paused for a moment before adding slowly, “And one thing more--he has stated that all who would serve the kingdom must know the meanings of nobility, honor, humility, and service.  And as the exemplar of those qualities he holds forth the person of Lord Iorhael.”

            The lord of Bidwell felt his eyebrows rise.  “He would have us follow the example of a Halfling?”

            “Indeed, Adar.”

            Something in the way that his son spoke those last two words caught Canelmir’s attention.  He searched the face of his son.  He was seeing a gravity to Ivormil’s expression the youth had never shown before.  Suddenly he realized ... “You honor this one?”

            “Yes, my lord father--I honor Lord Iorhael, or as he prefers to be addressed, Master Frodo.  He continued to bear with me and be polite to me when he had every reason--and right--to tell me to go hang.  And had he not done what he did, we would not be free today.” 

            The finality with which the boy said that was palpable.  Canelmir realized that he’d lost first place in his son’s loyalties, and he felt a flare of anger within himself against this unknown Pherian.

 *******

            He called for Narthord, his cousin, primary clerk and accountant, and one confidant within the city, to come to his side, and disappeared with him into the offices in which the records of the business of the city and his keep were kept.  Certain books of records were taken down, and a new volume was produced into which financial accounts were copied--with some marked amendments.  There was not time to have new clothing made, so he set his chamberlain to gathering his best garments for a hasty journey to the capital.  His personal guard was set to repairing their gear, polishing their mail and weapons, and preparing their horses.  Within seven days they set out from Bidwell for Minas Tirith to present themselves for the inspection of their new King, Narthord continuing to write as he rode inside the coach with his lord cousin, seeking to make the records--presentable.

            Neither paid much attention to Ivormil, who was feeling far happier at the prospect of this rapid return to the Citadel of Minas Tirith than were they.  In his own mind he was finding the memories of the haunting expression in the eyes of the Ringbearer was alternating with the smile given him by a particular maiden and the nobility shown in the features of their new King.  Canelmir had no idea that in the mind of his son he now ranked fourth; and had he realized one of those now above him in Ivormil’s esteem was a chambermaid he would not have understood.

The Accounts of Bidwell

            Three and a half weeks after the departure of his son from Minas Tirith, Lord Canelmir of Bidwell arrived in the Citadel, where he was received by the Seneschal with the news that quarters had been prepared for his party, and that the Lord King would speak with him the on the morrow following his public audience.  Alisië brought a tray of refreshment to their rooms, returning furious; moments later Systerien and Airen were dispatched to assist his servants as they could.

            As she assisted Lord Canelmir’s valet to unpack the trunk of clothes brought and see things properly stowed in chests and wardrobe, Systerien could hear the Lord speaking with his companion.  “I can’t imagine what it was Ivormil might have said to lead to this investigation of my stewardship of Bidwell.  He has never been made privy to the accounts for the city, after all.”

            “Where has the boy gone, Canelmir?” his friend asked.

            “He said he was going down to the practice grounds for the barracks in the Sixth Circle--and this is another interest I’ve not understood, that since his return from the city he has been practicing daily with his sword.  I would never send him out where he faced any need to use such a thing.  Yes, I did see him instructed in the basics of using a sword; but no true gentleman should truly need such skills, as there is no reason any must place himself in harm’s way.”

            Systerien looked over her shoulder at where Airen was remaking the bed, Lord Canelmir having insisted on having his own linens put upon it.  The slighter girl’s shoulders were stiff--her father had not been a swordsman, either, but had been moved to offer his services to the protection of the city during the war, and had fallen when a piece of rubble sent over the walls had swept him from his station.  And certainly yesterday when the two of them had brought refreshment to the lesser audience chamber where the Lord King and Prince Faramir were meeting with messengers from those troupes still stationed in Ithilien there had been discussions of the continuing battles with orcs who’d taken refuge in the Ephel Dúath.  The King wore his sword habitually, and word was that he could--and did--wield it very well indeed, as was true of Prince Faramir and his uncle and cousins.

            “As for this pretender from the northern wilderness...” continued Lord Canelmir.

            “Does he think we do not have ears to hear?” she whispered to the valet.

            “He ever treats us as if we were not there,” the Man murmured in reply, after a swift glance toward the outer chamber where Canelmir and his friend sat over a bottle of wine.

            It was with relief that she drew Airen out of there, once they were finished.  Neither of those at the small table gave them more than a cursory glance as they gave their curtseys and left.  Once the door was shut behind them, Systerien shook herself.  “Can you imagine what it would be like serving the likes of that one every day,” she asked as they headed back up the hallway toward their dayroom.  “And he is the father of young Lord Ivormil?  Oh, I know Sephardion found him a boor; but when he spoke with me he had begun rethinking how he’d behaved and was rightly ashamed of himself.”

            Airen shook herself also, as if relieving her thin shoulders of the weight of oppression.  “I would rather serve here where we are seen as real people offering valuable service, than there where folk are treated as if they were but parts of the lord’s keep,” she agreed.

 *******

            When their period of service was over for the day she and some of the other girls walked down to the barracks complex in the Sixth Circle in order to watch the Guardsmen at their weapons practice.  It was not uncommon for the King himself to come there with others to join in the practice, and Systerien wished to see just how good he was in truth, while many of the other girls hoped to speak with those among the Guard who’d caught their eye.

            “The King himself goes down today,” commented Linnariel, indicating the party that went before them.

            And indeed the King walked before them in the midst of his own people and a few of the party from Rhovanion, all dressed in practice garb.  At his hip hung his sword Anduril, with which he’d defended Minas Tirith and the realm of Gondor; and as he turned to say something to King Bard from Dale she saw he also had a dagger tucked into his belt.  She was amazed at how tall he was compared to the others with him--he had to be the tallest Man she’d ever seen, although there were a few who were nearly as tall amongst his kinsmen.  His shoulders did not seem as broad as had been those of Lord Boromir, she thought, although that was undoubtedly due to his chest not being as broad and powerful as the Captain-General’s had been.

            They had turned northward toward the barracks area and were approaching the entrance to Isil Lane when she saw the party waiting there.  “Well, Lord Strider,” called Master Samwise, “you off to practice, are you now?”

            “Yes,” the King replied.  “Why don’t you and Frodo come with us and watch?  Indeed, it might be helpful for the future if you were to do some practicing of your own.  One never knows what dangers might lie in wait for one, you know.”  He held up one hand to ward off Master Frodo’s objections.  “I’m not suggesting you do so, Frodo, for I’m not certain your stamina is yet sufficient to the exercise; but it wouldn’t do Sam any harm.”

            While the two Hobbits considered the question between them, the Dwarf Gimli looked the Man up and down.  “You’re merely going to practice against swords today?” he grunted.  “What if the next enemy you come against carries a battle axe?”

            There was a bit of a delay as Sam and Gimli went down the lane to the guesthouse where the Fellowship dwelt to retrieve their own weapons, but at last they continued on, the girls from the Citadel excitedly commenting on what they might see.  There were many of the Guardsmen sparring here and there about the practice grounds.  In one corner were what appeared to be two boys sparring, but it was soon obvious these were Captain Peregrin and Sir Meriadoc.  “They are marvelously good,” Alisië murmured in delight, “for all they are so small.”

            One of the weapons masters stood overseeing the match, now and then calling a halt and offering suggestions on stance or turns.  But these two were yet not receiving as much correction and instruction as many of the younger Men, it was to be noticed; and they appeared to handle their practice foils well.  The King came himself to stand by the weapons master’s side, approval clear in his eyes as he watched the sparring.  When at last the halt was called, Sir Meriadoc quickly retreated to the low bench where towels and water sat waiting.  He was wiping his face and pouring out a drink for himself, sinking gladly onto the wood.  “Well,” he sighed, “that’s done it for me for today.  I suppose if there were some orcs still standing I might well find more energy; but as there aren’t, I’m quitting while I still have strength enough to walk back for supper.”

            Captain Peregrin followed him to the bench and poured out a cup of water and downed it.  “Well, I’d like to do a bit more practice myself, once I’ve had a bit of a breather.”  He looked to the weapons master.  “And how did we do?”

            “Well indeed,” the Man told him.  “And, Captain Peregrin, I’d like you to demonstrate that defense you made to the frontal attack to some of our younger and smaller recruits, if you will.  That is a move I’d not seen before, and was most effective.”

            “We worked it out with Boromir,” the Pherian said, his face going a bit solemn, “with suggestions made by Legolas.  There had to be some way we could find to use our shorter stature to our advantage we all thought, and to get within the reach of our opponents.”

            “And Strider helped us work it out, too, didn’t he, Pippin?” added Sir Meriadoc.  “He’s the one who suggested that turn.”

            The small Guardsman nodded.  “That is true.”  He gave a look to Master Samwise.  “You going to give it a go, Sam?”

            “I suppose so, although I’m not certain as what one I’d go against.  You two’s lookin’ rather blowed for the moment.”

            “I’d be honored to practice against you, Lord Perhael,” suggested one of the smaller Men come from Dale.

            Flushing at the title, Sam looked him over.  “All right, I suppose, although I’ll warn you as I’m no great shakes with a sword.”

            He took off the outer garments he wore and donned the padded practice shirt Sir Meriadoc had been wearing.  He then removed his sword from its sheath and stood rather stiffly with it in the beginning position for forms, at which the Lord King laughed.  “Sam--I know you can stand more balanced than that.  Remember, hold it more loosely that you not cause a cramp in your hands.”  He went behind the Pherian and corrected his stance somewhat, then guided him through the first few movements, then stepped back.  “Now, do it again.”

            Master Sam hadn’t the expertise shown by the two Hobbit knights, but still evidenced a grace that was pleasing, and Systerien found several of the girls by her were watching with approval.  She cast a glance at the Ringbearer and that he was watching each move made by his friend with a slight smile on his face.  Sam went through the forms twice more before the King gave his nod of assent for the sparring to begin.  Sam accepted the practice foil given him, and after doing a few moves to test its balance he turned to face the Dalesman.

            What the gardener lacked in expertise he more than made up for with determination and with an excellent feel for what his opponent might well do next.  He was beaten in the end, but not anywhere as easily as most might have expected.

            “Just be glad,” Sir Meriadoc said to the Dalesman from his seat on the bench, “that he didn’t have a skillet in his hands.  Sam Gamgee wielding a skillet is not an adversary easily bested.  I think that in Moria he managed to brain at least two orcs when he’d dropped his sword--although he did manage to kill at least one orc with the sword, too.  Although had we had room to throw anything in that small chamber I suspect all four of us would have shone far more worthily than we did.”

            “That room wasn’t so small,” insisted Captain Peregrin.  “It seemed enormous when we entered it.”

            As Master Samwise managed to undo the last lace of the practice garment and pulled it off he said quietly, “Felt lots smaller, what with it filled with us and who knows how many orcs and then that cave troll, you know.  What was it called again?  Chamber of Mazarbul, was it?  Whoever Mazarbul was, he’d of been amazed to see what was goin’ on in his place that day, I’d think.”  He handed the garment to the small knight, and flushed as Master Frodo rose to help him redon those garments he’d put off earlier.

            “You all proved yourselves that day,” agreed the King.  “Yes, even you, Frodo Baggins,” he added in response to a wordless huff from the Hobbit.  “You were the first to have blooded a sword in that encounter; and if you hadn’t, we wouldn’t have been able to get the door wedged shut long enough to prepare any kind of defense.  And it wasn’t yours to protect us that day--we were there to protect you.”

            “Indeed, my dear Baggins,” said another voice, “I’ve been extraordinarily proud of how you performed that day, and particularly as it was told to me how long you and Sam ran afterwards, both of you injured as you were.”  All swiveled to see Mithrandir now stood behind the onlookers, smiling at Frodo.  “Now, let me see you at least practice your forms--perhaps you might not have the stamina as yet to spar properly, but you can still be ready if necessary to defend yourself and the company on your way home.”

            “If you insist,” Master Frodo said.  “Here, Sam, let me straighten the collar of your jacket.  There.  Rosie would be impressed, I think.”

            Again Master Samwise flushed--this time with pleasure, as he helped Master Frodo prepare to do his own practice.  Once the outer two garments were removed, Master Frodo looked to him in question.  He held out the hilts of his sword, and Master Frodo unsheathed it easily before stepping into the cleared space.  He took an opening stance, and the King began calling positions, watching as the Pherian moved from one to the next.  If Master Samwise was surprisingly graceful, Master Frodo was wondrously so, and all were now standing, barely breathing, to watch the beauty of the Hobbit’s movements--until he stopped, his face suddenly going white as he let the sword fall to his left, gripping at his left shoulder with his right hand.  Master Samwise quickly retrieved his blade as the King now knelt, setting his own hands over that clutching at the shoulder.

            “Ah, small brother,” the King murmured.  “Here--I have it.  Now....”

            They could see the return of color to the Hobbit’s cheeks as the apparent spasm eased.  “I’m sorry, Aragorn,” he began, but the King cut him off with a shake to his head.

            “We already know what hurt you took there, Frodo.  No, do not apologize for what cannot be helped.  You are so graceful with a sword, is all.  It’s a shame to see you forced to stop.”

            “It’s like a dance for him, the forms are,” Captain Peregrin said.  “I’ll tell you again, he’s one of the best dancers you’ve ever seen.”

            “While I’m next to hopeless when having to actually put a sword to use,” Frodo said.  “That is better, Aragorn.  Thank you.”

            Now it was the King’s turn as he unsheathed Anduril and moved into the cleared space himself to practice first his forms, and finally to face the dwarf, who held his battle-axe at the ready.  If the Ringbearer made the movement of self with sword into a dance, the King made it so even more so, a deadly dance of blade and eye.  In the end he managed to bring the flat of the blade against the Dwarf’s wrist, and the axe fell from his grip as he found himself clutching at the stung place.

            But the Dwarf was smiling at the Man as he accepted the axe from the weapons master, who’d swiftly stooped to catch it up.  “Excellently done, Aragorn.  You’ll stand up well to any who comes against you with a Dwarf’s axe, I’ll be bound.”

            The King checked his blade and sheathed his sword, moving back to allow the next pair to enter the cleared space.  King Bard and one of the Dúnedain both gave some time to the practicing of forms, and at last they turned to sparring, the match ending in a draw when at last the weapons master called time.  Then Sir Peregrin called, “What say you, Aragorn--you with your dagger against me?”

            “Cocky Hobbit--you think you are up to it?” the King asked.  “All right--if you think you can do it.”

            Again all watched as tall Man and Hobbit Guardsman prepared themselves.  The match didn’t last particularly long, but it was plain to all that the Hobbit had still managed to truly challenge the Man.  All other matches had finished, and now all were standing where they could to see the King and the Hobbit spar.  Now and then the Hobbit managed to make it within the Man’s reach, and although the King managed to shift his defense appropriately he still had a nick to his arm to show for it once he’d managed to disarm Captain Peregrin, who was now standing, sucking on a skinned knuckle while the weapons master knelt to fetch back the Hobbit’s sword.

            Systerien now caught sight of one other who’s stood watching the sparring, and realized young Lord Ivormil had been there the whole time.  She smiled as his gaze met hers, and caught his surprised smile in return.  She felt more light-hearted as she turned to watch the next matched pair ready themselves to spar.

 *******

            The next day Systerien slipped out to the gallery to watch the morning’s audience, and witnessed the presentation of Lord Canelmir before the King.  She wished she could be closer to see the expression on the faces of each, but there was no question that the Lord King Elessar was not particularly impressed when the Lord of Bidwell stood before him, protesting his allegiance.

            “You offer me honor as King of Gondor, although you failed to come out upon the field of battle yourself to fight against the forces of the Enemy?  How is it that I know you honor me as King when you could not honor the realm in which you live enough to seek to protect it?”

            “But, my Lord King,” protested Canelmir, “should it not be that there remain lords of the realm to help take up the reins of government at the end of the battle?  How many are there that died in this dread war--our own beloved Forlong, Lord of Lossarnach; Derufin and Duilin; Hirluin the Fair, Théoden of Rohan, and so many others....”  His voice trailed off uncertainly.

            Even from the distance of the servants’ gallery Systerien could tell that the King’s expression had grown stony.  “And how many lived?  The Lord Steward Denethor is dead, as is his older son, Captain-General Boromir the Bold; but the realm has a new Steward in the person of Prince Faramir, who as Captain of the defensive forces of Gondor was wounded and yet has recovered to continue to serve this nation.  Prince Imrahil and his two older sons who fought by his side survived.  Forlong’s son has been confirmed in his father’s place, and continues his father’s policies that have so long brought prosperity to your province--he fought in the battles.

            “And I have in my long life fought in many battles in many lands.  Indeed, I fought by the sides of Théoden King and his successor, his nephew Éomer, at the Battle of Helm’s Deep; and we met again on the battlefield here before the White City where we at last prevailed.  And many of us went forth to fight before the Black Gate and returned again.  Does it appear that the realms of Gondor and Arnor or Rohan are lacking in leadership, or that all who went forth to face those who would wrest all we have from us, and especially our freedoms, died?”

            No one could discern the words of Canelmir.

            After a time the King spoke again.  “I am the heir of Isildur.  He, his father, his brother, and his three elder sons went forth to fight against Sauron the Accursed three thousand years ago.  They saw their possible deaths in battle an acceptable sacrifice that the rest of the world might live free of the Shadow.  I have fought the Enemy and his creatures with sword and policy since I was first judged fit to ride forth at the side of the sons of Elrond, when I was fifteen years of age.  I have served great lords and have been served by great lords as I was prepared for the day when the final battle might come.  I have offered myself ever that others might live, as did Théoden King, who lies now in the Hallows until his folk come to carry his body back to Rohan to burial, and as did the Ringbearer, who armed with his own folk’s dogged determination and ability to hide himself, came with two others to the Sammath Naur to see the Ring destroyed.  He and his companions also offered themselves as possible sacrifices for the rest of Middle Earth, as did we who went to the Black Gate to draw Sauron’s armies there that the Ringbearer might know a clearer road to his goal.  And most of us have been spared for this time.  Nay, sir, I find your excuses unbefitting a lord of this realm.

            “Now, sir, have you brought with you the records requested demonstrating your stewardship of Bidwell?”

            “Yes, my lord.”  Canelmir’s voice sounded stiff with wariness.

            “Have them brought to the lesser audience chamber behind this one, and I will meet with you there in an hour’s time.  Master Balstador will show you the way.  Captain Peregrin, will you stand by Lord Canelmir and Master Balstador in this?”

            “Yes, my Lord Elessar,” said the Pherian Guardsman, who stepped out from beside the steps to the throne and bowed deeply to the King before moving to Canelmir’s side as Balstador came from his place behind the dais.  As Systerien slipped out of the gallery to return to her duties she felt a strong sense of justice being served.

 *******

            Ivormil had come to the audience with his father, although he had stopped short, allowing his father to come before the throne of Gondor alone.  When the Seneschal and Captain Peregrin stepped forth to accompany his father to the lesser audience chamber, he followed behind.  He knew his father so far had done even worse than he had on his previous visit, and he realized he was feeling both sorry for him at the same time he felt a perverse pleasure in the discomfiture of the Man.  That he was being allowed to follow his father, the Seneschal, and the small Guardsman was, he was certain, due to some signal Master Balstador was giving to those guards he passed.  Master Balstador led them along the hallway off of which the residential wings opened, but turned left down a short passage and into a room fitted with a number of chairs and sofas, some quite low, as if intended for children.  There were low tables in the seating area; but on one side the room there was a higher table set with candlestands, and by it a number of wooden side chairs.  A further archway screened by drapes opened into a smaller room with a pair of sofas and a comfortable chair.

            Master Balstador said formally, “This is the lesser audience chamber.  Our Lord Elessar will be with you after he has finished with the public audience and known time to change his garb.  Lord Canelmir, if you will await him here?  And Lord Ivormil, if you will please summon your father’s clerk with the records that have been brought with you?  I will have one of the servants of the Citadel bring refreshment sufficient for three, then.  Would you prefer a light wine or an herbal drink, my Lord?  Although I will advise you that we have an apple cider that is particularly fine at this time.  No?  The wine then.  My lords.”  And with a low bow he saw himself out.

            “Adar, shall I go and fetch Narthord, then?”

            His father’s voice shook with anger born of anxiety.  “Isn’t that what you were instructed to do by--by that--servant?  Go, then!”

            By the time Ivormil and Narthord returned his father was in as fine a state of nerves as he’d ever seen, pacing restlessly, picking at his sleeve, and gnawing at his lower lip.  Captain Peregrin stood just inside the door, still but watchful, as he and the clerk set the books they carried upon the table.  As they worked there was a knock, and at Canelmir’s call the maid Ivormil had met in the gardens on his first visit entered, carrying a tray.  Seeing the three busy at the taller table, she asked, “My lords, shall I place this by you or on one of the tables near the sofas?”

            “There!” Canelmir waved blindly at the lower tables.  “Why did you bring this one?” he asked Narthord in a hiss.  “It ought to have been left in our coach!”

            “I was hurried!  I must have picked it up with the others!”

            Ivormil was shocked to hear his father and Narthord discussing this before a servant and guard they didn’t know, but then realized that this was what they did there in Bidwell at all times.  How much was there that the servants knew, he found himself wondering, that could destroy the family name if it were ever to be spoken to outsiders?  He cast a glance at Systerien over his shoulder and noted that she had her lips pursed as if she were considering thoughts she knew better than to speak aloud.  He remembered the discussion he had known with the King’s kinsman, Lord Hardorn, as he had been preparing to leave the Citadel a few weeks previous.

            “Those who serve in this house are not slaves, but those employed to do what we either choose not to do or do not have time to do for ourselves,” the Man had told him.  “They are paid well, for they each add a great deal to the peace and comfort of all who enter the Citadel; and they pride themselves on how well they care for residents and guests.  Each servant in this house is to be treated with courtesy and respect, from the least boot boy to the Seneschal and Housekeeper, for we are dependent on them.  Do you understand?”

            “Master Frodo said much the same of the service offered him by Master Samwise.”

            “It is not for naught that he was named ‘Wise One,’ Lord Ivormil.”

            He remembered the familiarity and mutual respect he’d seen between the two Pheriannath, and contrasted that with how he’d always treated his body servant.  It did not present a good picture of himself.

            Captain Peregrin straightened as if listening to something outside the room--there is no way, Ivormil thought, that he could have missed the fact my father is unhappy regarding the presence of one of the record books brought.  It was yet a moment before Ivormil heard voices approaching the room.  The expression on the Pherian’s face as he gave a glance at the two Men at the table indicated to Ivormil that he recognized those approaching and was perfectly pleased with the idea of them entering the room, perhaps leading to an unpleasant encounter.  A quick glance at the young maid showed she, too, had heard the approaching voices, and that she was recognizing them.

            “Well, I think it’s a splendid idea.”

            “Of course you would--as long as you see me out of the house....”

            “Well, he’s right--you need a good bit o’ sun, you know. You’re far too pale, what with sittin’ for hours over old record books.  That office of the Captain’s leaves you shiverin’, for all it’s almost June now.  There was a reason, after all, Lord Strider left the roof off the tent where we slept there in Ithilien.”

            The voices were closer, just outside the door.  “Well, if you say so,” said the second voice as the door opened inwards, and the other three Pheriannath paused in the doorway, frozen into stillness as they examined the current occupants of the lesser audience room.

            The maid had gone into a deep curtsey.  “Small masters,” she said.

            Lord Frodo, who was in the lead, gave her a nod of recognition.  “Mistress Systerien.  I see that the room is in use.  We will go out to the gardens, then, for when you are done here.  Thank you.  And have you any idea when Lord Aragorn might be free?”

            “Not for a time, I fear,” she said, with a nod of her head indicating the two Men at the table.

            “I see.”  The dark-haired Pherian gave another nod.  “Lord Ivormil--I see you have returned.  And your father has come with you?”

            “Yes.  Master Frodo, Master Samwise, Sir Meriadoc--my father, Canelmir, Lord of Bidwell; and our kinsman Narthord, who serves as my father’s clerk.  Adar, Lords Iorhael and Perhael from the land of the Shire in the north kingdom; and Sir Meriadoc, who is esquire to King Éomer of Rohan.”

            “My Lord Canelmir, Master Narthord,” Lord Frodo said formally with a brief bow.  “I am Frodo Baggins of the Shire, at your service.  My cousin Meriadoc Brandybuck, my friend Samwise Gamgee, and I see you are already acquainted with my younger cousin Peregrin Took.”  He gave a nod toward Captain Peregrin as his companions gave their own bows.  “Well, we will withdraw----”

            He stopped, and all four of the Pheriannath turned slightly, listening, their expressions lightening markedly.  Ivormil caught Sir Meriadoc giving his father a considering sidelong glance before turning more fully toward the hallway by which they’d entered, stepping into the audience chamber and slightly to one side. 

            A moment later the King could be seen approaching the entrance to the room, accompanied by what was plainly his own clerk, a decidedly competent looking individual.  He paused just outside the door, examining the three Pheriannath who stood obviously waiting for him inside the room.  He showed a half-smile, then gave a respectful inclination of his head toward the three Halflings.  “My beloved Lord Iorhael--Lord Perhael, Sir Meriadoc,” he said in greeting.

            Ivormil could see the change of expression on the face of Lord Frodo, the brief look of calculation.  “Oh, I see.”  He gave a deep and particularly graceful yet almost impersonal bow, which his two companions immediately mirrored.  “Our Lord Elessar,” he said most formally, “I trust that the morning’s audiences went well.”

            “As well as one could expect, I suppose,” the King said.  “Did you come here seeking me?” he asked.

            “No, my Lord King.  We’d thought to rest a bit and take some refreshment was all, but have decided, as the chamber is already occupied, to take our ease in the gardens instead, if, of course, that meets with your approval.”

            “That is to the good, then.”  He looked about the room and noted the one who’d joined Lord Canelmir, then the maid who was curtseying nearby, waiting as patiently as she might for those near the doorway to settle in their heads what they would do so she could be about the rest of her duties.  “Mistress Systerien, would you please ask that Iorvas bring my tray here before you return to your regular service?”

            “Most gladly, Lord Elessar,” she said respectfully, raising her eyes to meet his.

            The King gestured for his companion to follow him into the room, stepping to the other side of the doorway.  “Then I will look forward to seeing you later in the afternoon,” he said to Lord Frodo.  Again the three Halflings gave bows, less deep this time, and filed out with murmured comments Ivormil couldn’t make out, the King watching after them, then giving the maid a nod of dismissal at which time she followed after the Hobbits.

            “I see I’ve put his back up,” the youth heard the King say softly to himself as he looked down the hallway, and saw the sardonic smile and brief shake to his head.  “Stubborn Baggins,” he continued before he turned and fixed his attention on Ivormil’s father.  “Lord Canelmir, my clerk Trevion of the city.  Now, if you will introduce your companion?”  He gave a brief glance toward Captain Peregrin and a nod toward the door, at which time the small Guardsman gave a bow and withdrew, closing the door after him. 

            Lord Canelmir was beginning to make his introduction of Narthord when there was a brief knock, and the door was opened to admit the Lord Prince Steward and his own clerk, followed by a manservant carrying a large tray of further refreshments.  Ivormil noted the paling of his father’s face, and realized with a feeling of amusement that his father no longer was certain the records he was producing would be well accepted.  Faramir son of Denethor did have a reputation of being--thorough, after all.

            Ivormil of Bidwell, at a nod from the King, took up one of the goblets the maid Systerien had brought, sat himself on a chair in the corner, and set himself to seeing how the situation would play out.

            *******

            “You have no idea what became of the rents for this property here?” asked Faramir, his voice apparently mild and interested only for academic reasons; but Ivormil had begun to realize that their Lord Prince Steward rarely asked any question that had no point.  The sweat on his father’s upper lip and the blanching of Narthord’s cheek told its own tale.  “I ask,” the Steward continued, “because that particular property was granted, I learned not all that long ago, to the Lady Fíriel on the occasion of her marriage to the heir of the King of Arnor, who in his time became King of Arnor on the occasion of his father’s death.  Being part of the dower lands granted to the last Queen of Arnor, it passed in its turn to the line of the heirs of Isildur, the most recent of whom has been identified.”

            Ivormil suddenly straightened as the meaning of that last statement hit home.  The King had been sitting back, watching and listening as Lord Faramir had carefully led the questioning of Canelmir and Narthord.  There was no notable change in the King’s posture or expression to show he had any more interest in this particular property than in any of the others so far examined.

            Faramir continued, “The current heir to the line of Isildur, in his turn, wished to give that property to one who served the needs of both Gondor and Arnor well, to serve to the maintenance of this one and his heirs and dependents.  However, in examining the records of those who have collected the rents for transference to the account set up in the year 1940, it was noted that as of twenty-seven years ago, three years after you followed your father as Lord of Bidwell, when the agent employed to gather the rents due to that account came to do so, he was told that the rents had already been gathered by your agent, Master Narthord here, at the same time the rents for your own surrounding properties were gathered, and he was shown the receipt for this gathering.  When you and Master Narthord were approached about this situation, he was told that you had been unaware said property belonged to another, and that you would forward the gathered rents to the bankers within this city that were charged with guarding the monies accrued to the actual holder of title to the property.  Indeed money was sent as directed by the title-holder’s agent, but the sum was less than had been sent the preceding year.  The letter of explanation indicated that there had been drought in your region, and that for relief of those who dwelt on the property, as you believed the property had come to you at the death of your brother the preceding year, you had granted the tenants a lesser rent that they not be unduly oppressed by the sums originally required.

            “The agent was sent again to the property to take a copy of the receipt given the tenants for monies paid, and it was found that in fact, your agent Narthord here had told the tenants that the property had passed on the death of his brother into the hands of the current lord of Bidwell, and that you were raising the rents, leaving them to pay an increased rather than a decreased sum to you.  As the sum you sent to the bankers here in Minas Tirith was roughly half the sum collected from the tenants, it appears that you still managed to make a profit on the transaction.  But each time the property-owner’s agent arrived to collect the rents, it would be told him that you had already collected it for him.  He would take a copy of the receipt given the tenant and would forward it to the bankers here within the city; always an amount would have been forwarded by you, but a lesser amount than that originally collected.

            “As the bankers within the city had no means of easily contacting the holder of the account, they left the matter unresolved--until April, when I received from the current account holder the token necessary to access the records of this account that I might have the accounts property audited for him.  Nine years ago the full rents required by the original grants to tenants began being paid to the bankers here within the city by you; the actual agent assigned to the account, however, continued to visit the tenants to take copies of the receipts for rents paid, which the tenants complained were onerous.  The receipts, which had been received but merely filed for the past fourteen years, were now checked against the records of monies actually received from you.  It appears that you have been consistently taking half of the monies and goods used to pay the rents for your own use and benefit every year for the past twenty-seven years.”

            The Steward paused and signaled to the King, who nodded, turned, and poured him a goblet of wine and passed it to him.  Ivormil, looking at his father and kinsman, saw the two using the distraction to exchange looks of anxiety and confusion.  His father was giving Narthord a small shake of the head when all realized that the Steward’s eyes were on the both of them as he held out his hand to receive the goblet the King was pressing into his fingers, a stern look on his face.  He took a sip from the goblet without taking his eyes from theirs, and set it down before him on the table.  “Give the record book of rents received to my clerk, please; and, Master Trevion, if you will open the journal provided you of the rents for this property?  Very good.  Now, Dendril, if you will begin searching for the records for the estate of....”

            The record of rents received proved to go back merely five years; when asked why Canelmir had failed to bring the full records of his stewardship, it was pointed out, very reasonably, that such would have required the use of a wain just for the records, as much could and had occurred within the lands administered by the lord of Bidwell in twenty-seven years.

            “I see,” Lord Faramir said.  “Well, in truth we had thought that this might indeed prove the case as well, so a few weeks back my own agent within your region of Lossarnach was advised that he should approach your keep and arrange for the transference of all records here.  However, it appears that he arrived on the afternoon of the day on which you left.  As he held a royal warrant for all records, however, your seneschal gave him free access to your records room, and assisted in the retrieval of a few books kept separately within storerooms in the cellars area.”

            Ivormil realized his father’s face had lost all color, while Narthord’s face was actually grey, and he was experiencing problems breathing.  Meanwhile he realized the King’s own attention was fixed on himself.

            “You had no idea, then?” the Lord Elessar asked him.

            “No, sir,” admitted Ivormil.  He looked back toward Narthord, concerned.  “Please, sir,” he said, looking back toward the King, “my kinsman....”

            The King looked to Canelmir’s clerk, then straightened.  He called, “Captain Peregrin!”

            The door opened, and the small Guardsman looked in.  “My lord?” he asked.

            “Pippin--go to my chambers and fetch my Healer’s bag, and then send for Master Eldamir.  He’s been here in the Citadel checking on the condition of Mistress Lindehir in the wardrobes, whose confinement is to come soon and who has been knowing some difficulties.  If he is not with her, he should be in the dining hall, for I’d left directions he was to be given a noon meal before he returned to the Houses of Healing.”

            “Yes, Aragorn--I’ll be right back, then.”  As the door closed behind the Pherian, Ivormil could hear him apparently calling directions to a page.  “...Master Eldamir...wardrobes...dining hall--bring him here to the King’s assistance.”  Within moments a Man in the robes of a healer was entering the room and coming to the King’s side as he leaned over Narthord, who’d been carried between the King and his clerk to one of the sofas and laid there.  When the door opened again, it was the Pherian guard with a red satchel in his arms.  “Your healer’s satchel, Strider.”

            “Set it there.”  The King indicated the low table by him.

            “They ought to be fetching in some hot water in a moment.  Seizure of the heart?”

            “An attack of panic, but approaching the point of precipitating such a thing.”

            “I see.  My relief has come.  Shall I send Merry in to help go through the books?”

            Again the King straightened.  “Merry has training as a clerk?”

            “Well, he’s been helping go through the accounts of Uncle Sara’s tenants for about five years now, and he’s good at spotting when accounts have been--adjusted.  At least Uncle Saradoc says so.  They don’t use a different numbering system here, though, do they?  I mean, he’s always used the numbers we’re used to in the Shire, although they appeared to be the same they used in Bree and Rivendell, the glances I had----”

            “Yes, Pippin,” the King interrupted.  “And if Merry’s as good as you say, I’m certain he’ll do very well indeed at aiding us.”

            “Master Frodo could also be useful,” Lord Faramir pointed out.  “He is very good at spotting specific text within documents and records, I’ve found; and he and Master Samwise both read Sindarin.”

            “Then I’ll set Sam and Merry to work checking accounts alongside your clerk, Sam to read and Merry to check figures; and Frodo to working alongside Trevion here at going through the journals and records of judgments given.  Perhaps the two of them should work in the area behind the screen at the end of the hallway, though.  No criticism of your office intended, Faramir, but he’s in desperate need of more warmth and light than that room provides.”

            “I understand, my liege, and agree.  So be it then.  Most of the records are there in the next room, stacked against the near wall.  As soon as Sir Meriadoc and Lord Samwise arrive, shall we begin?”

            “Very good.  Pippin, you know they were going out to the gardens.  Please convey my apologies, but explain that if they agree we could do with their assistance.  And as some of the properties in question have been made over to Sam, I would think he and Frodo would both like to see the accounts properly reconciled.”

            *******

            Once free of the lesser audience chamber, Systerien hurried to the kitchens to carry the request for refreshment for the Cormacolindor and Sir Meriadoc, and then bore the resulting tray out to the gardens where she found the three of them near the greater rose arbor, Master Samwise in consultation with two of the gardeners regarding a rose bush he’d been keeping an eye on.  “It is doing far better now, Master Samwise,” Dalrod was saying as she approached.  “The last three weeks it is as if it had taken heart once more, and now it’s opening up to the clearer skies and cleaner air.”

            “That it is,” Sam was agreeing, caressing an opening bud with one finger, a look of fondness in his eyes.  “It’s provin’ right game, it is, and no mistake.”  He looked up and caught the maid’s eyes, inviting her to share the joy of a flowering bush that had indeed chosen to bloom rather than to succumb to blight.

            Systerien approached and held out the tray to him so he could accept one of the steins of ale, and she examined the buds with pleasure.  “I think the color is more vibrant than in past years, if you understand what I would say,” she said thoughtfully.

            Dalrod nodded, giving her a smile.  “That is true, Mistress Systerien,” he agreed.  He shook his head at an offer for refreshment for himself and his fellow.  “We will be going soon in for our noon meal, and require nothing further at the moment.  Masters, if you will excuse us, we yet have some work to do before we do that.”

            As Systerien and Master Sam approached Sir Merry and Master Frodo on the bench, she saw that they were examining a book between them.  “Yes,” Frodo was saying, “I found it in the archives yesterday--a text by Thengel, King Théoden’s father, on how to pronounce words properly in Rohirric.  Although some of these words look to be as odd as Khuzdul.  One seems to do a lot of sounds rather back far in the throat.  I suspect I’d get quite hoarse after a time of speaking it, you know.”

            “I wonder if he wrote this for Lord Denethor to learn Rohirric?” Merry mused.

            “More likely for his father, I’d think,” Frodo said.  “According to the archivist part of the reason King Théoden and those of his immediate household speak such excellent Westron and Sindarin is because Thengel married a Gondorian noblewoman, who was known in Rohan as Morwen Steelsheen.  I suspect that if she was of strong Dúnedain heritage she would have had grey eyes much as Aragorn and his kinsman, Prince Imrahil and his children, Boromir and Lord Faramir have.  I wonder if they called her that due to her eyes?”

            “More likely she was a strong-willed lady, much like her granddaughter Éowyn,” Merry said, shrugging slightly.  “The Rohirrim appear to have a great deal of respect for folk who have strong will to the good, you know.  Part of the reason they respect you and Sam so, you must realize.”

            Systerien was shocked to see the difference in Master Frodo.  “The more fools they,” he said, darkly, all his brightness fled in an instant.

            Merry and Sam traded looks of frustration, as if this was already a familiar change for them to see.  “Do you think, Frodo Baggins,” Sir Meriadoc said in a stiff voice, “that just getting to the Mountain wasn’t enough?  And didn’t that take a far greater act of will than had been seen in Middle Earth in thousands of years?  And wasn’t that due to your will for the good?  The rest of it was It at work, and you know it.  Just how many times do you have to be told?”

            “Ten thousand times don’t seem to be enough, Mr. Merry,” sniffed Lord Samwise.  “Tell you what, Master, you drink down the water as Mistress Systerien’s just brought you, and we’ll let the subject go.”

            His eyes would not waver under the look Lord Iorhael leveled at him, simply going as stubborn as those of the dark-haired Hobbit.  Finally with a sigh, Sir Merry pulled the book from his kinsman’s hands, nodding at the sturdier Hobbit, who gave merely a flicker of his eyes and a nod to Systerien before returning his gaze to his friend.  Hastily the maid poured a goblet of water and handed it to Sam, whose attention was still fixed on the face of his Master.  Sam now held the goblet out to Frodo.  “Here, drink this, and let that be an end to it.”

            At last Master Frodo dropped his eyes, giving a slight shrug to his shoulders.  He accepted the goblet and drank, deliberately pacing himself.

            After half the water was gone, Sam now held out the plate of cheese slices and flat crackers, Frodo finally taking one of each and again eating slowly.  It quickly became obvious that he was hungrier than he’d thought, and he was soon taking more as Master Sam and Sir Merry compared the gardens here with ones they’d known in their homeland.  Gradually the tension she’d noted drained out of him, as he relaxed against the back of the bench and closed his eyes, a smile finally beginning to make itself seen, although she thought he might be suffering some from a headache.

            “You have gardens there where you was born’n’ raised, there by the seaside, Mistress Systerien?” Master Samwise asked her.

            “Some, although nothing like here, or what I understand you know in your own land,” she admitted.  A time she remained with them until the tolling of a bell recalled her to her other responsibilities.  “I am sorry--I must return to the Citadel now.  Master Frodo, if you’d like to go in and rest for a time----”

            “I could carry the tray within if’n it comes to that,” Sam assured her.  “Carryin’ trays is something as all Hobbits learn to do, after all.  Get on with you now, for we don’t want for you to come to no trouble on our accounts.”

            With the assurance of the other two that this was so, Systerien gave them her curtsey and headed back to her service.  She was singing softly to herself as she went a song she’d heard Master Samwise singing as he worked alongside the gardeners who were preparing the King’s herb garden, and she didn’t notice the attention this drew to her as she passed other servants and guards.

            Master Balstador, who’d stopped to exchange a word with Mistress Gilmoreth, smiled as she went by.  “She’s a much nicer person to be around since she began attending on the Hobbits,” he commented.

            Mistress Gilmoreth nodded.  “That she is--not nearly as prideful, nor as much looking toward her own advantage at the expense of others.”

On Lordship and Responsibility

            Later in the afternoon Systerien passed Master Frodo sitting beside Master Trevion in the new seating area the King had ordered arranged at the north end of the hallway off of which the residential wings opened, going over record books together.  She recognized Lord Canelmir of Bidwell’s crest upon them, and realized the King must have recruited the Pherian to assist those who were investigating the errant lord’s doings.  She then was sent to carry a tray of food to the lesser audience chamber where she found Sir Meriadoc and Master Samwise leaning together over one set of books while Lord Faramir and his clerk, attended by a scribe, sat over another.  After the break lasting two marks granted to most among whom she worked, as she headed toward the servants’ dining hall she saw that the King’s guard now stood outside the lesser audience chamber, indicating he, too, was likely involved in the examination of the state of affairs in Bidwell.

            Most of the visiting lords within the precincts of the Citadel ate the evening meal in the main dining hall, as that was where the King usually himself ate his main meals.  But this evening, as soon as they finished their evening meal, she and Airen were sent immediately to the kitchens to fetch trays to the chambers given to the use of the folk of Bidwell.  Systerien saw that the jaw of the younger girl was somewhat set, but she made her curtsey to Mistress Gilmoreth, saying, “Yes, Mistress,” readily enough.

            Mistress Gilmoreth put out a hand to stay them before they could leave the dayroom.  “Wait,” she said.  “Has Lord Canelmir said aught to make you uncomfortable or to offend against you?”

            Airen looked quickly to Systerien, then back to the housekeeper, started to shake her head, then thought better of it.  “It is not so much, Mistress, that he sought to offend me--or either of us, when he arrived yesterday.  However, he and his companion spoke freely to one another of their disdain for the needs of the kingdom and those who felt compelled to serve it as if we were not there.  He could not understand why his son now felt it necessary to practice with his sword, saying it was not incumbent upon gentlemen to put themselves into any danger.  And all I could see was--was my father’s face as he bade me goodbye, telling me he hoped to live through the siege of the city, but that he could not allow Gondor to go without his aid in protecting her capital.  He knew he might die, and he was no soldier but was instead one who saw to the repair of the streets of the city.  Yet he freely sacrificed himself that the city and realm might stand, while this one....”  Her voice trailed off, doing her best to control the tears that were managing to escape.

            When Gilmoreth looked at Systerien for confirmation, the older girl murmured, “So it was indeed, Mistress.  And he named the King a pretender from the north.”

            “I see.”  The woman looked between the two of them, pinching the bridge of her nose as she thought.  At last she asked Airen, “Would you prefer I send another in your place, child?  Alisië, perhaps?”

            “Oh, but Alisië came back from their rooms yesterday when they arrived barely controlling her anger.  We know not what was said to her--or before her--but she was most distressed.  But give me a moment, Mistress, and time but to wash my face, and I will be able to face him bravely.”

            Systerien noted the gentle smile of affection the housekeeper gave her companion.  Once she would have begrudged such obvious preference for one younger than she; but now she herself had become rather protective of the slighter girl, and found herself approving of Mistress Gilmoreth’s expressed caring.  The woman said, “You are one of whom I am proud--I must say that this is true of both of you, in fact.  Yes, go and wash your face, Airen, and if you are indeed willing to show him far greater honor than he deserves or realizes, there is the more for you in the end.  Their trays ought to be ready when you arrive in the kitchens.  I will tell you this--the party from Bidwell does not eat in the chambers given them by choice this time.  Rather, the King himself wishes to spare himself and his companions from their company--they have failed to make themselves welcome to the King’s presence, save perhaps young Lord Ivormil, whose behavior has been most respectful during this visit.”

            “He has never been less than respectful toward me,” Systerien heard herself volunteer.

            “Is that so?  Then I will bear the report of it to the King.  Go on with the two of you.”

            A Guardsman stood outside the door to the chambers granted Lord Canelmir and his party, and on recognizing their errand gave a single rap to the door, then opened it for them to enter.  Lord Canelmir was seated at the table, toying with his wineglass, while his son turned from where he stood by the window where he’d been looking out into the gardens.  “We have brought your trays,” Systerien said as she and Airen curtseyed together.  They then set the food and drink they’d brought upon the table, Systerien carefully setting a plate and eating ware and goblet before Canelmir himself as Airen set out two other places for his son and clerk.  Once the bowls of food and carafes of drink had been set in place, she said, “We must go now that others also are served.  My lords.”  Again the two of them curtseyed.

            “Thank you, young mistresses,” she heard, and the two of them realized that Lord Ivormil was expressing the thanks his father would not think to utter.  She saw the automatic smile given him by Airen, and together they expressed their own courtesies and withdrew.

            Once they were safely out of hearing of others, Airen murmured to her, “How that toad of a Man could father a son so polite by comparison....”

            Systerien nodded her agreement, and the two of them went back to the dayroom to learn where they next might be required.

 *******

            Late the next afternoon, during her period of free time, Systerien chanced upon young Lord Ivormil in the gardens, where he was speaking with Nestrion, one of the young Men who served the Citadel much as Systerien did.  Today the service to the folk from Bidwell had been given to these instead of the maids who usually saw to the visitors to the Citadel.  Nestrion was smiling as he gave Ivormil a bow and took his leave, and Systerien saw the young lord watching after him with regret at his departure.  Then he turned and saw her approaching, and smiled in pleasure.  “Mistress--Systerien?”  At her nod he looked relieved.  “Then I remembered it aright.  That is good, I think.”

            “Yes, my lord, very good.  I am glad to see you out here within the gardens.”

            “Yes--I’m allowed some freedom, at least this afternoon.  Although there is a Guardsman assigned me.”  He nodded to where a black-clad figure stood discretely not far away.  “I like to pretend he’s there to keep me from being importuned rather than to merely see to it I don’t seek to flee.”

            “And what would you seek to flee?  I do not see you as a coward, Lord Ivormil.”

            He looked very surprised--and grateful, she realized.  “You don’t?  I am most relieved.  Not that I’ve ever had chance to be tested as has been true of those who’ve fought alongside the King, or walked secretly into Mordor to the salvation of all,” he added.  He looked over at the portion of the Citadel where sat the hallway off which the living wings opened.  “Lord Iorhael has been sitting there, I’m told, going through some of the records of Bidwell alongside the King’s own clerk and another.  He must be totally disgusted with those of us from my father’s household.”

            “He left a time ago.  He cannot bear to remain too long at a single task, I fear.  He was badly hurt by his ordeal, although he seeks to hide that fact from all.”

            “I’m sorry my father has been so rude.  But I fear he’s always been that way, and so he saw me raised as well.  I’m trying my best to do better by those who serve me.  I think, however, I will in time dismiss my valet and employ another.  Bendred appears to see my attempts at courtesy as unmanly.  Perhaps it is not only myself and Cousin Narthord that my father has tainted.”

            She felt herself smile, and saw his expression lightening in response.

 *******

            Five days later word came that Lord Canelmir would be brought before the King on the morrow in public audience, and that Lord Ivormil had been granted separate chambers from those given his father.  Nestrion commented to those sitting near himself in the servants’ hall, “Lord Ivormil has so far not been found to be complicit with his father’s wrongdoing.  But I have a strong impression that Lord Canelmir will not remain a lord of the realm much longer.  He cannot appear to keep his own counsel before servants, it seems, and many of his own keep have arrived to offer witness against him.”

            The next morning Systerien, Airen, and Alisië were called apart as the other girls from their dormitory headed for breakfast, and were brought to Lord Hardorn’s office.  There was a small table set, and the young Men who served in this portion of the Citadel had just placed upon it food sufficient for six.  Lord Hardorn himself stood near his desk where he was speaking with Mistress Gilmoreth as they arrived, and now he looked to the new arrivals, and nodded.  “Yes, I agree that this is best, Mistress,” he said.  “If you will see it done.  Thank you again, Mistress Gilmoreth.”  She smiled as she curtseyed and accepted his bow in return, and as she passed the three girls she gave them a nod of encouragement.

            The three of them gave their best curtseys, and he inclined his head most gracefully.  “I regret I must call you from your meal, young mistresses,” he said.  “So I ask that you join me at mine.  Ordinarily I would eat in my own chambers or beside my Lord Cousin; but today I would question you before the audience begins, now while Aragorn is down in the Houses of Healing offering his aid there.  Now, I wish to know about what it was that offered you offense when you offered service to Lord Canelmir.  But, first, let us eat.”

            It was intimidating to be asked to eat with the King’s own kinsman and his assigned master of the household; but once the Standing Silence had been offered and they sat down to eat he was so courteous to them that soon all three felt far more at ease in his presence.  Then there was a knock at the door, and at the call to enter it opened to admit Captain Peregrin.  They all rose courteously at his entrance, at which he looked startled.  “You’d interrupt your meal?” he asked.  “Oh, no--we can’t allow that, you know.  Lord Hardorn, you asked me to attend on you this morning before the audience?”

            “We thought you might join us,” the commander of the King’s bodyguard said, smiling.  “It appears that our Lord Canelmir cannot keep silence before those he sees as mere servants and guards, and has condemned himself several times over from his own mouth.  We were wondering what it was he might have said before you?”

            “Lord Canelmir, eh?  No, not a particularly discrete individual, Lord Canelmir--neither he nor his kinsman and clerk.”  The Hobbit approached the empty chair, turned west briefly, then sat himself on the provided cushion and looked over the table.  “Mistress Loren saw to it we had a filling first breakfast this morning; but I would not be adverse to accepting a second one.  Thank you, my lord.”

            For a time they ate in silence, until at last Captain Peregrin set down his fork and knife, drank the remainder of the herbal drink in his cup, and sat back in his chair.  “There’s not a good deal to tell, and Mistress Systerien here was privy to most of it.”  So saying, he recounted the conversation between Canelmir and Narthord regarding the ledger that perhaps ought to have been left in their coach.  “I will say this--” he added, “I do not believe Lord Ivormil had been aware of just how irregular much of his father’s record keeping was, for his look of surprise and embarrassment had no sign of being feigned.”

            Systerien confirmed the Pherian’s tale, and added what she’d heard while she and Airen had helped in the unpacking of Canelmir’s chests.

            “Was young Ivormil present?” Hardorn asked.

            “No,” she answered.

            Airen added, “His father was most disgusted he’d gone down to the Barracks practice ground to practice with his sword.  He said it was not incumbent on a gentleman to put himself into danger.”

            Hardorn’s face darkened.  “No one sought to teach any of us in the wilds of Eriador such things,” he growled.  “Many times I wished my Lord Cousin would hold himself back from the worst encounters, and more than once my brothers and I, as well as his Elven brothers, had to force him to stay back that we might face the greater danger.  He has never been one to easily accept being forced to stay safe when others possibly went to their deaths.  This does speak well of young Lord Ivormil, however, that he takes the lessons offered during his last visit to heart.  And he has treated you well?”

            “The last time,” Alisië volunteered, “he paid me no mind as I gave service toward him, but he was not purposefully rude toward me, nor did he speak out unwisely against others in my presence--not like his father.  This time he has gone out of his way to be courteous.”

            “And what was it his father did or said that offered you offense?”

 *******

            Two hours later the three of them found themselves in one of the waiting rooms, attended by Nestrion and Iorvas, who sought to reassure them.  “It will be little enough you must do,” Iorvas explained, “merely say again, this time before the entire court, what it was that was said in your presence, and to answer the questions put to you.”

            Nevertheless the three felt very conspicuous as they were led finally before the throne of Gondor to give testimony regarding the behavior of Canelmir of Bidwell.  In the end, however, it was enough for the King, evidently, for them to indicate he had been pointedly dismissive toward them, and had spoken unwisely in their presence.  They were not asked to repeat what it was he had said before them, for which they were most grateful.

            At last the King signed for them to step back.  “Canelmir of Bidwell, come again before me.”

            The named lord of the realm came forth reluctantly, and with a failed attempt at bravado.  “You would think to censor a lord of Gondor?” he asked, then broke out into a sweat when he felt the oppressive displeasure of the entire room.

            “Do you ask that of me as he who is merely King of Gondor and Lord of Arnor, or as the pretender from the wilds of the north-kingdom?” Lord Elessar asked, watching his reactions closely.  “Did you think that such a statement made before others would not be passed to me?  And before you ask, it was your own valet who reported that indiscretion--one, I regret to say, of very, very many.  I will ask this--did your son give you no report of what was said to and by him during his last journey here to Minas Tirith, when he sought to set your petition for confirmation before me?”

            After a moment Canelmir admitted, “He stated that you asked him to consider the nature of honor, service, nobility, and humility.”

            “Even so, my lord.  Save I did not ask this of him--nay, I impressed upon him he had best consider the nature of these qualities.  These are the qualities that during my youth it was demanded I should nurture in myself and in all who offered to serve alongside me.  And these are the qualities I expect to see in all who serve this kingdom as lords of the realm.  I’ve not seen any of them within you.  In your son, yes--at least the shoots of them, once the prejudices with which he was raised were pointed out to him and turned over that these virtues might have the chance to sprout.  But in you?

            “You have taken funds intended for others, and have set onerous rents on tenants not your own that you might enrich yourself at their expense and that of their rightful landlords.  You have accepted bribes in return for offering unjust justice in your courts.  You have favored ever those of means over those who deserved and needed succor.  You have offered no service to others or to the realm that you did not feel yourself willing or required to make.  You withheld support to the realm when the land and capital of Gondor were under attack, and would not hazard yourself for the needs of your people.  You have sold off seedcorn needed by your farmers, and have failed to meet the needs of the very people you were sworn to uphold and protect.  Do you wonder why it is you today are being stripped of every honor previously granted by the realm of Gondor?

            “I add this--if you think that you would not have been made to stand so before the Lord Steward Denethor, you need to be disabused of that idea now--today.  Before his death his agents were already responding to complaints lodged by your neighbors and by major merchants of Bidwell before himself and Lord Forlong.  In the last two days we have found the reports already submitted to him, and have spoken with his agents and his former secretary and clerk.  You were scheduled to be summoned during this month at the latest to answer to charges laid against you for embezzlement and malfeasance.  And I assure you that his planned punishment was one you would not have liked.”

            He set the tip of the sheath of his sword against the dais before the throne, the sword upright with the hilts before his face.  “Canelmir of Bidwell, you are a disgrace to your rank and the honor you have ever claimed as your own.  I hereby strip from you said rank, as the honor you have never truly earned.  You will leave our presence today and go forth.  The Lord Prince Imrahil has agreed to make ready for you a small house within Dol Amroth where you might dwell in banishment, for none within Lossarnach wishes to ever again see or need to deal with your presence.  My own agents are already within Bidwell, and this evening take possession of the keep of the city in the name of Gondor itself.  All your possessions and wealth found therein are now confiscated to the realm, and recompense will be made from it to those you have wronged.  Your office will be given to another at my discretion.  Your name shall be struck from the rolls of lords to the realm, and you will be required to offer service to Lord Imrahil in return for your housing and keep.  And should you seek to do poorly in whatever service is required of you, you will then be returned here to my presence, at which time you will be given a far different enforced servitude you will be required to fulfill.”

            He then had Narthord brought before him.  “You have served your cousin as his clerk and accomplice in stealing from absent landlords and the people under his alleged guardianship.  You have encouraged him in false pride and wrongdoing.  You have failed to reprove him from sloth or reluctance to serve the realm in a manner appropriate to a lord of Gondor.  You have willingly assisted in seeking to hide his embezzlements and acceptance of bribes from others.  You are now remanded to the warden of the prison for the Citadel, and in a week’s time you will be branded as an embezzler.  When you are recovered, you will be sent into the north kingdom to the town of Bree, where you will be given to the service of the stables at the Prancing Pony for the remainder of your life.  And if there is any indication you do less than well by the steeds entrusted to your care there, or any reports of discourtesy to Bob, who will be your master there, or any reports of theft, you will be brought before Lord Halladan as Steward of Arnor and will know his justice.  Do you understand?”

            Ivormil stepped forward from where he’d been set to watch the justice offered his father and kinsman.  “But Bidwell, my Lord King?  What shall be done for my city and its folk?  Who would you set over them?  I know that I am unworthy of such honor as our folk have given me; but I would not wish to see it given to one who will not love the place when I go with my father to Dol Amroth.”

            “We do not send you into banishment alongside your father, young Ivormil.”

            Ivormil straightened, looking up in shock at the one sitting above him on the throne of Gondor.  “You do not?”

            “Unlike your father, you have shown every sign of being able to accept correction and learn from instruction.  We will consider how Bidwell will be best served over the next few days, advised by those who serve on the Council for the realm.  But at the very least we would wish you to return to what was your home to offer what service you can to whatever lord is set over the city.  Are you willing to do this?”

            “Yes--but then who will be set to serve my father?”

            “I think,” the King said slowly, “that too much service has been offered to your father.  Nay, it is time for your father to offer service to others instead, for the best lessons are at times learned from experience.  And when he must light his own fires, prepare his own meals, and see to the cleaning of his own rooms and to the making of his own bed, it is to be hoped he will begin to appreciate properly those who offer these offices for their living.”

            He looked again thoughtfully on Canelmir.  “Know this--it is by how you treat those you see as being of the least importance to you that you yourself prove your own nobility, as was taught to our beloved Lord Samwise by his father.  One can learn a great deal from the Hobbits of the Shire, or such has been my experience in the last few years.  As for how those we might think of as nobility fare there----”  He leaned to his left and looked down at the Guardsman standing there.  “Captain Peregrin, will you step forward, please?”

            The Pherian stepped out to stand at the foot of the dais, where he gave a deep bow.  “My Lord King?”

            “Tell this company, please, where it was you spent your childhood.”

            “On the farm at Whitwell my father farmed, sir.”

            “What was raised on this land?”

            “We had fields of wheat and barley, sugar beets and maize, and then a kitchen garden to mostly keep the family and our hands through most of the year.  We also ran usually about fifty sheep, who in the late spring and summer were sent with the shepherds to the pastures high in the Green Hills.”

            “Who followed the plow, did the planting, the cultivating, and the harvesting?”

            “My father and our hands, with the help of my three sisters and myself, once I was old enough to assist and not just get in the way.  Although my sisters and I mostly helped our mother care for the kitchen garden and the animals that provided for the family and our hands.”

            “Who helped with the lambing and sheering?”

            “We all did, my Lord.”

            “You said you spent most of the year on the farm.  Where did you spend the rest of the year?”

            “Winters we had to spend in the Great Smial where my father worked alongside the Thain, learning the duties of the Thain and the Took, and assisting him as he could.  After Lalia died he had to go there at other times of the year as well for several weeks at a time to go through the Took moots and assist in the gathering of records of harvests, sales to other families and regions within the Shire as well as what trade agreements we might have struck with folk from Bree, as well as to attend meetings of family heads and village heads.”

            “Why was this done?”

            “Once it was obvious that Ferumbras, who never married, wasn’t likely to live to the majority of any son he might father, should he find someone who’d have him, of course, my father as his closest living male relative was named his heir as Thain and Took.”

            “And will you explain to this company what the office of the Thain entails?”

            “The office of the Thain was first granted to Bucca of the Marish by Aranarth, the heir to Arvedui Last-king, to stand in the place of the King for our people, as Aranarth’s representative before the Shire.  Bucca was to see to the protection of our borders and peoples, to see to it our laws and the King’s Law were kept by the folk of the Shire, to see to it that those who lived where there were bountiful harvests traded with those whose harvests were blighted, and to generally oversee the peace and contentment of the land.  He is the highest authority within the Shire itself until the King comes again, although he doesn’t have quite the authority that any king or lord among Men, Elves, Dwarves, or other race we’ve met appears to have.  The Thain, the Master of the Hall and Buckland, and the Mayor are the three highest authorities in the Shire, although strictly speaking Buckland, being east of the Brandywine, doesn’t exactly lie within the Shire itself----”

            The King was smiling as he raised his hand to cut off further explanation.  “Who is now the Thain of the Shire?”

            “My father is.  And Merry’s father, who’s my uncle, being married to my father’s sister, is the Master of the Hall and Buckland as well as the Brandybuck.”

            “And what is Lord Frodo’s relationship to you and Sir Meriadoc?”

            “He’s Merry’s first cousin and my second cousin, once removed each way.  His grandmother was Mirabella Took, as was Merry’s dad’s; and Merry and I are both the great grandsons of Hildigrim Took, Mirabella’s older brother.  And old Cousin Bilbo was Belladonna Took’s son, older sister to Mirabella.  Mirabella, Hildigrim, and Belladonna were three of the Old Took’s twelve children, the Old Took being our great, great grandfather--Merry’s and mine, that is--Gerontius Took, who was Thain and the Took in his day.  Frodo is the Baggins now since Bilbo left the Shire, Bilbo having adopted him as his heir; Merry is the Son of the Hall and the Master’s heir; and now my da is Thain, I’ll be Thain next, if my father doesn’t kill me when I return home for leaving the Shire without permission.”

            There was general laughter throughout the Hall of Kings at this.  The King was smiling fondly down at his small knight and Guardsman.  “What are your duties as the heir to the Thain?”

            “My duties?  Much the same as they were when we still lived on the farm--I must help with the chores about the Great Smial, assist in the plowing and sowing of the fields, help in the harvests, turn out during bad weather to help protect our crops and those folk endangered by storms, floods, fires, and other disasters, assist in the sheering and sometimes in the slaughtering of beasts, help with the ponies and stables--my da raises fine ponies, although Merry’s dad cares for a larger herd; help transport bales of wool----  Is that enough for now?”

            The King’s lip twitched, “As Sam would say, it’s enough to be getting on with.”  Again laughter filled the Hall of Kings.  “Who cares for your rooms?”

            “I do.  Oh, one of the lasses whose turn it is to work alongside the servants will come in once a week to sweep the dust bunnies out from under the bed and help me change the linens, but the rest of it’s my responsibility.  My mum works alongside the cooks and housekeepers while my da, once he’s done with paperwork and all, putters in the gardens, goes out to oversee the fields, sees to the breeding and care of the ponies, helps the brewmasters as they’ll let him--he’s not a good brewer, sad to say, cooks a meal just for the family when he can find time----”

            Canelmir appeared to find that unbelievable.  “You say your father cooks?  He’s the ruler of your folk, and he cooks?”

            “My da is an excellent cook--always has been!  We’re Hobbits--we all cook!  And Da is the best cook of venison in the entire Shire, and probably most other lands as well.  As for Merry’s dad--you’ll not find a better one for roasting a duck anywhere; and Frodo makes the best baked chicken there is.  As for Sam--Sam’s one of the absolute best cooks anywhere in Middle Earth, although we do love some of the dishes the cooks make here in Gondor.”

            Again the King raised his hand.  “That is enough, Pippin.  Thank you--you may return to your post.”

            Captain Peregrin turned to the throne and bowed, and returned to his previous position.  The King now looked down on Canelmir and Ivormil.  “Think on it--a land where the hereditary leader of the folk works alongside his people in the cultivation of crops and the raising and care of the animals his people depend on for food, clothing, and transportation.  You’ve not yet seen enough to know that Hobbits must eat more often and at least as much at a time as do Men; they are a people who by necessity must live in direct harmony with the land from which springs their food.  And all there are expected to be industrious and care for themselves and others, including those in greatest authority and their heirs.”  He examined the two of them closely to see to it that the message sank in.

            At last he continued, “We of the northern Dúnedain have lived much the same way for the last thousand years.  There have been too few of us for too long to allow our lords to delegate all farming and raising of animals, cooking and cleaning to servants.  My father raised cattle and a few horses; my uncle, who served as his Steward, worked in the fields alongside the rest of the village.  I grew up within the boundaries of the Elven land of Rivendell, hidden from the agents of the Enemy who would have seen me also dead after the death of my father; I worked as a child alongside Lord Elrond himself in the gardens of the place, aided those who cared for the beasts that fed us, trained as a tracker and hunter to further add to our food stores as well as to keep an eye for the spoor of our enemies, was trained in administration and healing as well as warfare.  As chieftain of the Dúnedain I have labored in the sowing and harvests, have chopped and carried my share of wood for purposes of building as well as cooking and for heating our homes.

            “It is true I’ve not done as much in the caring for our homes and fortresses as those raised in our villages and fastnesses, for my skills as hunter, tracker, warrior, and strategist have been too much needed by our people--indeed for the protection of all the settled lands of Eriador.  And as the one who it was hoped would one day reunite Arnor with Gondor, it was decided I must learn of those lands and peoples I would one day rule, their allies and their enemies.

            “So, in my younger days I traveled throughout Eriador, visited Angmar, went over the Misty Mountains into the valley of the Anduin, visited the peoples of what was Rhovanion and the remnant of the Eotheod that remains in the vales near the headwaters of the river, the Beornings, the Dwarven keeps, Eryn Lasgalen--the woodland realm of which my friend and companion Legolas is prince, Dale, Erebor, Lothlórien.  I spent time in Rohan and Gondor; ventured into Rhun where I spent time with folk of the d’Bouti clan; and guised as a merchant traveled through Harad and into Far Harad.  I even visited Umbar.  I speak many languages and know many histories.  I have met the rulers of many lands--Men, Elves, Dwarves, Hobbits, Eagles, and now Ents as well.  I have traveled by horse, wagon, camel, ship, and on foot.  I have fought orcs, trolls, Men, wargs, the Nazgul themselves, and all other enemies of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth.  I have seen fair things and foul, climbed mountains and descended into the depths of the earth.  I have brought both the sword and healing to more places and peoples than you even dream about.

            “And I bear the full heritage of the Kings of Númenor, including the King’s Gift, which I won’t bother to explain to you now.  I have now been given the full responsibility to see to it this land and all others I can influence, directly and indirectly, prosper.  And it will not prosper when there are those in responsibility who think only to take what they want and do nothing to protect or add to the prosperity of land and people.  Much is expected of those to whom much has been given; and when those who have been given much do nothing to care for that given unto their stewardship, then they will lose that which they had considered theirs.” 

            He looked all about the room.  “And I say this not only to those who stand before me now, but unto all who hear my voice.  Let it be known that we are here for one another, not for ourselves.”

            The room had gone very quiet, and many were looking at one another, most smiling with excitement, a few disquieted as they began to realize what this new rule might mean.

            Systerien of Celebstrand felt her own heart lift and her scalp tighten.  Yes, this was a different world, a different rule, that was known now.  She found herself beaming at Alisië and Airen, heard the former’s squeals of joy, and saw rare color showing itself in the latter’s cheeks.

            It was a good place to be, here in the presence of the King Returned, Systerien realized.

Apprenticeship in Caring

            Canelmir was led away, back to his chambers, where he would be allowed to spend the night; the next day he would be sent with a detachment of Prince Imrahil’s men at arms to Dol Amroth.  He would remain there in a caretaker’s house on the grounds of the Keep under house arrest, at the beck and call of the steward and seneschal, until Prince Imrahil returned and made permanent disposition of him. 

            Once the former lord of Bidwell was gone, the King turned once more to the son.  “Until the decision is made as to who will serve as lord of your city, you will remain here within the Citadel in the rooms given to your use.  That you have made the effort to be courteous to all and to display appreciation for the service offered you has been noted, and we are pleased to see that you do make shift to change from the type of person your father raised you to be.  That you have a better example of what true lordship entails, it has been suggested to me by my Steward, who I find indeed does read the hearts of those who come before him, that you be required to follow me about my duties for the next few days.  This may be awkward, and there will be times I will ask you to take a period of free time that I might have time to myself for rest and fellowship with my friends and companions.

            “This period will start tomorrow.  One will be sent in the morning to waken you, for I start the day usually early, in the Houses of Healing.  Remember, sir, that I was trained as a healer as well as a warrior, and I find a renewal of sorts serving amongst those who benefit from my gifts and training.  Until then, Ivormil of Lossarnach, you are dismissed.”

            “Yes, my Lord,” Ivormil said respectfully, bowing deeply.  He followed the herald at his side back through the Hall of Kings where a page awaited him.  The page accompanied him back to his rooms, bowed, and withdrew.  Ivormil closed the door after the youth, retreated to a chair by the table, and sat, his hands between his knees, feeling overwhelmed.  Narthord and his father banished--the latter to Dol Amroth and the former to the wilds of the distant northern kingdom....  He shivered, realizing he had no idea how he would deal with a future in which he was no longer Canelmir’s pampered son, but one expected to prove himself day by day.  The rooms were silent, and the rest of an empty day stretched ahead of him.  Not certain what to do now, he folded his arms on the table and leaned forward, laying his head on his hands, trying to understand what was now expected of him.  In the end the weariness left by a night of anxious thought on what his father’s selfishness and foolishness had wrought in the family’s fortunes took him, and he fell asleep.

 *******

            My lord?  There was a soft tap at his shoulder.  “My lord?  Are you all right?”

            Ivormil jerked awake, startled, as he sat up.  “What?” he murmured as he looked about him.  The maid Systerien was there, examining him with concern.

            “Are you well, Lord Ivormil?  You cannot be comfortable!”

            He shook himself, trying to rid himself of the confusion he found he still knew.  He looked about.  It was growing dark outside the windows, and apparently Systerien had lit several stands worth of candles.  “I’m all right,” he murmured.  “Was just thinking....”

            “Well, your thinking must have been deeper than you intended,” she answered, suddenly smiling at him.  “I knocked at the door, but there was no answer, so I thought perhaps you had gone out into the gardens, or down to the practice grounds.”

            “I wasn’t certain I was allowed to leave the Citadel,” Ivormil said.  “I’ll admit I’m not accustomed to being in disgrace.”

            “Prince Faramir asked me to bring you a tray, saying he was certain you would feel lonely and somewhat at odds.”

            “A wise Man, our Prince Faramir,” he agreed as he examined the tray that sat now across the table from him.  There wasn’t a great deal to it--some bread and cheese, a goblet of wine and a steaming cup of herbal drink.  He accepted the latter from her, and drank it gratefully.  “That is much better,” he said as he set the half-empty cup back on the table.

            “I’m surprised your valet didn’t suggest you lay yourself down properly,” she said as she looked about the room with concern.  “I’ll see to the lighting of the fire--this room is alarmingly chilly in spite of the season.”

            “My valet?  I fear he decided to leave me.  He wasn’t here when I awoke this morning, and he appears to have taken some of my jewelry and what I had of coin with him.  I had an arm bracelet that had been a gift from my mother some six years back, not long before she died.”

            “Your mother is lost to you?  Ah, how sad!”

            “Yes, she loved me and worried for me, although at the time I did not appreciate just why.  I fear my father and she were not close during much of the time they were married, although I do not believe he ever played her false.”

            “Not enough imagination, perhaps?” she asked, then dimpled as he looked up at her in startlement.

            “Not enough imagination?  How odd--but--you know, I suspect you have it there--not enough imagination to understand her at all, at least; and too self-centered to desire to have to deal with anyone else.”

            “What took her from you?”

            “A sickness of her stomach that kept growing worse, I fear.  But I sometimes felt it was that, having determined my father did not love or favor her, she dutifully set herself to removing her unwanted presence from the keep.  I’ve found myself missing her these last few weeks.”

            “Yes, I can imagine.  Well, the evening meal will be served in the main dining hall in a mark’s time.  I can send Nestrion to assist you to dress, if you’d like.”

            He watched her as she set herself to lighting the fire.  She was, he thought, very graceful as she knelt down to set a taper to the waiting tinder, and the grey garb of those who served within the Citadel became her.  “Yes,” he answered her thoughtfully, “I’d appreciate his assistance.”

            The fire caught, and after a moment to be certain it would continue to burn properly, she rose and faced him.  “Then I will send him when it’s time.  May you know peace, my lord.”

            “I’m not certain I am yet a lord,” he reminded her.  “Ah, my father!  What he’s done to us all!  Although I’m not certain why he wasn’t branded and sent into enforced servitude with Narthord.”

            “Oh, that would never have been countenanced,” she answered, shaking her head.  “It’s one thing to brand a clerk and to strip a lord of his holdings; but if the other lesser lords of Gondor got the idea one of their own could be branded like a common thief and banished completely they’d be afraid for their own offices and would begin to join against the new order for the realm.”

            “Even when he has behaved as a common thief?” he asked darkly.

            “Even so.  It has allowed your father to save some face, and the other lesser lords can now pretend to themselves he was merely demoted, and that he was not sent into a form of enforced servitude as demeaning in its way as is your kinsman.”  He nodded as she set the taper back on the mantel.  “I will leave you now, then.  I’m glad that you were not judged an accomplice of your father, Lord Ivormil.”

            “Thank you, Mistress Systerien.”

            She again smiled at him, and he found himself smiling back in spite of himself.  With a curtsey she withdrew, closing the door with a quiet click after herself.

 *******

            Nestrion arrived in a half mark’s time to help him prepare for dinner, and soon Ivormil was presenting himself in the main dining room for the evening meal.  He sat himself at one end of one of the tables in the room, and was not surprised that other guests of the realm sat themselves as distantly as they could.  When someone did sit at his side, he looked up in startlement.

            “Ivormil of Bidwell?” asked the young Man who sat by him.

            “Yes.  And you, sir?  You are the King’s clerk, are you not?

            “Trevion of the city.  Yes, I’ve been his clerk now for the past three weeks.  And I believe when Master Anorgil and the party he travels with returns from Anórien he will be chosen as our Lord King’s first secretary.”

            “I’m surprised that you would sit by such a one as I.”  He indicated the rest of the room.  “No one else is willing to do so.”

            “It was suggested by Master Frodo you might wish to have one sit by you this evening.  I will tell you this--the King is well enough disposed toward you, and wishes only the best for you.”

            “Master Frodo was concerned I might need one to sit by me?”

            “Believe me, my Lord--if there is anyone who appreciates what it means to be exiled and alone, it is the Ringbearer.”

            Ivormil looked away thoughtfully.  “I must suppose so,” he sighed.  “Although I had the distinct feeling that Master Frodo did not approve of me.”

            “The reports he has heard of your change in attitude and behavior have led him also to have a better attitude toward you, or so it appears.  Even Master Samwise appears favorably impressed with what he has seen of you during this visit; his tale before your return to the city of your last time here was not particularly flattering, however.”

            “No--I must suppose not.  I was an insufferable boor.”

            Trevion laughed easily.  “At least you can admit it.  You did not see me when I joined the class for clerks offered by the Guild of Lawyers.  Oh, I had far, far too high an opinion of myself, and Masters Anorgil and Alvric both felt it incumbent upon them to help bring me to a more realistic view of myself.  I had the distinct impression after the first week that Master Alvric did not approve of me at all; and as he is one of the most genial and friendly of souls, to offend him took considerable effort on my part.  Finally--somehow, the two of them were able break through my conceit and offer me a good deal of knowledge both of the type of person I’d become and the type of person I ought to be.  If I’d not managed to take those lessons to heart I doubt that our Lord King would have accepted me.”

            Ivormil nodded.  “Yes, I can understand,” he said.  “Will I be allowed, do you think, to bid my adar farewell?”

            At that moment one of the northern Dúnedain entered and took a seat at the opposite side of the room where so far none had sat.  “Our Lord King does not eat here tonight,” murmured Trevion in a low voice.  “He and those from Rhovanion have gone to a banquet offered in the honor of our guests at the city house of Prince Imrahil in the Fifth Circle.  He will most likely lead the Standing Silence, although from what I can tell this is a custom not as widely followed in the north as it is here in Gondor.”

            Ivormil again indicated his understanding.  He felt glad to know he need not sit alone this night, and was grateful for the company of the clerk.  Once, he realized as he thought on it, he would have been offended by such a move on the part of one he did not know; but he had himself changed a good deal since the day he’d been led first to the presence of Master Samwise and then to that of Master Frodo.

            “I understand that Nestrion was sent to assist you to dress this evening?”

            “Yes.”

            “What became of your valet?  The report when you arrived was that your valet accompanied you.”

            “He was gone when I arose this morning.  I had to make shift to clothe myself.  He appears to have decided that as my father and I and our kinsman are all disgraced in the eyes of the realm he’d do better to leave me.”

            “Did he take aught of yours with him?”

            Ivormil shrugged.  “The arm bracelet my mother gave me, and what coin I had, and two rings.  Little enough, I must suppose, compared to what he has perhaps suffered at my hands these past two years.”

            “For him to wrong you, even if you indeed were less than courteous toward him, does not make things right,” Trevion insisted.

 *******

            Early the next morning, before he went to meet the King to accompany him to the Houses of Healing, Ivormil was admitted to his father’s rooms by the Guardsman at the door.  His father, hollow-eyed and resentful, sat at the table with a meal before him.  “And have you come to gloat as well?” Canelmir demanded of his son.

            “Gloat, Adar?  Anything but.  I was granted permission to bid you farewell is all.”

            “Yes, you bid me farewell and remain in our ancestral home----”

            Ivormil felt the compulsion to laugh.  “Our ancestral home?  Ada--we have been the lords of Bidwell for but two generations.  Your father was steward to Lord Harvold, and came from Langstrand.  He was made lord of Bidwell on Harvold’s death only because he had married Harvold’s niece, and you know that is true.  Had Lord Harvold’s own son not died in the assault on Umbar’s fleet you most likely would have served as his steward instead of as lord of Bidwell.  And now the lordship passes to another, and I must serve where I might have followed you as master.  Not, I suppose, that it matters that much.  I doubt I would have been confirmed to follow you in any case, as much of a fool as I have shown myself before the King and his companions.”

            “You are not being sent into exile.”  Canelmir’s voice was cold as an iron banister on the coldest of days; as brittle as a thin pane of glass.

            Ivormil examined his father’s eyes.  “Would you rather need to follow Narthord into the northlands to serve in a stable, Adar?  At least you will most likely spend most of your time serving in Prince Imrahil’s keep.  And you remain in Gondor, and in one of its fairest provinces, or so we have been told.”

            Canelmir turned away and appeared to shrink in on himself somehow.  “So we have been told,” he agreed, distantly.  He was silent for a time, and finally, without turning, he waved his hand at his son.  “Well, you have seen me, and have bade me farewell.  You may go now.”

            “Namarië, Adar,” Ivormil sighed.  “When it is allowed, I will come to see you.”  He turned and left the room.  The Guardsman looked inside it at the rigid figure by the table with an expression the younger Man realized was pitying, then gave Ivormil a compassionate glance as he pulled the door shut.  “Thank you,” Ivormil said.  “I only hope he will learn a new way.”

            “It is to be hoped, sir,” the Guardsman answered.  “You’d best hurry--I believe the King awaits you.”

            How had he almost forgotten he must attend the King this morning?  “Thank you!” he said, rather breathlessly, turning up the hallway toward the more common one.  He came out to see the tall figure of the King indeed waiting for him, but as he came close enough to see the Lord Elessar’s expression he saw not impatience but compassion equal to that seen on the face of the Guard.

            “My Lord,” Ivormil said, bowing.

            “He did not accept your coming?  I am sorry, Ivormil,” the older Man said softly.  “Come--oft such grief is best dealt with through turning to what can be done well.”  He held out his hand, placing it on Ivormil’s shoulder, and somehow with that touch it was as if a far different strength than he was accustomed to filled him.

            Lord Frodo sat on a bench outside the Houses of Healing, a grey-green cloak about his shoulders.  His face was turned up toward the early morning sun, his eyes closed, a soft smile to be seen.  The King paused at the sight of the Pherian, and there was a smile on his face to match that of the Halfling’s.  “It is a good morning, small brother?”

            Lord Frodo opened his eyes, smiling even more fully as he did so.  “Ah--so you come at last, do you, tall brother?  Yes, the morning is well enough--so far.  And the sun feels good as it lies upon me.”

            “You have felt cool this morning?”

            The Hobbit shrugged.  “Somewhat, I suppose--it is little enough, though.  And you, Aragorn?  And you have brought company?”

            “It was suggested this one would do well for having a better example than he has known--although I must say he is already opening to the Light.”  The King knelt before the Hobbit, carefully reaching to take his friend’s hands in his own, examining them palm and back swiftly and thoroughly before folding his over them.  “Cool, but not cold,” he commented, “And the nails are good.”  He located the pulse, and stood still a moment.  “Very good,” he smiled at last.  “As for me, I am well enough for being forced to remain here at a time I would gladly be wandering the forests about the borders of the Shire, watching the fox kits and the badgers and contemplating a breakfast of mushrooms and sliced bacon.”

            Ivormil saw the answering smile of the Hobbit.  “Ah, but I was just thinking the same thing.  There is a place not too far from Haygate Farm where there is a dingle of violets in the early summer, and nearby a place where the mushrooms usually grow--rather simple button ones, but always tasty.  After I gave up scrumping, I found the place, on no one family’s land.  It was good to know there was one place where I could find them where it was all right to take them and no one begrudged it.  And there’s one stand in the Binbole Woods--a place of sheer delight for Hobbits!  As most of my folk won’t go there--not many Hobbits truly feel comfortable in deep woods--there would always be more than enough for me and whoever might have gone with me.  The one time we talked Freddy Bolger into accompanying us, Merry, Pippin, and me, he thought he had found true bliss!”

            The King laughed as he rose to his feet.  “I can imagine.  Bilbo found out the spots about the valley where they grew, of course, and secretly showed me a few of them. Although I suspect he never showed me all the places where the best mushrooms grow, being the practical soul he is.”

            Frodo laughed as he rose also.  “Yes, that’s Bilbo.  He left me a secret map showing some of the best mushroom patches he was aware of when he left the Shire.  I am not to show anyone, but to leave it to my heir on my death, or so directed the letter he left with it.  Well, I suppose we have tarried long enough.”

            One hand familiarly in the hand of the King, the Hobbit and Man turned toward the doors to the Houses and entered in.

            They were met by the Warden, who made a quiet report, then led them to rooms where those who were most distressed waited.  There both King and Hobbit would visit those who lay there, managing to bring smiles and easing wherever they went.  That the King was indeed a healer was obvious, as he examined wounds and throats, speaking with the other healers in the language of their calling, calling for a poultice here or a draught there.

            As they started into one room the Pherian pulled back, his face contorting as if the smell overwhelmed him.  The King noted the Halfling’s distress and looked back.  “Go then to Ionil, Frodo--he will be looking forward to your coming.”

            “If you are certain....”

            “I am--there will be cleansing of a serious nature here, I fear, and others need your presence.”

            “If you are certain...” he repeated.

            “Go, small brother.”  A shared smile between the two of them, and the Hobbit turned and went down a certain hallway.

            “This one was brought in this morning, just after dawn, from the forested area just south of Amon Dîn.  A small group of orcs appears to have been hiding in the area.  He’s not a soldier--but a youth sent out two days ago to seek a strayed milk cow.  He did not return, and his parents and three soldiers from the barracks there went out to find him.  He was found late yesterday afternoon, much as we see him now.  He had managed to creep in between two rocks where the orcs could not get to him.  They were in the act of dislodging one of the rocks when they were found.  Five orcs were killed, and it appears they had already killed and eaten the cow.  From what we can see, the wound was poisoned.  One of the message riders from the post there was dispatched to carry him here once their healer’s assistant did a cleaning and binding of the wound.”

            “They have no fully qualified healers there?”

            “The one they had was killed in the assault on the post during the last push by Mordor over the river, my Lord.”

            The King nodded.  “I see.  Well, gentlemen, mistress, let us see to the boy.”

            The wound was terrible to see, and it stank.  The King leaned over the youth and laid his hand over it, singing; and Ivormil thought he could detect a light gathered about the Man.  When he straightened his face was grave.  “Water and athelas,” he said, and a younger woman went hurrying out of the room.  “He wanders, but not far,” he said to the Warden and the younger healer who had attended on Ivormil’s kinsman Narthord.  “But the blades of the orcs were indeed smeared, as is all too common with them, with filth, and the wound, as you can see, festers.  I will put him into a deep healing sleep, and then we will need to cut away much dead flesh, I fear.  It has not yet sunk to the bone, so I do not believe we will need to remove the leg.  But the muscle will by necessity be much weakened, I fear.”

            He looked to the younger healer.  “Eldamir, will you gather the bandaging we require and then irrigate the wound while we prepare for the cutting?” he asked.

            “Gladly, my Lord.”

            “And is one of your more qualified battle surgeons available?” he asked the Warden.

            “Indeed--I will summon Arahil from Dol Amroth.”

            “Good--I’ve seen him work, and he does not appear to question my judgment as does Nendorn.”

            The Warden went out to speak to one of the pages, and returned as the woman returned with a tray that held a basin of steaming water, a pile of cloths, and a number of freshly cut leaves.  “Master Samwise had just culled these, Lord Elessar, and brought them in.”

            “Sam is working in the gardens again, is he?  Bless the Hobbit.  Send him my thanks when you have time.  Now let us begin the cleansing.”  So saying he took up one of the leaves, breathed upon it, rolled it briefly between his hands, and cast it into the basin, then breathed in the scent of it before lifting it to hold before the face of the youth.

            Ivormil, who had been feeling nauseous from the stench of the wound, felt his stomach settle and his mood lift.  There was a scent of the greenwoods and a running stream that filled the room, and all appeared to respond to it.  Certainly the King was heartened as he saw more color in the youth’s face and saw him breathing more steadily.  He set down the basin and took up a cloth, and set to cleaning the wound.

            When the healer named Eldamir returned with a tray of instruments and more cloth, the King looked up to examine Ivormil’s face.  “I do not believe you should remain for this,” he said quietly.  “In a moment they will bring a higher table to settle the youth upon, and we will prepare to cut away the deadened flesh.  It is not an event for those who are not hardened to it.  No, I suggest that you go to Frodo’s side and offer him whatever aid he would ask of you.  He has become fond of one of those who was badly burned when the enemy cast balls of naphtha over the walls to rain fire upon the lower circles of the city.  See to it that both Frodo and Ionil are well served.”

            “Yes, my Lord King,” Ivormil said, grateful he was spared watching what was to come.

            The young woman went out of the room and called over a waiting page.  “Darvon, please take the young master here to Ionil’s room, and help him cleanse and garb himself properly before entering.  Then see to it that there is sufficient drink for both Ionil and Master Frodo.”

            “Yes, Mistress Melnian,” the boy said.  “It is this way, sir,” he explained as he began leading Ivormil down a hallway.  “The King has had a section of the Houses specially prepared for those who suffer serious burns.  Most of those struck by the balls of stuff during the siege either died or have since recovered.  For Master Ionil, however--he was very badly burned, and although all is done to keep bad air or any dirt from him, he still knows recurring infections where the skin is not yet restored.  All who enter his room must have their hands and faces carefully cleaned, a cap set over their hair, and a special white garb pulled on over their clothing.  The King tells us that this has been found by Lord Elrond of Imladris to help reduce the number of infections for those who have been so badly burned.”

            They turned to the right, and went into a shallow room set up as a lesser bathing room with basin, ewer, pump, drain, stone water jar, and small boiler as well as a carefully covered alcove.  Here Ivormil was made to wash his hands thoroughly, after which a spigot in the jar was opened and his hands were rinsed with a water in which he judged healing herbs had been steeped.  Then Darvon brought out from the alcove what appeared to be a white surcoat that he was made to don backwards; from a cupboard a loose cap was brought that was carefully set atop his head to hold all his hair, and at last strips of bandaging were wound about his mouth and nose.  “For some reason, the breath of our mouths and nose appears able to increase the chance of infection, or so Lord Elrond has learned and has taught our Lord King.  In this way you can breathe and speak, but not directly on the patient.  Good--now come.”

            He was led then to a room where the inner doorway was hung over with white gauze.  The boy pulled aside the curtain, allowing Ivormil to enter and then letting the curtain again fall behind him.

            A small figure with a similar loose cloth cap about his head sat by a bed on a high stool, leaning over the bed.  “That was when I realized I was no longer alone,” he heard Lord Frodo say.  “Farmer Maggot was standing over me, assuring me I’d been caught fair and square this time, that thieves deserve to be punished, and he was the Hobbit to do it.  He gave me three strokes of his cane, and set his dogs to--to accompany me off Bamfurlong Farm.”

            “Did they chase you?”

            “Did they?  Two of them turned back at the boundaries of the farm, but the third kept after me until I finally spotted a fallen byre and ran into it to hide.  Even then he remained outside the slats to the stall where I hid for--well, I don’t know how long exactly.  I appear to have managed finally to fall asleep; but even when I awoke the dog was still there, and when it heard me stir it scratched at the wood.  Then finally someone came in and sent the dog home before he came to pull me out, make certain I was all right, and send me home as well.  I know now that Farmer Maggot didn’t truly wish to harm me--only to impress upon me that I must not continue to steal his mushrooms and do foolish things with his herd bull....”

            “What kind of foolish things?”

            “Oh, I rode it a couple times.  My uncle was most upset when he learned of it, of course, letting me know that if I’d been hurt he and Aunt Esme would have been most grieved, and that if I’d managed to have hurt the bull it could have impoverished the Hall, having to replace it.  Oh, I was a most awful lad when I was young.”

            As he spoke, the Pherian was picking up a cloth from a table by the bed, dipping it into a bowl, and running it over the face of the Man who lay in the bed, then dropping the used cloth into a nearby basket after a single wipe with it.  The Man was laughing weakly.  “I try to imagine you atop the back of a bull!  You are fortunate that you were not gored or dashed to pieces when you fell!”

            “Indeed.  There--I appear to have gotten most of it.  Would you like some juice?”

            “Yes.  Who is this who is behind you?”

            Master Frodo looked over his shoulder, then turned back to the one on the bed.  “Ionil, this is young Ivormil from Bidwell in Lossarnach.  He is aiding the King today, and was apparently sent to see to it you and I are both doing well.”  He looked back at Ivormil.  “Could you help Ionil with his cup, sir?” he asked.

            The Pherian sat back so that Ivormil could approach the bed.  He looked down on the one lying upon it----

            ----And had to keep himself from pulling away in horror.  The face was red and distorted, and there was a line of oozing fluid from a place where the skin had split.  He was grateful for the cloth across his mouth and nose, hoping it served to mask the disgust he felt.  He looked deliberately about, saw an invalid’s cup with a spout and that it contained juice, then at Lord Frodo’s encouraging nod lifted it to offer it to the Man, carefully holding the spout to his mouth.  After Ionil had taken a drink and nodded, waving one heavily bandaged hand to indicate it was enough, Ivormil carefully set the cup back on the table by the bed and stepped back.  The scars left the mouth rigid on one side, and he wasn’t certain that Ionil could properly close both eyes.  “Thank you,” the burned Man said softly as he laid himself back against his pillows.  “I fear I grow tired.  Would you mind singing for me, Master Frodo?”

            “Gladly,” the Hobbit answered, reaching out to a tumbler that sat nearby to take a drink himself, carefully moving the masking cloth out of the way briefly, then replacing it.  Then he straightened and began singing a soft song of moonlight on the river, fields at rest, and children tucked in closely by loving parents.  Before the song was done it was obvious that Ionil was asleep.  Master Frodo continued on until the end, then sat patting the Man’s arm above the bandaged hand, one of only a few places where it appeared there was healthy flesh.

            “Rest well, my friend,” Frodo at last said softly, and carefully lowered himself from his perch.  He looked up at Ivormil.  “We’d best let him sleep while he can,” he murmured.  “Come.”  So saying, he led the way from the room.  Darvon stood nearby to help remove the bandaging, then caps and the odd surcoats.  Frodo stepped upon a stool so he could wash his hands, then dried them on the length of towel provided by the page.  “The infections keep recurring,” he sighed.  “I don’t know how much longer he can be expected to keep rallying.”

            “He knows, Master Frodo, how much he is beloved, and that itself is a great gift to him,” Darvon noted.  “Shall I bring you some more wine or water?”

            “Perhaps bring a goblet of water to me outside.  I think I need to go out into the gardens.”

            “Master Samwise was there at last report.”

            “He is?  Good--Sam always helps me restore my own hope, I find.  Thank you, Darvon.  And Master Ivormil--thank you again for aiding Ionil with the cup.  It’s not an easy thing for him to remain ever separated from others by bandages and gauze curtains.”

******* 

            It was on the third day that Ivormil found himself with some free time and was able to go out into the gardens behind the Citadel once more, finding Systerien near the King’s herb garden.  “Hello, Mistress Systerien,” he said with a warmth that surprised him.

            She turned, surprised to hear herself addressed.  “Lord Ivormil?  And how do you?”

            He shrugged.  “My fellows there in Bidwell would never believe it if they were to see me following the King about.  Visiting in the Houses of Healing, listening to petitions, reading reports, planning for the restoration of the city, discussing how to respond to embassies from Rhun and Harad....  I never dreamed there was so much for a king to know and do.”

            “Did you never watch your father’s councils?”

            “Adar?  Allow me to attend one of his councils?  Not likely!  Nay, I was only his son and heir--why should I wish to know the business of the city?” he asked, feeling the bitterness fill him.  “To think I must come to the King’s side to begin to appreciate how one in a position of responsibility ought to behave!”  He shook himself.  “Ah, but then, I must admit I never thought to ask why I was not included in the councils and meetings with merchants and tenants and those who ran the enterprises from which he profited.  Had I ever looked into his tenant books, should I not have begun realizing that not all the lands he collected rents upon were even his?  And I never thought to question his findings when he heard cases of justice brought before him.”

            “But at last you know what one who rules the lives of others ought to be like.”

            “True,” he sighed, then smiled.  “The more I see of him, the more I honor our King.”

            “That is good to hear, young Man,” said a voice, and they both turned to see that Mithrandir stood near them, his white robes shining about him.  “A good many folk have worked to see to it that when the day came he was accepted as King Aragorn should make a proper one, and that includes his own folk, Elves, Wizards--as I must include Radagast with me, and at least a few Hobbits in that number, starting, of course, with Bilbo.  He’s been trained to warfare and healing, discernment and diplomacy all his life; and unlike you, was expected to begin observing how his foster father handled matters of administration from his youngest days.”

            “He must have been a serious child,” Systerien commented.

            “Perhaps, although he had, I am told by those who watched him at his play, a most vivid imagination and played often at hunting boar and facing dragons and conducting hearings of justice.  No children of Elves had been born in Imladris for several yeni, so he had little chance to play with others save for his mother and the sons of Elrond, who were devoted warriors centuries before he was born.  Estel he was named, and Hope Embodied he has proved indeed.”

            “He is most tender toward the Ringbearer,” Ivormil commented.

            “Yes.  But look at how much he owes Frodo Baggins--the lives and freedom of us all, crown, and the chance his own hope will soon be fulfilled.  But, then, there has grown between them a deep friendship and mutual respect and affection.  If there were any way in which Aragorn could hope to restore Frodo’s full health and strength and draw to him the love he knows the Hobbit has so desired all his life, he would do so.”

            Ivormil nodded thoughtfully.  “Yes--you can see it in his eyes as he watches Lord Frodo turn from him to return to his own place.”

            Systerien sighed.  “We all owe our hope for happiness to the Ringbearer.  I wish we could show him how much we love him.”

            Mithrandir smiled broadly.  “He has told me how attentive you and young Mistress Airen are toward him, and how he has come to love those who serve him within the guest house as well.  Oh, he knows and appreciates it.  However, those who must deal with matters and questions of power, whether or not they embrace that power, are always set somewhat apart from all others by the mere fact they have had to wrestle with it.  He now requires time and the chance to heal.  His burden threatened his life, his health, his safety, his future, and his very soul.”

            The maid nodded, her eyes filled with sorrow for the Pherian.  “They all say, quietly, that the Ring robbed him of much of his happiness.”

            “Bronwë athan Harthad have I named him--and with full reason.  But there is no easy cure for those who have endured so much.”

            Without realizing it, the young Man and woman had drawn closer together, and his hand now held hers.  Ivormil looked down at the joined hands with some confusion, then into his companion’s eyes.  Systerien also appeared just to have noticed they held hands, and was examining his face in question.  A glance back at Mithrandir showed he was smiling with a good deal of satisfaction.  “Do not be surprised or distressed,” the White Wizard advised them.  “Caring can and often should exceed bounds of social standing.  Do you not both learn to serve others well and properly?”  And with a slight gesture of his hand, he turned away, his white staff gently touching down before him as he moved off toward the doors to the Citadel.

Waiting No Longer

            The second son of Lord Angbor was asked to go to Bidwell to examine the state of the city and the lands formerly administered by Canelmir, and Ivormil was to accompany him.  On the day before they were to leave the city, however, Ivormil was recalled from his packing to the lesser audience chamber.  He found there the King, Prince Faramir, the Ringbearer, Captain Peregrin, the Wizard, and a few others, including the King’s clerk Trevion.  And before them, standing between two soldiers, was Bendred who had been Ivormil’s valet.

            “We found him,” one of the soldiers said, “near Casistir on the road to Dol Amroth.  He had upon his person these items--” he handed a leather pouch to Captain Peregrin, “--and had possession of two horses.  One we judge to have been his own; the other appears to have been that belonging to his master.”

            Ivormil looked on Bendred with surprise.  “You took Darold, Bendred?”

            “Can you describe your horse?” asked the King.

            “Yes--a dun gelding, fifteen hands, a white flecking to the left of the breast bone, and white above the front near hoof.  His was a mare--grey with silver spots upon the withers.”

            “Indeed, such describes the two horses he held, my lords,” agreed the soldier.

            At a nod from the King, the Pherian had opened the pouch, bringing out an arm bracelet, five rings, a gold neck chain, and a second pendant on a fine silken cord.  Ivormil looked on the pendant with a feeling of grief.  “My mother’s seal,” he murmured.  “How did you come to have that?”

            One of the rings proved to have been Narthord’s, and one Ivormil’s.  “I have no knowledge of where the others came from,” Ivormil told them.  “The chain was my father’s.  But my second ring, which was set with a sapphire--it is not there.”

            “I sold it,” Bendred at last admitted when pressed.  “But what do they deserve of such things, having brought disgrace on themselves and Bidwell?  And why don’t I deserve something to show for the years I’ve put up with their arrogance and abuse?”

            At last the King had heard enough.  He and Prince Faramir looked at one another before Lord Elessar pronounced, “Then I surrender you to those who keep the prison for now, Bendred of Bidwell.  You will be brought before me in public audience in a week’s time, at which time your fate will be pronounced.  A second wrong never balances out a prior one, as you know full well.”

            “I forgive you,” Ivormil said, “as long as I might have my mother’s seal to cherish.  Although,” he added, “it is difficult to forgive you having taken Darold.  Missa was your own; Darold has been mine for six years, and I would have been most distressed had I realized he was gone when I arrived at the stables.”

            The King nodded, and the soldiers led the former valet from the room.  “With your agreement, Ivormil, I will send him north to labor in Annúminas, helping to rebuild the Citadel there.  To prove a thief was most unworthy.  But your father’s chain and your mother’s seal and your kinsman’s ring--I give them all over to your keeping along with your arm bracelet and your own ring and what coin was found upon him.  And I will entrust the others to you to take back to Bidwell and hopefully restore them to their proper owners.”

            “Yes, my Lord King,” Ivormil agreed.  “I will look first among those within the keep, and then to his own people to seek the proper owners for the rest.  I don’t know that Adar’s chain or Cousin Narthord’s ring mean that much to me, though.  But I bless you for giving me back Naneth’s seal.”

            The King smiled upon him.  “Awaiting me in my cousin’s home lie some of those possessions of my own naneth and adar that mean the most to me.  Let this stand in promise that at the right time all that you are worthy of will be restored to you.”  And it was with that memory and the memory of the Ringbearer standing by him, also smiling, that Ivormil left Minas Tirith the following day for the journey back to Bidwell.

 *******

            Two years passed before the second son of Lord Angbor returned to Minas Tirith and the King’s presence for the Midsummer Council that had been called, Ivormil son of Canelmir riding in his train.  Ivormil rode a different horse now--a young black stallion he’d recently purchased with his earnings, Darold having been judged unfit for the journey to the capital.  He also wore a different sword now, one that was fit for use and no longer intended merely for show; and he knew now how to properly wield it.  His beard had grown in, and his chest was more properly muscled.  He had no servants behind him, having found he had no need for such when tending to himself.  He carried in his saddlebags a few gifts, and rode with a high heart at Lord Angthorn’s side, for he looked forward to coming again to the King’s presence.  The King had married that first Midsummer after his coronation, and to the daughter of Lord Elrond Peredhil of Imladris, as it was told abroad throughout Gondor.  Ivormil looked forward to judging for himself the woman who had apparently long ago caught and held the King’s heart, that when he came to his crown he would look at none of those from within Gondor who sought to beguile him or attract his attention--even he had heard of the failed attempt by the Lady Butterfly to waylay the King in the gardens of the Citadel, after all.

            At last they passed out of Lossarnach, and near sunset of a fine day they passed through one of the westward gates in the Rammas Echor.  There all paused to look across the Pelennor at the White City standing above them.

            “How it has changed!” breathed Ivormil.  “It is nothing like I remember--see how the fields shine?  This had been trampled near to mud, and was cut across with trenches!”

            Angthorn nodded.  “And so it was.  And look--the trees already grow tall once more.”

            Villages had once again begun to grow around the old wells, and farmsteads were reestablished with hedges and stone walls renewed about them.  As they started forward they passed a young boy, around ten years in age, chivvying ducklings across the roadway toward a pond.  “Get you!” he was saying as he clapped his hands at them.  “Hurry--get you!” 

            Those in Angthorn’s train laughed with heart’s ease.  And as they rounded the last of the way to approach the city from the south Ivormil looked up, and gasped.  “How beautiful she is!” he sighed.  “A queen among cities!”

            “Indeed--and look there, where again Osgiliath rises on the river,” Angthorn noted, indicating the former ruins to the east.

            Work was still going on on the restoration of the walls to the city, and as they entered in they could see that new houses and halls and warehouses had been built there in the broad First Circle, and the roads now shone with new paving stones.  The ways bustled, and children raced across the way as, now afoot, they set themselves to walk up to the Citadel.

            As they walked the sky darkened and things quieted as families returned to their homes and torches were lighted.  Everywhere they heard echoes of glad greetings as fathers returned to the bosoms of their families after the business of the day, and music and singing from inns and homes where celebrations appeared to be going on.  The markets were closing down, and now and then they’d see a Man or woman carrying a roast chicken purchased from a food vendor, headed for home with the meat for their evening meal.  Parties of Dwarves were filtering down toward their quarters in the lower city, and Elves were going upwards alongside youths and maidens carrying gardening tools.

            They passed inns and eating establishments where diners gathered, and scented fine meals and the heartening odors of flowering things everywhere.  Guardsmen saluted them as they went through the various gates, and lights shone behind windows.

            At last they emerged from the ramp up from the Sixth Circle to the level of the Citadel, and before them they saw the young White Tree glowing in the twilight.

            “Sweet Valar,” Ivormil breathed, “how lovely it is!”

            Angthorn, pausing by him, was nodding with solemn delight.  “Indeed!  Ah, Gondor is renewed indeed, with the coming of our King Elessar Envinyatar.”

            More slowly and reverently they approached the doors to the Citadel, where Master Balstador, standing upon the uppermost step, met them.

            “My lords,” he said with a deep bow, “the King has left his regrets he cannot see you before the morrow; but he is himself in Osgiliath for the night with the Lady Arwen and Prince Faramir and his lady wife, examining the work done there.  Your father arrived this morning, Lord Angthorn, and looks forward to your reunion.  The evening meal will be served very shortly, so I shall show you to your rooms as swiftly as possible that you might make ready for it.”

            “Master Balstador, it is an honor,” Ivormil greeted him.

            The Seneschal looked at him in surprise, then smiled broadly in recognition.  “Lord Ivormil?  Ah, but it is an honor to greet you as well!  But do come that your hunger might be soon stayed.”

            Ivormil was given the same rooms he’d known at the last of his previous visit, and he found he appreciated that fact, although he was rather surprised not to have been given rooms in the suite given to the use of Angthorn and his Men.  He had washed himself as thoroughly as he could given the time and was donning a clean shirt when he heard a knock at the door.  “Enter!” he called, and was somehow not surprised as Nestrion entered.

            “If I might aid you to prepare for the meal, my Lord,” the servant offered.

            “I don’t really require aid, I suppose.  However, as you are here....”  Ivormil accepted the Man’s assistance in donning his surcoat and seeing it brushed, then smiled.  “I thank you, Master Nestrion.  It is good to see you again.”

            Nestrion was examining him.  “You have filled out, sir, and done so well.  Go now--they will wish to begin serving soon.”  He opened the door for Ivormil and bowed him out, following him as he pulled the door closed and turned toward his next duty.

            The Citadel seemed warmer now and less impersonal than he remembered.  Figured tapestries now hung on several walls, as well as portraits and paintings here and there he did not remember.  And he was surprised to find the figures of a maiden and boychild standing barefoot over the water of a fountain in the midst of the main hallway off which the living quarters opened.  “The King had that placed here to delight the Queen and their guests,” commented a Guardsman who stood outside the doors to the wing where guests from abroad were housed.

            He was bowed into the dining hall, and when he would have seated himself at a lower table a server shook his head.  “Lord Angthorn asked that you sit by him and his father,” he was told as he was led toward the high table.

            “Ah, here you are, Ivormil,” Angthorn said as he was shown his seat.  “I was telling my father about how you helped unmask the charlatans in the spring who were seeking to sell foul nostrums to the poor of the city to ward off the fevers we knew then.”

            “Yes--good catch there, young Man,” commented Lord Angbor.  “It’s good to know how well you’ve supported my errant son here.  Oh, how pleased your mother will be to see you home again.”

            “She didn’t come with you?”

            “With Melissë so close to her time?  You couldn’t drag your maman away from Lamedon with a team of horses and oxen together.”

            “Then you won’t be returning to Bidwell?” asked Ivormil, surprised.

            Angthorn smiled at him.  “Oh, no, didn’t you realize?  No, I only agreed to serve there for two years to see the city restored and the investigations of what your father and your kinsman had done finished.  No, the King is to make final disposition of Bidwell now that all has been set right.”

            Then, Ivormil thought, there is to be a new Lord of Bidwell once more?  What would he do?  Ought he to offer to follow Angthorn back to Lamedon?  But he didn’t wish to leave Lossarnach--after all, for all his father had originated in Langstrand, Ivormil himself was of Lossarnach, born and bred.  “Bidwell will miss your lordship, sir.”

            Angbor scoffed, “I am certain that the King will see it properly served by his new choice as lord.  Do not worry for your city.”

            But a good deal of his pleasure at being in the Citadel once more was gone as Ivormil rose with the others to offer the Standing Silence.

            *******

            He returned to his room to find a maid was bending down to light the fire, and he paused inside the doors to admire her grace shown as she performed such a simple, commonplace act.  As she turned he smiled.  “Mistress Systerien?  Ah, but it is good to see you once more!  Is all well with you?” he asked. 

            She was slightly taller than he remembered, her hair longer and more maturely dressed.  Her beauty had deepened, and she’d lost a good deal of the petulance he’d seen in her during his first visit to the Citadel those two years and more past. 

            She was examining him in return, and her eyes warmed with approval at what she saw.  “Lord Ivormil?  Ah, how good it is to see you as well!  The reports we have heard have spoken well of you.  Have you found all in order here?”

            “Indeed, and especially to find you are again assigned to see to my comfort.  Oh, but wait here--I have something for you.”  He hurried into the inner chamber and fetched from his saddlebags the gift he’d had made for her, a scarf of the finest linens Lossarnach produced, cunningly woven and intricately embroidered.

            She accepted it with wonder.  “You thought to bring this for me?”

            “When I was here before you gave me much assurance, with your friendship and your warmth, and--and I’d thought, now that my term of service to Lord Angthorn is over, perhaps, if you would allow it, I--I might court you.  That is,” he added hurriedly, afraid he must be blushing mightily, “if there is no other that has caught your eye, of course.”

            She was looking at him, her eyes shining with hope, he realized.  “No, there is no other.  You’d think to court me, a mere maid of the Citadel?”

            “Why not?  It’s not as if I were Lord of Bidwell as my father was, after all.  Nay, I’ve learned a good deal serving on Lord Angthorn the past two years; and one is to see beyond place to the person beneath.  And even if I were Lord of Bidwell I’d not let it concern me, for a lovely, worthy, and gracious woman is that whether she’s mistress of a great hall or the meanest shepherd’s cot.  I would be honored to offer my affection to you, if you would accept it, and--and if you and I find we truly have affection for one another.”

            Her eyes appeared to be swimming slightly as she searched his face, before she began timorously to smile.  “I’m honored, Ivormil, if you truly wish to see me, and not just the serving girl in the Citadel.”

            He reached out his hand to hers, taking it gently.  “Systerien--you’re no longer a mere girl.”  He lifted and kissed it.

 *******

            The company of those who were returning from Osgiliath the next afternoon could be seen from the walls of the city, and as they entered past the Rammas Echor it could be easily determined which were Lord and Lady of Gondor, for a particular brown stallion and white palfrey kept pace together at the center of the group, their riders both with dark hair, the strength of the stallion and grace of the palfrey well matched, the rest allowing a certain space to these two.  Looking down into the rest of the city, Ivormil and Systerien could tell that much of the population of Minas Tirith was also out upon the walls, and they heard much in the way of singing and cheering from all quarters.

            As the party approached the gates a troupe of horse issued forth from where the gates would one day again stand, for Dwarves even now were working in sheds before it, forging the great leaves and pivots of strongest steel, planning just how the counterweights would be placed to allow the gates to be easily opened and closed from within the city, and yet would withstand even the greatest of rams from outside of it.  All could see the knights that made up this troupe moving with precision to present themselves before the King and Queen, and to fall in behind the party, and now the singing from the knights themselves could be heard, filling the day with joy.

            Many of the greatest lords and ladies from throughout Gondor were beginning to gather within Minas Tirith, Ivormil had learned, to attend the great Midsummer Council the King had called for, and to witness the ceremonies that would seal the betrothal of Lothiriel of Dol Amroth to Éomer King of Rohan.  One last time Lothiriel would return to her home upon the shores of the Sundering Sea before she set out on the way through the Ringlo Vale to come to Dunharrow, from where she would be formally escorted by Riders of Rohan to Edoras for the marriage itself at the fall equinox.  King Aragorn and Queen Arwen were to travel also to Edoras for the marriage with those from the northern realm who wished to attend, and a gift of cattle to feed the expected wedding party, Angbor advised his son’s protégée, was already being gathered in Anórien to be sent after Éomer’s party as they returned to prepare for the coming of their new queen.

            The music and singing could be heard swelling as King and Queen mounted the city; but Systerien, her period of free time over, reluctantly took leave of Ivormil to return to her duty, and he found himself wishing he were part of the company of those who served here that he might perhaps with as glad a heart labor at her side to see all readied for the coming of Lord and Lady.  He remained for a time among those lords and ladies who chose to remain on the walls watching the movement of those who processed up the ways of the city, but felt somehow apart from them.

            What should he do?  Perhaps he would offer his services to the Lord of Lossarnach, or maybe to Prince Imrahil--or maybe one of his three sons.  Elphir of Dol Amroth was said to be a worthy lord, after all; and Amrothos, as he approached full manhood, would soon merit his own advisors.  Or perhaps he should seek to offer himself to the train of the Lady Lothiriel as she became Queen of Rohan--to have Men of Gondor serving her would perhaps hearten her as she entered her new life.

            But he didn’t wish to leave Lossarnach--not truly; or, if he must, he would prefer to come here to the capital and perhaps serve upon the King himself.  After all, it was not as if he still were without desirable skills.  He had learned much of administration at Angthorn’s side, of record keeping, of how to audit accounts and hear charges of wrongdoing. 

            He’d sent letters, once a month, to his father in Dol Amroth; and when word came that his father’s health was failing last winter he’d gone himself, but had been sent away soon after, his father unwilling to allow any who’d known him before to see him reduced to being a mere servant.  When he arrived at last again in Bidwell it was to find the message riders had preceded him--his father had died the second night after he set out upon the road northward again.  Angthorn had embraced him in comfort, and words of solace had been offered him by those who worked alongside of him as well as many of the Men and women who served in the keep, and even from citizens of the city itself.

            Nay, he thought, it would not be right to return to Bidwell again to serve under still another lord of the city.  He’d do better to offer himself as a clerk or perhaps a secretary here.  Better a servant to the King than to be forced to go out, landless and purposeless, to seek a place elsewhere in the realm.  It was with this in mind that he followed the rest from the walls to line the way to the Citadel as at last the King’s party started up the ramp from the Sixth Circle.

            The King walked before the rest, a great Lady beside him, both of great grace and beauty, a glimmering light as of stars about the two of them as they walked.

            “Do you see,” said a lady who stood nearby to her son, barely to be heard by Ivormil, “how the Elven Light shines upon the two of them?  She was a great lady among her Elven kindred, or so it is said.  And he is indeed descended from Elendil, Isildur, and Anárion all three, and is in turn descended from Elros Tar-Minyatur of Númenor.  And with that sword he bears he slew many of the Enemy’s folks who threatened this city, her brothers and many of his kinsmen behind him, they tell me--Elves and Men and Dwarves joined together with the doughty folk of the Pheriannath to offer the final defense against the might of Mordor.”  She turned to indicate the dark mountains to the east, mountains that now had begun to show the first green they’d known in nearly six thousand years, or so it was said.  Ivormil found himself smiling as he looked at them, standing there east of the great river, then turned once more to watch the passing of King and Queen, feeling his heart rise again as it had when Systerien had agreed to allow him to court her.

            He accompanied Angthorn and his father that night to a feast held by Lord Forlong’s son in the great house he kept in the Sixth Circle, near the end of Isil Lane, opposite the empty guest house that, they were told, had once housed the Ringbearer and the rest of the King’s Companions.

            Gimli the Dwarf and Legolas, Prince of Eryn Lasgalen, dwelt now within the Citadel when they were within the city, or so it was told.  They continued to be the King’s Companions indeed, although both also labored amongst those who helped restore the walls and to plant gardens and trees to the glory of the King’s city.  The King himself continued to serve almost daily in the Houses of Healing, and had been known to go down to the work in progress and assist in the lifting of blocks of stone into place in the walls, or to kneel with Elves and young folk of Minas Tirith to help plant flowers and shrubs and trees, or to stand singing in the public squares with minstrels and gleemen.  Neither he nor his Lady wife secreted themselves within the walls of the Citadel--no, they were indeed public figures who showed themselves regularly to the people, who held truly public audiences, who came at times to offer comfort to the bereaved and to rejoice with those who knew great joy, who as happily saw to the marriages of the artisans whose stalls filled the great market of the Fourth Circle as they did those of lords and ladies of the realm.

            The signs of prosperity were all about them, and contentment filled almost all who dwelt within Gondor.  It was to be seen in the visages of those who gathered here in this house, could be heard in the lilt of singing voices, scented in the air like the perfume of flowers, felt in the warmth of the stones used to build the city, tasted in the sweetness of the very water.  Laughter and merriment filled the hall where they dined, and somehow the somber thoughts of Ivormil of Bidwell were swept aside and he laughed and rejoiced with the rest.  And as he turned to offer thanks to the maid who placed a dish of eels from the river before him Angthorn noted the courtesy he offered and smiled in his own turn.  Tomorrow he would make his final report to the King on the state of Bidwell, and he had only tales of good to share regarding this young Man who’d been given unto his service.

******* 

            Systerien and Airen were among those who gathered in the gallery the following day for the King’s public audience.  Many there were who sought to greet the King and his Queen, who stood by his great chair at the top of the dais; and a few brought petitions to be set before them.  Peering down, Systerien could see no sign of Ivormil of Bidwell, although she could see Angthorn of Lamedon standing with his father.  Patiently all waited their turn to present themselves.

            At last the herald called forth the name of Angthorn, who had served the realm as lord of Bidwell at the King’s discretion for the past two years.  The young lord stepped forward easily and with confidence to stand once more before their King.  “Lord Elessar, it is with great joy today I come before you to surrender the lordship of the city of Bidwell in Lossarnach.  The final evaluation of the city and its business has been sent already to your attention, along with the reports of the search of the doings of its last lord, Canelmir.  He died at the end of last winter in Dol Amroth, refusing at the last to accept the comfort of his son or to receive your own wishes for his recovery.  Much of the riches he had amassed that he had not yet spent upon himself was used to offer reparations to those who were hurt or suffered grave losses at his hands; and much of the injustice he wrought as a result of accepting bribes has been set as much aright as it was possible to do.  Weregild has been offered to some families, and their children have been offered preference in the attempt to undo some of the evil, although in at least two cases the rage continues to fill the hearts of the wronged to an extent we have been forced to set a watch upon them while still offering what comfort as we can.

            “Overpayments of rents on the lands held there in the name of the heirs to Fíriel daughter of Ondoher have been returned to the tenants in terms of funds, goods, and services offered them; and the rents stolen by Canelmir have been made good to the bankers who have collected these funds for the past millennium.  Other onerous rents have also been refunded throughout the holdings Canelmir oversaw, and the farmlands and orchards are now burgeoning to the needs of the province and the realm.

            “By my side to this day has stood Ivormil son of Canelmir, who has humbly accepted his new station and has served both myself and the city well.  He has trained with my own Men in order to offer defense should it be needed, and offered to go with those who went with you to the Poros last year to the defense of the realm, although I kept him at my side while sending others who were proven in battle.  I rejoice that all were returned unscathed to my side, my Lord--for that I thank you for your wise leadership.  He has helped to go through his father’s records and has in many cases offered the best suggestions on how it was we could best offer reparations to certain families and businesses, and now all within the city look on him with favor and rejoicing when he rides by.  He has been faithful to the role you set him, and has accompanied me here to confirm his fealty to yourself.

            “As for me--I have been now away from my own family and lands long enough, and beg to be allowed to return home with my father to see my brother’s first child born.”

            The King and Queen shared a smile and a quiet word, and at a nod, the Lady Arwen descended the stair to stand before young Angthorn.  “We thank you, my husband and myself, for the service you have given so freely.  We accept your petition, and hereby give you leave to depart after the Great Council back to Lamedon and your father’s house to serve there as is needed.  We do ask, however, that you remain now for a few moments that you may see one more wrong made right this day.”

            Angthorn took her hand and kissed it, bowing low, then stepped back to the place she indicated.  At that the King stood and called out, “Let Ivormil of Bidwell in Lossarnach be brought before us now.”

            All buzzed throughout the hall, and behind her Systerien could hear the other gathered servants murmuring amongst themselves.  “Is he to be reproved for the offense he gave during his first visit to the Citadel?” she heard one ask.

            “Nay, for that was given him during that visit.  And the fact he must serve where his father was lord has been more than adequate punishment for what rudeness he offered here.”  She recognized Nestrion’s voice in that, and was grateful to the Man as she peered downward toward where a herald led Ivormil forward to stand before the Queen.  She saw him bow deeply and straighten at a word from her to look up into the Queen’s eyes, and saw how he paused, taken as were all who stood before the Lady Arwen by her beauty and the wisdom of the Eldar he saw there.

            “Welcome, Ivormil son of Canelmir,” the Queen said.  “Welcome back to the Citadel of Minas Tirith and to the presence of the King of Gondor and Arnor.  I regret it has taken so long for me to meet you, for the tale of your father’s perfidy and your contrasting loyalty has been told me.  From what I am told, you have grown greatly in respect and courtesy, as well as courage and skills.”

            “Indeed, my Lady?” he asked, his voice thick with the awe he felt.

            “Ah, indeed, sir,” she answered him.  And behind her the King descended the steps from his throne to take his place beside his wife.

            “I too rejoice to see you here before me,” said the Lord King Elessar as he stood smiling down at the Man before him.  “Indeed you have grown much since I last saw you, and all reports are of a Man coming well into his own.  It is now time to make the final decision as to what will be done with you.  Is there aught you would say before we set you free of the service you have been made to offer for the past two years?”

            She saw the rise of Ivormil’s shoulders as he took a deep breath to steady him to what he would say.  At last he spoke, and those within the gallery could hear him well enough.  “I did not know until we arrived here within the Citadel that my time of penance and service was up, my Lord King.  I am now confused and at somewhat of a loss, not knowing for certain what office I am fit for.  I do here offer myself to your personal service, if you will have me.  I am now trained to examine records and accounts, and could perhaps serve amongst your clerks, perhaps with Master Trevion....”

            But the King had begun to laugh, not in derision but in delight, and soon his joy was being reflected back by all who stood there in witness to what was to be done.  Airen, who’d been watching behind the throne, nudged Systerien, indicating a movement there, as a garment and chain of some sort were being brought forward.  Systerien, suddenly appreciating the King’s plans, felt both delight and horror.  It’s not as if I were lord of Bidwell, or so he’d said to her the other night.  The King, however, had drawn Ivormil to his feet.

            “Do you remember the four terms I told you everyone who seeks to serve as a lord of this realm must know?” asked Aragorn Elessar, King of Gondor and Arnor.

            “Nobility, humility, service, and honor, my Lord,” Ivormil answered automatically, searching the King’s face.

            “Indeed--and from what has been told to me of your behavior from the day I first spoke those words to you, you have indeed not only pondered those words but have sought to live them in your heart and soul.  And in the past two years you have served Gondor--through your service to Bidwell and its temporary lord--well, evidencing all the qualities I expect of one worthy of honor.  And so it is with pleasure--and humility, that I surrender to you the lordship you ought to have inherited from your father.”  He turned to see his wife accepting the mantle and chain of office being brought forward by Lord Húrin of the Keys.  “Kneel, Ivormil son of Canelmir, if you would accept the lordship of the city of Bidwell.”

            One moment Ivormil paused to search his eyes.  “You truly think me worthy?” he asked.

            “I do, and I will have you know that Sam and Frodo have rejoiced to hear this was to be given you, delighting that you have indeed come to full Manhood so grown to honor.”

            At last Ivormil knelt, presenting his sword; and setting his hands upon the hilts he swore fealty to Gondor as personified by her King.  And as he rose the King settled the mantle of lordship about his shoulders, and the Queen herself placed the chain of office about his neck.  The King turned him about.  “Behold--Ivormil of Bidwell, a lord of the realm!”  And all cheered--all save one maid within the gallery who rather precipitously turned to blunder through the rest of the gathered servants, seeking the privacy of a small retiring room where those servants who felt somewhat ill might find refuge.

 *******

            It took her all that day for Systerien to gather up her courage; after supper was over she approached Master Balstador to ask him to set up a private audience with the Queen’s majesty that she might make a request.  The next day she was brought to the Queen’s weaving room where the Queen worked alongside some of her maidens upon fabrics of many kinds, much of it intended for use within the Citadel, some of it intended for those who received aid within the Houses of Healing, some of it for gifts to those among the folk of the realm who needed it due to fires and poor harvests and other troubles, who would need fabric for garments, blankets, and the like.

            Systerien looked about, for she’d not seen this room before, although she’d heard it described to her on numerous occasions.  Long had this room and those by it remained empty or had served as lumber-rooms where unwanted articles of furniture were housed.  But the King had had its windows releaded and cleaned, its floors relaid, and the Queen’s looms and others set up here, with chests for woolens, yarns, and threads of all kinds, and shuttles prepared, forms for embroidery laid in, needles of all kinds made ready.  Nay, there was no way in which any Man could seek to label the Queen of Gondor and Arnor as idle, not looking at the signs everywhere of industry and creativity.  Balstador touched her arm to recall her to herself, and she took a step forward to come around one loom to stand in the Queen’s presence where she sat before the greatest loom of them all, apparently weaving upon it a tapestry depicting what would be the wedding of Éomer of Rohan to Lothiriel of Dol Amroth, undoubtedly as a wedding gift for the two of them, or so Systerien judged.

            “Mistress Systerien,” the Queen said as the maid dropped into her curtsey.  “Rise and tell me what it is that you would have of me.”

            “Please, my Lady,” Systerien said as she straightened, looking into the Lady Arwen’s star-filled gaze, “when first I met your husband he asked me, as he has told me he had asked all others who served the Citadel at the time, what I would do if the choice were given to me--to remain in service here, to follow Lord Faramir to his own house when it was completed, or to leave service altogether.”

            Behind her there was a knock at the door, and at a gesture from the Queen one of her maidens went to answer it.  There was a murmured conversation, and then the maiden returned and murmured into the Queen’s gently pointed ear--the sign, along with her almost unearthly beauty and grace, that indicated her Elven blood.  The Lady Arwen smiled, her face lighting with a private pleasure, as she spoke quietly back, and with a quick step the maiden returned to the doors.  Who it was now who entered Systerien could not see, for other looms stood in the way, but she turned her attention back to the Queen as she asked, “And so it has come to the day when you have made up your mind?”

            Systerien lowered her eyes as she gave a slight nod.  “Yes, my Lady.  I would leave the service of the Citadel at this time.”

            “Where are you from, Systerien?”

            “From Celebstrand in Dor-en-Ernil, my Lady.”

            “And why was it you left your own lands to come so far as to serve here in Minas Tirith?”

            “It was due to my father’s death, and the ambitions of myself and my mother.  We thought that if I were to marry well I could do much to restore our family’s fortunes.”

            “Your father is dead?  Then tell me the tale of it, and how it was this led you here.”

            And Systerien told it, of the death of her father saving Lord Delrond, of her mother’s hope she might beguile a lord of the realm if she were to serve in Minas Tirith, then her decision to set Systerien in the way of Lord Delrond himself when he returned from the wars until it was learned he was now a cripple.  “Indeed, he has married after all, and to the daughter of a family friend who appears to love him dearly and who assists him in his duties to Celebstrand and the lands surrounding it.  I am glad now I was too shallow to seek to beguile him then, for he is one deserving of true love and happiness, not a marriage based on beguilement.”

            She saw the smile of approval on the Queen’s face. “Indeed, and so has my husband told me also, for he holds great respect for Delrond of Celebstrand due to the selflessness he displayed in the battles with the Enemy’s forces, and the courage with which he faced his injuries and resulting disability.  That you rejoice in his true fulfillment speaks well of you, Mistress.

            “But, you have not yet told why it is you would seek to leave us now.”

            “Two years past I finally saw the face of one who stirred my heart with sympathy and--and something more, as I saw one learn his world had fallen from beneath his feet.  And the last thought I had of beguiling one of importance to marry me fled me that day, as I saw him look at me and see me as desirable not just because I was comely, but because he recognized I saw him as a Man worth the loving.  He spoke to me the other night and asked for permission to court me.”

            “And so you would be free to court him in return and perhaps marry him?”

            “No, my lady--not that.  For I do not believe he will seek to pursue the courtship now.  Nay, his fortunes have been restored, and those who will look to him as their lord will not wish to see one who was merely a serving maid as his lady.”

            “You think not?”

            “And why should they?  Do they not deserve the greatest of ladies at their returning lord’s side?”

            The one behind her came forward, and she looked up to see that it was the King, and she felt her face flame with embarrassment to know he’d heard her confession.  He settled himself upon a stool beside that of his wife, and looked down at Systerien where she’d again sunk into a deep curtsey.  “So,” he said, “you would spare the one who loves you the embarrassment of having one who had been a mere maid of the Citadel at his side, would you?  Nay, rise, mistress, that I might see your face and not merely the back of your head and your skirts about you.”

            She rose reluctantly, her face still turned to the floor until he reached out a finger to raise her visage to meet his.  They examined one another in silence for a moment, and she realized the Queen had set one of her shapely hands on the King’s shoulder, and he’d lifted one of his to set over hers.  “So,” he said again, “tell me why he might think marriage to you to be an embarrassment.”

            “I was not truly born or raised to any rank, my Lord King.  And he deserves one who is truly a lady to stand beside him.”

            “Even if he does not love her as he loves you?”

            She felt confused, for that idea had not been one she’d considered.

            He smiled at her.  “Listen now, mistress, for I would offer you the instruction I myself was given long ago.  On the day I was named a Man grown and told the truth of my father’s name and the name I was granted on the day of my birth, and was told the nature of the office I was expected to fill by nature of my birth, when I left the presence of my foster father I went out into the vale of Imladris in confusion and wonder to think on it all, singing the Lay of Lúthien as I went.  And from a wooded glade I heard a singing, and I went out there to find a maiden dancing there, the Light of Stars about her as if my very song had conjured her.  And that day, mistress, my heart was lost, returning to me only when my beloved Arwen came here to me in Minas Tirith two years past to accept me as her husband.

            “I was raised a refugee in the House of Elrond, who had been the heir to Gil-galad of Lindon.  Yes, I was born Chieftain of the remnants of the Dúnedain of Arnor, but Arnor had not known the dignity of being named a kingdom for a thousand years, since my ancestor Arvedui died in the Bay of Forochel when his ship foundered on the ice and his second son drowned with him and what Men were on the ship with the two of them.

            “Lord Elrond, whom I’d addressed ever as Adar, saw the love I now bore for his daughter, and reproved me.  At last he laid a great doom upon me, that I might not bind any woman of any lineage to me until and unless I were to become King of both Gondor and Arnor, for he would not lose his daughter to any less soul.  To reach that estate I had to labor mightily, and for many, many long years.  I became a wanderer upon the face of Middle Earth, serving in many lands, even here in Gondor itself under the Lord Steward Ecthelion.  I sought to know the natures of those who lived in Gondor, Arnor, Rohan, and their allies and enemies.  I fought alongside the sons of Elrond and the Men of Arthedain and the Elves of Mirkwood and the Dwarves of the Misty Mountains and the Iron Hills.  For before I left Rivendell to return to my own people, my mother and Lord Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower took me aside to counsel me.

            “Long would I strive to see the power of Mordor and its dread lord brought down, they told me; but to be worthy to be crowned as King of Gondor and to receive the Sceptre of Annúminas I must first prove myself worthy to serve all; for he who would be the greatest of all in the end must serve all whom he would rule.  For I do not serve as King here merely for the glory of it--the glory would wear thin soon enough were that to be the height of my ambition.  To be worthy of the honor of remaining King I must continue to serve this people--all of the people, great and small, honored and held in contempt.  I must be ever willing to hazard myself for their protection, and to go hungry that they do not do so, and to go without that they might have.  So it is that I have insisted that those who serve the realms of Gondor and Arnor beside me must also know the full meaning of nobility, service, humility, and honor.

            “Know this--he--or she--who has done well in the lesser service is more likely to do well in the greater service of this realm.  So it is that when I was granted the Winged Crown I decreed that all who enter this house are to treat all who serve in this house with respect for the service offered.  Do you understand?”

            She nodded, feeling tears gathering behind her eyes and seeking to contain them.  “I think so, my Lord,” she finally managed.

            He smiled at her.  “I, too, have just come from a private audience.  It appears that one of my younger and newer lords has just declared his love for the woman who has captured his heart as mine was captured so long ago, and came to ask permission to publicly court her, as there are many who would look upon this match as perhaps being beneath the honor of a lord of the realm.  I came to tell my wife, as the ruler of this house, that I’d granted him permission and given my blessing upon his suit, as both he and the object of his desire are now judged worthy of the greatest of happiness.  After all, as I have found my own hope fulfilled, how am I to deny it to any other?”

            So saying, he reached out to her shoulder and nudged her about so she could see the other who had entered this room with him, and she found herself looking into the eyes of Ivormil.  “Will you again grant me permission to court you, Mistress Systerien?” he asked.

 *******

            At Midwinter of the third year of the Lord Elessar’s reign, Ivormil, Lord of Bidwell in Lossarnach, was married by the King to Mistress Systerien of Celebstrand in Dor-en-Ernil, there within the Citadel of Minas Tirith, named anew as the year turned Minas Anor once more.  And among the gifts they received was a set of dinnerware sent from the Shire within Eriador of Arnor, chosen, it is said, by the Ringbearer himself.  And their firstborn son, born a year and a half after their marriage, they named Iorhael in honor of the Cormacolindo.

Author’s Notes

            Once again I have suffered the attentions of a smaller nuzgul masquerading as a plot bunny.  The creatures are proliferating at a tremendous rate, I find.  This one appears to have been spawned by the bunny to blame for the story Vocabulary Lessons, one of the tales usually found in my Moments in Time collection.  At any rate, it appeared sufficiently harmless to get by those governing the writing of Stirring Rings and The Tenant from Staddle, both of which appear to have been given to dozing lately, and even the more predatory one from the True Crime shelf of the bookcase in the dining room, one that has been feeding on news reports from the states of Arkansas and Tennessee.  That one did manage to intrude long enough to see turtles and other fauna added to its tale, and another paragraph to the encounter between a deputation from the King’s court and the denizens of a keep of a minor lord in Anórien, but even it has been sitting back a bit more quietly lately as I’ve dealt with this one.

            Anyway, for those of you who wondered what became of the boorish Ivormil of Bidwell and his less than exemplary father, now you know!

 *******

            The crowning of Aragorn as King must have been a tremendous shock to many folk, for he might be almost pure Dúnedain in blood, but was certainly not of Gondor itself.  Raised by and among Elves, spending much of his time patrolling border lands, acquainted and cooperating with folk of all races, accustomed to being on his own or working primarily with relatively small parties for the most part, he must have found the regimentation of Gondor’s forces and the use of the Council to advise and, to an extent, consent to actions and reactions exceedingly restrictive.  His years in Rohan and Gondor as Thorongil had been decades earlier, with systems set into place among his own folk to allow the forces of the northern Dúnedain to work almost autonomously, reacting wherever threats were noted, keeping guard on the few settled lands such as the Breelands, the Shire, and Tharbad as well as their own, apparently well hidden, enclaves.  That the northern Dúnedain folk would have probably lost much of their class structure--there’s little room for a servant class in a society where survival is based on having as many trained warriors as possible--is pretty much a given.  Nor do we see that the class structure of the Shire is particularly rigid.  Once he took over the overseeing of the reconstruction of the Shire and became Master of Bag End, few appear to have questioned that Sam had risen above his origins as a “mere” gardener, after all.

            So, how would such a one as Aragorn have acted once he became the primary authority within the Citadel?  Not raised to see servants as being invisible and little better than paid slaves, he would most likely not only respect the fact they were willing to do the grunt work so that others could focus on governing, protecting, and dealing with difficulties, but would also most likely insist that all visiting the Citadel treat them similarly.

            The Citadel is not a private residence--it is the focus of government and a very public building.  It would be intended to provide the primary residence for the King and his Steward and their families when resident in the capital; it would house the Council chambers; it would house offices not only for the King, Steward, major domo (whom I refer to as the Seneschal), housekeeper, major commanders of the armed forces or their liaisons, master of the exchequer or privy purse, master of protocol, a corp of clerks and secretaries and copyists, master purchaser, and so on; it would need to have accommodations for many of the younger, single servants as well as for those noble guests to the city who didn’t keep residences in the capital and for foreign dignitaries; and much more.  There would be waiting rooms, offices, audience chambers, kitchens, dining halls of various levels of formality, private and public spaces of various sorts, laundries, seamstresses, store rooms for many kinds of goods, dayrooms for various classifications of residents, et cetera.  There would probably even be servants whose primary purpose was to see to it those who dealt more obviously with the residents and visitors within the Citadel were properly cared for.

            Anyone who’s dealt with public buildings quickly becomes aware of the fact that the staff that sees to the infrastructure of the place becomes increasingly numerous the more functions the building is supposed to deal with.  In Britain during the Victorian period, a typical upper-class family of five might easily expect to support more than twice that many servants--butler, footman, parlor maid, one to three chambermaids, valet, housekeeper, cook, scullery maid, coachman, stable hand, lady’s maid.  The larger the estate, the more servants one tended to see, as now one begins to need game keepers, grounds keepers, gardeners, kennels and those to keep them, farm managers and workers, those to see to the physical integrity of the buildings, tools and machinery, farriers.  Add in medieval need for weapons masters and smiths and others to deal with arms and armor, and again the number of people needed about the place begins to explode.

            So it is I postulate the Citadel of Minas Tirith undoubtedly housed a veritable army of servants, many of whom probably rarely saw one another save perhaps at mealtimes, which would undoubtedly have been staggered.

            Usually it fell to the wife to primarily oversee the needs of the serving class, who usually fell under the direct joint rule of major domo or butler, head housekeeper, and cook.  When Aragorn first came to the Citadel as King, however, he didn’t have a Queen, and I’m certain that just making the adjustments from largely loner-chieftain from the remnants of Arnor to very public King of Gondor and Arnor combined would have required sufficient attention he would seek to delegate the management of the household to someone he knew he could trust; so I have him do so to Lord Hardorn, the younger brother to Halbarad and Halladan whom I have as the one who, when it was allowed, tended to serve as the closest Aragorn had to a bodyguard and personal aide.  Poor Hardorn--in my version of events he gets saddled with rather a lot.  It’s perhaps no wonder he waited so long to marry!

            In a large land such as Gondor, that at times recruitment for servants for the Citadel from throughout the realm might happen is likely, for it is probable that different regions would develop their own language usage and traditions.  Having someone from Langstrand there who might be assigned to visiting nobles from the area would reassure those with whom the King and Steward must deal and make negotiations easier.  And that at least some women who chose to accept employment within the Citadel did so in hopes of making an advantageous marriage is also probable, marriage being the major way in which women even today might change status, even here in the United States where I live.

            And we face the fact that it is probable that not all minor lords within Gondor did their utmost to see to the needs of the realm during the major period of aggression on the part of Mordor.  That some remained safely at home and sent only token forces to the nation’s needs is likely--and certainly Canelmir is one of these.  His lands are tucked safely far away from Mordor itself and the coastal marauding to be expected from Harad and Umbar; if others are willing to suffer the trouble and expense of protecting the realm, let them.  He’s in it only for himself.  He finds that one parcel of land within his demesne he’d thought his brother had inherited from their father really belongs to an absentee landlord whose very identity is in question?  That he’d begin skimming from it would be very likely.

            And so we see the continuing downward spiral of the likes of Canelmir and Narthord at the same time we see the redemption of Systerien and Ivormil, as both find increasing satisfaction and reason for living in serving those about them and learning to do so well.  That Aragorn would agree for an apparently less onerous punishment to be given to Canelmir so as to avoid the risk lesser lords might begin banding against him is a political decision that would undoubtedly have rankled at him, but that would have been unavoidable.

            We again see elements I’ve alluded to in other stories, particularly in the hospital visit with Ionil, the one burned during the assaults on the city by Mordor whose death grieved Frodo so in “The Acceptable Sacrifice.”  Ionil’s ongoing problems with recurring infections is itself a foreshadowing of Frodo’s own struggles with declining health as a result of his experiences.  Having seen how it was Ionil died, wouldn’t it be more likely that Frodo himself would eventually choose to accept the Queen’s gift and go to the Undying Lands with the rest of the Ringbearers?  And again I beg the forbearance of those from whose stories I’ve borrowed elements, for I mean but the greatest respect to them.  Thank you for adding to the world of Middle Earth.

            And, of course, there is the spiritual aspect to the story.  The Elves who remained in northwestern Middle Earth remained true to the vision of the Creator for them, and maintained the gifts of healing for man, beast, and land granted to them from the start.  That the themes of “Let he who would be greatest among you be as the servant of all” and “Much is expected of those to whom much is given; and when much is not returned, he risks losing all he has had” and “No greater love has any than this, that he be willing to lay down his life for his friends” would have been part of how Aragorn would have been raised is very probable.  Tolkien was raised a Roman Catholic; I am from a closely aligned Christian tradition.  These are among the strongest spiritual themes to which we have been exposed all our lives.  The reason Frodo and Sam were and are so well beloved, and Aragorn and Gandalf with them, is that all purposefully risked their lives for all others.  That this risk would serve as an example and inspiration to all others is consistent with how the image of Jesus willing to lay down His life for the spiritual integrity of the world has inspired generations of Christians from all traditions.  I strongly suspect Aragorn truly saw himself as the servant of all he ruled, and that he expected similar behavior and motivation from all who served similarly throughout the lands he administered.

            Once again, I thank all who’ve read and responded to this story.  I actually completed it before I began posting it, in contrast to most of my work since my first three tales.  I hope it has entertained as well as having inspired thought.  And may we all seek to emulate the selflessness and inner nobility of those we’ve come to love within Tolkien’s world while accepting their--and our own--very humanity and fallibility.

B. L. S.  November 21, 2007

For those who have learned to give of themselves that the world be a better place.