For Raksha and Radbooks on her birthday.  With great thanks to RiverOtter for the beta.

The Keys of the Realm

“The Hands of the King are those of a Healer”

            “He’s awakened, Lord Húrin,” reported the Guardsman to the Keeper of the Keys. 

            Húrin looked up and recognized the one he’d set to watch over Faramir within the Houses of Healing after the young Man had been saved from his father’s madness within the Hallows.  “His mind--does it appear to be clear?”

            “Yes, my lord,” replied the Guardsman.

            “Who attends on my cousin?”

            “Prince Imrahil has ordered Guardsman Beregond and the Pherian to stand guard over him, I believe on the suggestion of Lord Mithrandir.”

            “How did he come to awaken?”

            “Among those who came to the battle within the ships of the Corsairs of Umbar there was apparently one from the north trained in healing by the Elves.  Mithrandir came with this one in tow, and he spent some time with our Lord Faramir, using some obscure herbs upon him.  At one point those with him within the room appeared excited and called out, and I thought at first he’d perhaps died; but it proved he indeed had awakened.  Then the northern healer was taken to the chamber given to the woman who it is said rode here with the Rohirrim--the one who is supposed to have struck down the lord of the Nazgûl.”

            Húrin nodded automatically as he considered this information.  “And what of the tokens of Elendil displayed upon the greatest of the Corsair’s ships?” he asked.

            The Guardsman was shaking his head.  “None has spoken of them to me, my lord.”

            “This healer--how does he appear?”

            “A tall Man, dark haired, travel-worn.  He appears to be full Dúnedain in blood, with his grey eyes and angular face.  A wary one, but filled with compassion.”

            “I see.  Have any others from the battle entered the city?”

            “Lord Éomer of Rohan has--I saw him enter the Houses and attend on the woman of his people.  It is said she is his sister.  He is attended by some of the King’s House there, and more have joined the watch about King Théoden’s bier in the Hall of Kings.”  He was obviously thinking, then added, “And there is another Pherian, my lord--Mithrandir himself carried his body into the Houses, followed by the Pherian Guardsman Peregrin.  He was not conscious--they say that the Black Breath lay upon him, as it is said lay also upon the lady.”

            “I will go to see,” Lord Húrin decided.  “You have done well.  Go and tell your captain that I have said you may be off duty until the morrow.  And send in Leonid to attend on me as you go out.”

            “Yes, my Lord.”  With a profound bow the Guardsman withdrew from the chamber.  The Keeper of the Keys to City and Citadel could hear his low voice speaking with the one outside his office, then the sharp report of boot heels retreating into the distance down the hallway.

            Húrin rubbed at the bridge of his nose as he thought on the doings of the day.  He’d not been one of those who’d been in the forefront of the defenders of the City--since the loss of his left arm many years ago in a skirmish with the Enemy’s orcs within Ithilien he’d been of little enough use with a bow, although this day he’d ridden out briefly with Lord Imrahil’s knights, sword in hand and a light buckler fastened to his off side by straps, his aide guarding his left side, to assist as he could to help break the circle of those who'd endangered the Rohirrim and to aid in the rescue and defense of the wounded.  Ah--forty-some years he’d served now as the Keeper of the Keys, once he’d recovered from his wounds.  He then rubbed absently at the scar where the amputation had been done.  It was, he knew, not as awful as was true with many in similar straits--he’d been attended by the Lord Captain Thorongil himself, there in the field hospital set up in the garrison camp in Osgiliath, and none questioned that Lord Thorongil had been a more than adequate healer and surgeon as well as one of the most canny of military commanders in the history of Gondor.  He’d not been as discomforted as many when he’d awakened to find his arm was gone.  He wished with all his heart, as he’d done over the years since, that the famous Captain had returned to Gondor’s service once the assault on Umbar was completed.  Faramir would have done very well under Thorongil’s tutelage, he thought--a far more forgiving and caring soul Captain Thorongil had ever been than had proved Denethor, particularly in the past few years as the worries over Mordor’s intentions had worn away at Denethor’s endurance and will.

            But today--he’d heard those who stood at the wall and watched the battle unfold almost weeping with frustration when the black ships had appeared in the distance just as it appeared the battle was nearly won, then seeing that banner unfurled.  He'd heard them call down to the horsemen preparing the charge below the tale of it.  It was black, and they’d expected it to show forth the broken bone and scimitar that marked the Corsairs or even the great Eye denoting Sauron; but to see instead Tree and Crown and Stars--and Sceptre!--how could anyone have expected to see that?  And then to have seen Men of Anfalas and Belfalas, Pelargir and Lossarnach, Lamedon and even Langstrand pour out of the ships, led by the small mounted troupe of horsemen before which the banner of Elendil had been carried----

            All, those within the city and those fighting before it, had seen the standard go down once, although immediately another had swooped upon it and lifted it up again.  Had it been merely the standard bearer who’d been hewn down, or the captain of those Men himself?  And was he indeed the Heir to Elendil and his elder son Isildur, or merely a pretender, one of the many Lost who’d ever crept south from the ruins of the North Kingdom to serve for a time amongst the armies of Gondor, only to leave once the time of service for mercenaries had come to an end?

            There was a knock at the door, although it opened immediately to admit Leonid.  Leonid himself was said by some to have come from amongst the Lost.  A young Man he’d been when he suddenly appeared from the direction of Rauros Falls and attached himself to the Rangers of Ithilien.  Captain Thorongil had assigned him as aide to Lord Húrin shortly after he’d become Keeper of the Keys, and he’d stayed in that capacity ever since, although at the disappearance of Thorongil Húrin had more than half expected him to disappear once more northward himself.

            “My lord?  You asked I attend on you?”

            “Yes--word has come that my young cousin Faramir has awakened and is clear of head, and I would go to see with my own eyes that this is true.  If you will fetch a lantern....”

            “Yes, my lord--I will gladly light the way.”

            Soon the two Men were moving quietly down the ramp and south to the entrance to the Houses of Healing, where they were met by the Warden.  “How might I serve you, Lord Húrin?” he asked.

            “I am told that Faramir has awakened,” the lord began.

            “Ah, yes, so it has proved,” agreed the Warden, much of the care in his expression relieved at being allowed to report this news.  “He is awake and very much aware indeed, or at least he was a short time ago.  However, when last I looked into the room he was sleeping.  One of the healers’ aides remains with him for now, and Guardsmen Beregond and Peregrin guard his door and his rest for the nonce.  It was the northern healer’s directive he be allowed a proper night’s sleep for now, and that it not be told to him how it was his father died or he himself almost followed him until he has regained much of his proper strength and has duties to distract him and tie him again to life.”

            “A wise precaution.  If I might at least look upon him and reassure myself all is well with him--I would not disturb his rest.”  He turned back to his aide.  “If you will seek out Prince Imrahil and find out what intelligence he has to report?  Wait for me within my chambers.”

            Somewhat reluctantly Leonid withdrew, heading with his lantern again for the ramp to the level of the Citadel.

            The Warden led him to the door of one of the rooms regularly given to the use of the Steward’s household, one in which Húrin himself had lain for a time as he’d recovered from the loss of his arm.  There stood two in the garb of the Guard of the Citadel--one appropriately tall and slender, and the other small and sturdy, both examining him somewhat warily.  At the Warden’s quiet command the Man opened the door and Húrin stepped just inside the room.

            Faramir lay, plainly properly asleep, his breathing normal, a slight smile on his face.  He lay partly on his right side, and the bandage over the wound on his left shoulder had obviously been recently changed.  Húrin watched his younger cousin sleep with thanksgiving in his heart, grateful the younger Man’s color, though still pale, was yet more normal than the grey he remembered from his last sight of him.  He took a deep breath, and felt his heart lift; the room smelled fresh and clean, reminding him of the freshness of Ithilien near the Anduin.  Something here reminded him of...what?  Something--something a long time ago, he thought, but he could not think what.  Whatever it was, his heart lifted the more, for there was a feeling of such rightness to it.

            The woman sitting by Faramir’s bed had a shirt in one hand and needle and thread in the other.  She smiled up at him, then turned her attention back to her mending, her eyes sparkling with heart’s ease--such a difference since his last glimpse of her a few days’ previous when it had seemed all faces within the Houses were filled with anxiety.  He returned the smile and backed out of the room, closing the door softly behind him.  “He’s much better,” he assured the two Guardsmen.

            “Strider was able to call him back,” the Pherian replied.  “He’ll be up and around in no time.”

            “Strider?  Called him back?”

            At that moment the Warden returned to him from a quiet consultation with one of the senior healers.  “At least fifteen Men we’d thought to lose look to survive, Lord Húrin.  The northern healer has greater skill than we’d ever looked to see.  And there are two Elves as well who work now amongst the wounded--the hands of all three are blest with healing.”

            “Elves?”  Húrin was shocked.  “What do Elves do within Gondor?”

            “They came in the train of the northern captain,” said the Warden.

            “I’m not certain when the Rangers joined him--they were just there when the ships got here,” the Pherian commented.  “They must have arrived in Rohan after Gandalf and I came away.  But the sons of Elrond--we met them in Rivendell.  I’m glad they came to be with Strider--he seems to trust them a good deal.”

            “Rangers?”  Húrin looked more closely at the Pherian, who flushed somewhat.

            “Well, yes.  I mean, I’ve seen them before, riding across the Brandywine Bridge.  Anyone who’s spent time in Buckland or along the Road in the Shire’s seen them, I think.”

            “And you call them Rangers?”

            “Yes--it’s what we’ve always called the ones with the stars on their cloaks.  They’ve always ridden the King’s Road through the Shire.”

            “The King’s Road?”

            The Pherian stood straighter.  “Well, that’s what it is--and when the King gave the land of the Shire to us Hobbits that was part of the bargain--that we keep the King’s Road and the King’s Bridge of the Stonebow over the Brandywine in repair, and that we assist his folk through the Shire on the King’s Road.  I’ve read part of the copy of the Charter we have, although it’s not always clear.  I don’t know what happened to the original Charter, but it was given us over fourteen hundred years ago, you know.”

            “And there’s still a King in the North?”

            The Pherian Guardsman paused, obviously weighing his words.  At last he said, “The last King in the North was Arvedui Last-king, but he died a thousand years ago, I believe.  It was Argeleb who gave us the Shire for our own, a land just for us Hobbits.  Our ancestor Bucca of the Marish went out with about forty others at the call of the Last-king to fight against the Enemy from the north, and only he came back again of them all.  He was the first Thain, and my da’s the current one.

            “We helped them escape the Enemy--the King’s folks, that is.  Merry’s family--they have the Sword--the Sword given to Bucca by the King’s son, the one who wouldn’t take the King’s title, for too many had died.  He went north and we never saw him again--not us Hobbits.  And Bucca was our first Thain and saw to our needs in the King’s name.  But we’ve never thought the King would ever come again.”

            “But you know Rangers?”

            “Yes, we know Rangers.  We’ve always known the Rangers, and have had them ride the Road through the Shire for as long as we can remember.”

            This idea that in the North also remained those who called themselves Rangers caused a thrill to run through Lord Húrin.  Who else but the descendants of Elendil, Isildur, and Anárion would have called their mobile troupes Rangers?  And here--here were Northern Rangers who’d come south to the needs of Gondor!  He could not suppress a shiver.  He turned back to the Warden.  “Where is this healer from the North?”

            He was no longer in the Houses.  One of the two Elves remained there in the Houses of Healing, and when Húrin made to approach him the being merely turned to examine him through eyes as grey as those of any Dúnadan, his ageless face stiff with annoyance at having been interrupted in his work.  “You wish to see the northern healer?” he repeated.  “I am one of the northern healers, as are my brothers, both of whom have gone forth from here, down into the city to fight the last influence of the Enemy among those who are housed elsewhere, these houses being filled past capacity at the moment.”

            “But I was told there were but two Elves....”

            He could almost feel the disdain as the Elf answered, “Must all be one or the other to consider themselves brothers, my lord?  If you will forgive me, I will return to those who need me here.”  So saying, he turned away, back to the wounded Man to whom he’d been ministering when Húrin had been brought to his presence.

            The words the Pherian had spoken rang in the Man’s heart--”The sons of Elrond--we met them in Rivendell...in Rivendell....”  Elrond--Elrond Peredhel--the Half-Elven--the brother--the brother­--of Elros Tar-Minyatur.  Elrond had been the Herald of Gil-galad in the assault on Mordor in the Last Alliance.  It was said that Isildur had gone north to treat with the Elven lords and his father’s people in drawing together the Last Alliance to march in shared purpose on Mordor and the forces of the Nameless One, and that the youngest son of Isildur had remained for safekeeping with his mother in Elrond’s home.  Imladris...it was called Imladris--the name in the dream of prophecy that came first to Faramir, and to me--that called Boromir away--away northward!

            It was through their Elven ancestry that the Dúnedain had inherited the common traits of greater height than lesser Men, the grey eyes, the pale skin, the dark hair, the slender, muscular build.  Now he’d seen first-hand one of those from whom those traits had sprung.  He’d seen----  He took a great breath and held it, pausing with his hand on the wall to steady himself--he’d seen the nephew of Elros Tar-Minyatur himself!  And his brothers, one of them apparently a Man? had gone down into the lower city to succor those who’d been brought there from the battle, those who’d been injured but who could not fit within the Houses here!

            Or was one of these a Man?  Yet none had spoken of a third Elf!

            He went out and followed the spoor as well as he could, and before the night was over he was once again wishing, as he’d wished fervently for decades, that he had his mentor of old here within the City to track the quarry down.  The great Lord Captain Thorongil would not have been daunted in the chase, he knew.  And as he visited household after household he felt a growing excitement.

            “The hands of the King!” he heard again and again.  “The rumors are that the King has come again, and his hands are those of the healer, and so we have known the rumors true.”

            “I was told that the captain of those who had come, the Northern captain who came off the black ships--that he had called our Lord Faramir back from the Gates themselves.  My son--they brought him up from the great Gate of the City after the Black Captain turned away when the horns sounded--he had fallen under the Black Breath.  They found no hurt on him, you see, so they would not take him to the Houses, thinking there was nothing to be done.  He has been sinking deeper and deeper into the darkness all this day.  The Captain--he called him back!  He called him back with his will and the touch of his hand and the vapors of Kingsfoil.  I never understood why my wife grew it in the garden, but he saw it and gave thanks for it, took some leaves and healed my son!”

            “And this one is a Man?”  Húrin could not help but press the still stunned father for the truth of this one.

            “A Man?  Well, he certainly is no orc!”

            “I mean, he is no Elf?”

            The father shook his head in disgust at the question.  “I had not thought any Elves yet remained in the world until I saw the one who walked by the King--now, that is an Elf, with beardless visage, unnatural beauty, ageless eyes.  But the King--he’s definitely a Man--and a Dúnadan!”

            The excitement he felt was growing almost too large to hold in his heart as Húrin turned to continue the search.

            Near dawn he found the party at last, in the Second Circle in the common room to the Inn of the King’s Head, where many of those who’d been injured had been brought who were too weak to be taken up to the Houses, not that there was room for any of these there.  He saw the Elf first, kneeling over a pallet on which a Man had been laid, his form fair shining with a discernible Light.  But not that far away knelt a second form that also seemed to glow, although the Light surrounding this one was different in quality, for it was not steady but pulsed as does the light of stars as opposed to the light of the wandering planets.  Over still more of the wounded knelt others, some in the garb of Healers and some in the livery of the apothecaries and herbalists, and many of them those who’d only come to assist as they could.  Water and broth were being administered; and here, too, he could smell an odor of cleanliness and renewal, familiar and yet peculiar to this place.  He approached the one with the pulsing Light surrounding him....

            The one on the pallet was whispering, “I could not find my way....”

            “Shh, my friend--you have now been found and are back with us.  Rest now and find your healing.  These others will minister to you as they can.”

            “Thank you,” the injured Man said, reaching out to grasp the wrist of the one who knelt over him, momentarily keeping him from rising.  “Thank you for lighting the way back!”

            The healer smiled down at him, although it could be seen he was exhausted.  “Rest now, child of Eru.  Rest and grow strong.”  So saying he slipped his wrist free of the other and rose and turned.

            Húrin saw first the depths of the exhaustion felt and the pain that this one kept suppressed.  Not pain of body, he realized; no, this one had been scoured by grief, and was now tired enough to fall into his bed and perhaps sleep the following day and night.

            The Elf was approaching the Man, his own fair face concerned.  “Estel, you must now go and rest.”

            “These need me, Elrohir.”

            “Nonsense, muindor nín.  Not even you can take personal responsibility for all.  I am fresher than you and can take over with those who remain here.  Go--go out to your tent and rest.  Halladan has seen to its raising.”

            “I am still needed.”

            “I tell you, younger brother, that you will be more sorely needed in a few hours’ time, and you will need to have your body rested and your mind clear.”  The Elf turned to one of the Men who’d only just risen from giving a drink to one of the injured.  “Hardorn--take this stubborn kinsman of yours out to the tents and see to it he gets at least four hours’ sleep--and be certain you do likewise.”  The Elf reached out to take the water bottle from the one he’d addressed as Hardorn.

            “With pleasure, Lord Elrohir.  Aragorn?”  That was less a question, Húrin thought, than a command.  Nevertheless, the Gondorian lord stepped forward, and the Man Hardorn interposed himself between him and the one who--might be--King.  “If you have an injured kinsman you wish seen to, speak with Lord Elrohir here rather than to my cousin--he has labored mightily for days to see that in the end this City might be defended, and we are all grieving for our own losses as well as those known here in Gondor.”  Here, too, was indeed grief that was at the moment being channeled into protection for this one.  And as he looked into the Man’s face Húrin felt the stirrings of recognition.

            But the other put his hand on Hardorn’s shoulder--Hardorn--but he knew that name--from long ago!  And the face seemed familiar!  “Peace, Hardorn.”  And that, too, was familiar.

            Húrin searched the Man’s eyes--and suddenly the scales fell away.  A shock went through him--a shock of recognition as well as mingled dismay and yet gladness beyond what he’d ever expected to feel.

            “Thorongil!” he breathed, finding he had not the wind to shout as he’d intended.

            And he understood!  The King?  Ah, but he’d wondered that so long ago, when this one had last been in Gondor!

Reorganization

            He accompanied the two Men out of the City to the tents raised there, his head still swimming to find the so-long-missing famed Captain and his aide by his side.

            “Then you went north?”

            “I was wounded gravely enough.  Hardorn did what he could, and managed to get me aboard one of the small fishing craft and headed up into the river, hoping to get me to some of those I’d trained in healing in Ithilien.  But two days up the river he saw one of my Elven brothers on the river’s bank, and pulled to the bank to garner his help--and news.  Gondor was not the only land in danger from the Enemy’s creatures, you must remember--orcs, trolls, and the lawless ones who had taken Rhudaur and who live yet in the lands of Angmar have ever been our enemies, you must understand.  One of our hidden strongholds had been assaulted, and Hardorn’s father, who’d been my father’s Steward as well as my own, had been killed along with several others in greatest authority.  Once again we’d been betrayed as had happened before, there shortly before I as a child was taken into hiding within the valley of Rivendell.

            “I was needed by our own folk, Húrin, and I needed to put into practice there what I’d learned of ruling here.  We had many smaller isolated lands in the North that needed protection, and we had not the population allowing us to produce a standing army as is true here in Gondor.  We have always known alliance with the Elves of Rivendell--Lord Elrond has ever cared for the folk of his brother, and particularly for those of us who have been his direct heirs.  It fell to me to confirm friendships with the other Elves both of Eriador and the valley of the upper Anduin, and to form alliances also with the various peoples of Rhovanion and what Dwarves would hear my arguments.

            “But I have also sojourned within Rhun and Harad--indeed, I’ve been deep inside Far Harad, and just over the borders into Khand, through Umbar, and north into what remains of Angmar.  I have walked and ridden and even sailed far across the face of the mortal realms.  Believe me--although there has been known victory in battles within Rohan and here before the gates of Minas Tirith, the Elves and Dwarves and other residents of the northern lands are even now under attack.  So it is only a token force could come southward--not two score Men, a Wizard, a wood-Elf from Mirkwood and a Dwarf from Eriador and two Peredhil of Imladris and four Hobbits----”

            “Hobbits?” interrupted Húrin.  “You mean Pheriannath?  But I’ve seen but one!”

            “And a second lies inside the Houses of Healing as recompense for striking at the Lord of the Nazgûl, while two others seek even now to accomplish the impossible--and although they are but barely able to use the weapons they bear they yet pose the greatest danger to the Enemy himself!  But I cannot speak further of that at this time.”

            “And you have come to claim the Crown at last?”

            The other’s face grew grave.  “I said no such thing.”

            “Then I am mistaken in the thought that you have come as the Heir to Isildur?”  Húrin felt very confused. 

            A tent flap opened and from it came another who was very similar in face to Hardorn, save this one was broader in his chest .  He, too, showed great grief in his expression.  “Aragorn?” he asked.  “Will you not rest?  You’ve not properly rested in--how many days now?  And even we rested when we reached Helm’s Deep, unlike you and Halbarad.”

            “At least he rests now,” his companion said quietly.  “Where have you bestowed his body?”

            “In the healer’s pavilion there.”  There was a nod toward a broad pavilion beyond them.  “A screen has been set up around the area where the fallen have been bestowed.  We’ll not be able to carry him home, you know.”

            “I know, and Aeiluin shall weep for him when the word is brought to her.”

            “If she knows not already,” the other said.  “He spoke a bit as I held his head, glad he was spent in your service.”

            This one--Thorongil?  Estel?  Aragorn?  The King Returned?--reached out and placed his hand upon the other’s shoulder.  “Alas we must lose him, Halladan.”

            “Master Gimli and Prince Legolas have been standing honor for him whilst we’ve been busy about our own business.”

            “Bless them.  You, too, need to rest, cousin.”

            “You are the one who will need to deal with the folk of the city on the morrow.”  The one identified as Halladan examined Húrin.  “You are of Gondor, then, lord?” he asked.

            “Forgive me, Lord Húrin.  Hardorn here I believe you recognize, but not his next older brother, Halladan, who now serves as my Steward for the North Kingdom, following his brother, Halbarad, who died this day upon the Pelennor.”

            Suddenly Húrin understood.  “He served as your standard bearer, then?”

            Thorongil gave a slow nod.  “Yea, so he did, and would suffer no other to take that right from him, although he foresaw that doing so could well cost him his life.  My first friend among Men he was, long ago when I was first returned to my own people after growing up within Imladris, and these his true brothers allow me to grieve with them for his loss.”  Indeed, in the growing light presaging dawn and the light of the lantern lit before the tent he could see that the pain and grief was indeed equal in the face of each of them.

            “And you, my lord--how would you have me address you?”

            The tall Man shrugged.  “You may tell those within the city that I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, the Chieftain of the Dúnedain of the North, come to fulfill the alliance forged between Arvedui and Ondoher, and later with Eärnil, in thanks for the support granted my ancestor Arvedui and his son Aranarth.”

            “Then you do not intend to claim the Crown of Gondor?”

            Aragorn son of Arathorn, Chieftain of the Dúnedain of the North, gave a rather feral smile, reminding Húrin of how this one would speak of his plans to assault a newly located orc nest.  “I did not say that, either, my lord,” he said.  “I will see you in a few hours’ time, then.”  So saying, he bowed and turned to enter the tent, followed by Lord Halladan and by Hardorn, who gave the salute common to Gondor before following his brother and lord kinsman inside.

 *******

            Leonid awaited him not in his office, but on the very steps of the Citadel itself.  “You found him?” he demanded.

            “It took time, but, yes, I found him.”

            “What was he doing?”

            “Ministering to those wounded who were taken to the Inn of the King’s Head once it became known there was no more room within the Houses of Healing.”

            “And he is...?”

            “He said for me to speak of him as the Chieftain of the Northern Dúnedain, and nothing more.”

            “But is he Thorongil?”

            “He does not use that name.”

            “Not that name?  Then what name does he use?”

            “He said to tell those here that he is Aragorn son of Arathorn.”

            Leonid seemed to relax.  “Yes, the name is right,” he breathed.

            “Then you are indeed from the North Kingdom yourself?”

            Leonid gave a shrug, then looked away ruefully.  “I was born in the Angle,” he said.  “I saw our Lord Aragorn a few times when I was a child, when he would visit our village.  Then he came southward.  I was sent to the Bear for training when I turned sixteen, and was on my first patrol when word came my village had been attacked by orcs and those few remaining in Rhudaur.  We came as soon as we could--and there was almost nothing left.  Three children, two women, and four Men--those were our only survivors.  My father and mother--they were not among them.  We learned my sister was taken as a slave by the folk from Rhudaur.  By the time we found them, she, too, was dead.”  The look on his face was grim.  Húrin was fascinated, for never before had Leonid spoken of his history or family, save one time when he’d merely said he had no family living.

            “So, I chose to come away south--follow our Lord Chieftain.  And after you were injured as you were, Aragorn gave me to you, to serve you as I could.  He was--he was giving me a reason to live, I suppose.”

            “So that was the reason you never left us.”

            Leonid gave a gentle nod of assent.  “Yes, that was why.”

            “Why did you come to us from the valley of the Anduin, and not through Rohan?”

            The northerner again shrugged, looking east toward the lowering threat of the Enemy.  “I was advised to come that way, that I not----”  He took a deep breath.  “They did not wish for me to avenge my family on all I came upon along the way,” he finally said.  “Lord Halbaleg sent messages by way of me, to his youngest son and to our lord chieftain.  I recognized Hardorn first, for he spent time in Rivendell on our Lord Aragorn’s orders, learning more fully the warrior’s way, and was often among the patrols that followed the sons of Elrond against the orcs that infest the deep places under the Misty Mountains--they have ever hated the orcs, ever since their mother took a poisoned wound at their hands and was forced to leave Middle Earth to seek healing in the West.  Hardorn was sent with Lord Aragorn that he not be fully cut off from the memory of our people as well as to watch his back.”

            Húrin indicated his own understanding.  At last he asked, “Who are Master Gimli and Prince Legolas?  Do you know?”

            His aide looked to him sharply.  “Prince Legolas--is he here?  He came following our lord chieftain?”

            “Apparently.  You know of him, then?”

            “He accompanied me partly along the way, guarding me, I suppose.  His patrol leader was not happy he should do so, for the folk of Mirkwood find his willingness to shed his bodyguards somewhat disturbing.”

            “Mirkwood?”

            “Yes--his father is King of the great Woodland Realm of the Green Leaves--far to the north of us.  As for Master Gimli--that sounds like the name of a Dwarf.”

            Húrin looked thoughtfully toward the walls for the level of the Citadel as if he could see through them and downward to the camp of the Northern Dúnedain, there out upon the Pelennor.  “I see,” he said half to himself.  “Yes, he said he came with three Elves and a Dwarf, and four Pheriannath.”

            “Four Hobbits?  I was amazed to see one brought here by Mithrandir, and then to learn a second had been brought to the Houses from the battle.  There are two more?  But since when have Hobbits ever taken up weaponry?  Such is not their way!  And if these two within the city are kinsmen to the two others, as is likely for they are a clannish folk, why are the other two not already beating down the doors to the Houses demanding to see those within?”

            All Húrin could do was shrug, for he had no answers to these questions.  It appeared there were many unfamiliar folk lingering within the ruins of Arnor....

 *******

            Húrin took Leonid down with him to the Captains’ council that was held within the encampment before the city.  It was a quiet spot within the determined effort to cleanse the Pelennor of the scars of war.  Teams of draft horses had been brought from where they’d been taken for safekeeping within northern Lossarnach and even now were being attached to the bodies of the great mûmakil to drag them to a place where they might be burnt.  He saw teams of foresters divesting the great beasts of their huge tusks to be used by the artisans of the city, although the talk was that a pair taken from the largest animal should be given to King Éomer in token of how it was his people had helped to bring them down.

            No horses, however, could be brought anywhere near the body of the great winged beast on which the Nazgûl had ridden.  All that Húrin could guess was that it should most likely be burnt where it lay, as no one was willing to have much to do with such an accursed and unnatural creature.

            Leonid was recognized by Hardorn and Halladan, and was spoken to by a few others among those who’d accompanied Lord Aragorn as well, and Húrin saw how this recognition by his own folk appeared to fill an emptiness in his aide of which the Gondorian lord had only partly been aware.

 *******

            “You will all go to the Black Gate?”  Lord Húrin could not believe this move.

            “We must.”  Lord Aragorn’s face still showed exhaustion, but also showed great determination.  “He must believe that one of us holds his weapon that the way be made open for the Ringbearer.  In this are Gandalf and the Lord Elrond right--the Enemy must be challenged.”

            “And who will be the commander?” he asked.

            Prince Imrahil looked about the rest of the tent.  “I have given my fealty, as I said, to Lord Aragorn.  All saw his banner unfurled upon the Anduin and leading the assault on the Pelennor; I see he wears the Elessar stone and the Elendilmir, and have seen the sword of Elendil reforged shining in his hand as he has hewn down the foe.  I follow the Heir to Elendil and Isildur into this battle, even should it cost me my life.”

            Halladan, whom he’d met the previous evening, shrugged.  “Why else would my brothers and I come south with what of our kindred we could gather in haste if not to follow the heir to our Kings into these final battles against the foe to all?”

            Éomer looked about those seated within the tent.  “My uncle gave himself gladly upon the Pelennor to meet our ancient vows of alliance, and I have given my love, as that of a brother, to Aragorn here.  I follow him.”

            Fedwion of Lossarnach looked from the face of Prince Imrahil to that of the other lords of Gondor, then back to Éomer.  “I lost my father as you have lost your uncle.  We were almost overwhelmed upon the Pelennor when the black ships arrived and spewed forth not the folk of the Corsairs but our own people, come to the City’s defense now that the rest of our realm was made safe.  I will go with you, and if the victory is won I will give my oath of fealty to this one as my sovereign lord.”

            Húrin watched as others followed suit, some vowing themselves and their people directly to the one identified as the Heir to Isildur, others stating, as had Fedwion, that if he led them to victory that they would then accept him as their King.

            One lesser lord of Lamedon asked, “I would ask what proof there is that you are indeed the Heir to Isildur?”

            The two dark-haired Elves both arose at that.  One spoke: “Our father was own brother to your great lord, Elros Tar-Minyatur, and has accepted his issue ever as our kinsmen.  Valandil, son to Isildur, dandled us upon his knee, and his son and grandsons played with us as children.  We have known all of the Heirs to Isildur, fathers, sons, and even daughters, from that day to this, and saw this one raised even as a son of our house for the sake of Elros, Elendil the Elf-friend, and all his long-fathers to this day, Kings and Chieftains.  For this have we ever ridden at the side of the Rangers of Arnor, as they have ridden to our defense at need.  My brother, our father, and I saw this one born to Arathorn and Gilraen; and for this day have we ever sought to prepare him, that when the final battle with Sauron came he should be ready.”

            “I am not certain what further proof you should need,” added Lord Angborn.  “Lo, he comes to us wearing the Elfstone and the Star of Elendil, Narsil Reforged answers to his mastery and has heartened all who have found themselves fighting at his side, and the army of the Dead followed at his will and helped to secure the victory at Pelargir.  The hearts of us all have been lifted just at his presence--and he has amply demonstrated that he has the healing hands of the King.  I stand by our lord Prince Imrahil, offering my fealty now.”

            The other dark-haired Peredhel said, “More proofs we have brought with us, but now is not the time for proofs, but for acts.  We have come to the last hours of the Third Age--we either triumph, or all of us shall fall--Men, Elves, Dwarves, Periannath, Onodrim, Great Eagles, and all others of good will.”

            “What about the Crown of the North Kingdom?” asked another unnamed lordling.

            “The sovereignty of Arnor has never been conferred by a crown, but by holding the Sceptre of Annúminas.  Aranarth left that in the hands of our father to hold against the day that the desire of Arvedui and Fíriel should be met and the two kingdoms both be properly restored and reunited.  For was it not ever the law that it was through the eldest child to the King of the Dúnedain that the primary lordship passed?  Isildur was elder brother to Anárion, was he not?  Indeed, so our father has proclaimed, and there in your Hall of Kings atop your city, as Elrohir and I stood witness to.”

            “And when did you do this?” demanded the lordling.

            “When Arvedui came here with his son after the death of his wife’s father and brothers--our father, our grandparents, and many others all came to stand by the claim he and Fíriel made for the Crown, that the two realms of the Dúnedain be reunited, and we came to stand by him, one we considered almost as much a brother as we do this one.”  Elladan clapped one of his hands to the shoulder of Aragorn son of Arathorn.  “This is not our first visit to the White City, you see.”

            This pronouncement quieted the rest, but the lesser lord of Lamedon turned to Húrin.  “What think you, as kinsman to Ecthelion, Denethor, Boromir, and Faramir?  Do you accept the claim of this one?”

            Húrin turned to search the eyes of the one he’d once known as Thorongil, and suddenly he felt himself begin to smile.  “Long and long have we of Gondor looked for the return of the King.  I say that I have seen the healing hands in action, and have been lifted by them from weakness and despair to the light of hope once more.  It is time to put the envy of Pelendur behind us for once and all.”

            “But I will make no proper claim until the victory is won,” Aragorn pointed out.

            “You think indeed we can win against that?” demanded the lesser lord from Lamedon, indicating the darkness over the Ephel Dúath to be discerned through the partially opened tent flap.

            “If we don’t,” muttered another, “there will be no need for any debates as to the rightness of claims or crowns or anything else.”

            There were words of agreement on all sides.

 *******

            He and Prince Imrahil, trailed by Imrahil’s second son Erchirion and by Leonid, returned up through the city to the Houses of Healing together.  “He reminds me of someone, although I cannot say whom,” Imrahil commented.  “Perhaps it is merely Denethor, many, many years ago, when he first courted my sister.  He was hopeful once, and pleasant to spend time with, after all.”

            “I remember,” Húrin agreed.  He’d decided not to share the past identity by which the Lord Aragorn had once been known, and was wondering how long it would be before Imrahil would recognize Thorongil in Isildur’s Heir.

            At the doors to the Houses they were recognized by the Guardsmen and passed through easily, and the Warden came forward to greet them as they paused in the entrance hall.  “Welcome, lords,” he said, and they could see how much lighter his cares appeared today than they had the previous evening.  “Lord Faramir has been awake several times today, and has only just been assisted to a comfortable chair.  He is stiff and still in some pain, but will not accept anything stronger than willow bark at this time.  His breathing is normal and clear, and his color much better than it had been.  His mind appears clear, and he has learned that his father is dead, although we have not told him any details as yet.”

            “Can he bear with visitors, do you think?” Imrahil asked.

            “Yes--such should not burden him overmuch at this point.”

            Húrin asked, “And other casualties--how many more died during the night?”

            The Warden’s face grew more solemn.  “We lost sixteen in all during the night--but it is far better than I’d looked to see--we’d thought to lose at least four times that number.  And it is similarly throughout the city--the word on all levels is that where the Lord Elfstone and the two he spake of as his Elven brothers walked amongst the wounded most with minor wounds have begun to show signs of full recovery, and most others have rallied; while those who must die have done so with greater grace and peace.  And everywhere their shadows have fallen the darker Shadow has fallen away.”

            It was heartening news, and together they approached the hallway where Faramir’s room lay.  Beregond of the Guard again stood outside the young Steward’s room, although it could be seen that he wore a uniform of unrelieved black rather than that of the White Tree as was customary.

            “And where is Guardsman Peregrin?” Húrin asked.

            “He was relieved of duty today that he might attend on his kinsman.  They and Master Gimli and Prince Legolas are all in Master Meriadoc’s room there,” said the other Guardsman on duty, indicating a room not far down the hallway.  “Master Meriadoc assisted in the felling of the Lord of the Nazgûl, and undoubtedly is the only reason the Princess Éowyn survived the encounter.  It is a wonder to us, my lords, to find that there are indeed Pheriannath in this world and that they are so courageous.”

            “Would you see our Lord Faramir, lords?” asked Beregond.  At their assent he knocked at the door.  It was opened by Dendril, Faramir’s clerk when he worked within the Citadel as first assistant to his father.

            “My lord Prince, and Lord Húrin?  Lord Erchirion?  Welcome!  Enter--Lord Faramir had hoped to see you soon and learn what you can tell.”

            They entered, and Dendril went out to fetch refreshment for them.  Faramir looked up from a missive that lay upon the table next to him.  “Uncle, and my beloved cousins.  Tell me--what was decided in the council of the captains?”

            Imrahil answered him, “We will raise a force and cross the river--bring the fight directly to the gates of Mordor itself.  Apparently at this time the Morgul Vale is empty; but many others lie within the gate to the Black Land, orcs, trolls, and Men from Rhun, Khand, and Harad, plus whatever other creatures of wizardry and darkness the Nameless One has bred as he did those fell flying things on which the Nazgûl rode in the assault upon the city.”

            “To the Black Gate itself?”  Faramir straightened in surprise, but it was clear he approved as well.  “That is quite a move, then.  Whose suggestion was this?”

            “It was made first by Mithrandir, but approved by Lord Aragorn and the two Elves identified as the sons of Elrond.”

            “Did they discuss Masters Frodo and Samwise?”

            “The other two Pheriannath--the ones not within the city?  Yea, some, but as obliquely as possible.  Did they truly----”

            Faramir waved his good hand.  “Nay, do not speak of it, not here--this is not something that should be discussed openly.”

            “Then you know----” began Imrahil.

            The young Steward nodded, although his expression was now very grave.  “It was made plain enough to me what their purpose was, and I helped them as I could.  And if it angered my father--well, then, so it must be.  But I would not touch this thing, much less see It brought here where It could corrupt those I know and love.  It had already betrayed Boromir, and had sought repeatedly to see Master Frodo given into the hands of our enemies all along the way, or so I gleaned from what Master Samwise could be brought to say.”

            He leaned back in his chair and rubbed at the bridge of his nose.  “Who leads the assault?” he asked at length.

            “The Lord Aragorn--and I tell you now, nephew, that I have given him my fealty.”

            Faramir dropped his hand and looked up at his uncle, a smile lightening his expression.  “You have named him as King, as did I when I awoke?”

            “Yes, beloved one.”

            “Can you tell me of the battle?”

            “What can I say that you do not already know or can divine?  They brought an army of near a hundred thousand--Men, orcs, and trolls.  I cannot say how many mûmakil there were--a fair number, but all are destroyed now.  Plus there were other odd beasts of one sort or another, mostly used to drag their great ram, the one used on the gates of the city.  The Nazgûl rode upon the winged steeds you saw over Osgiliath and, I’m told, between there and here as you led the first retreat.”  Faramir nodded.  “They assaulted the walls and--and sought to dishearten us by sending proof of their hatred for the Men they caught abroad.”

            Faramir paled.  “I can too easily imagine.”

            “They made little headway, however, during the night, for none of our folk would go out to face them, and they could do little against the walls of the city save to send their shot over them.  They did send balls of flaming stuff into the First and Second Circles, and there will be much need for rebuilding.  However, it was not until near dawn that they were able at last to breach the great gates--but Mithrandir sat his great horse within them and faced down the Lord of the Nazgûl, who uttered empty threats until, as the Sun rose, the horns of Rohan could be heard across the Pelennor.

            “The Witch-king withdrew and fetched his flying thing once more, and stooped down on Théoden King himself.  Only a second Pherian and the King’s niece slew his steed and faced the wraith, and somehow brought about his end!  It was a great deed!  The Lady Éowyn and Master Meriadoc were carried here and lie recovering as do you, for the Black Breath almost took them both.”

            Faramir’s face showed wonder and interest.  “And how was it dispelled?”  Then he began to smile.  “No--the hands of the King?”

            “Indeed, beloved one.”

            “Yes!” the younger Man said with relief.  “Ah, but now we have to find the way to see to it that the Lord Aragorn is accepted as King when he returns to us.”

            “You think there will be a victory, then?” Húrin asked.

            Faramir nodded his head.  “We must focus on that hope.  And, remember--I have felt the gift of healing, ever one of the signs of the King’s right to rule, and have looked into the eyes of the two Pheriannath who carry the greater burden to the consternation of Mordor itself.  I do not believe that Master Frodo looks to return from his quest; but only death itself will come between him and his purpose, I deem.  The Enemy has never appreciated the strength there is in what appears small and comely or merely comfortable.  Indeed, between the return of Mithrandir from death, the unlooked for appearance of the Heir to Isildur, and the small ones even now creeping through his land--or so it is to be hoped--I suspect that the Nameless One has far more reason than he realizes for anxiety.” 

            His expression could easily match that of the captain in the early hours of the morning, or so Húrin believed.  He gave a glance back at Leonid, who stood behind him, and saw that the northern Dúnadan was smiling as he indicated his own agreement with Faramir’s estimation of the situation.

Darkness again Rising

            As he came down into the gardens surrounding the Houses of Healing, Húrin saw a small form standing stiffly at the wall, looking intently eastward, as if willing himself to see clearly what happened there.  Had he not by now come to know Master Meriadoc, Húrin would have thought it one of the boys who served as messengers between the healers and the city’s defenders.  He came to stand beside the--the Hobbit.

            The Pherian looked up at him briefly in acknowledgment of his arrival.  “My Lord Húrin?  Have you come to speak with Lord Faramir, then?”

            “Indeed, although my errand is not particularly urgent.  He’d given orders that the masons and artisans prepare the Royal Wing for occupancy, but a pair of peregrine falcons have built their nest on a windowsill on the second floor, and they would not disturb it without his approval.  Falcons are greatly esteemed here, you must realize.”

            “Falcons?  Well, from what I’ve seen of Strider, you’d best let them be--he’d be delighted to have such creatures nesting outside his windows.”  He looked back eastward again.  “Has there been any word?”

            “Not since they turned northward from the Crossroads.”

            “Where are they now, do you think?”

            Húrin looked thoughtfully northward.  “Considering the size of the army and how long it took them to cross the Pelennor and all disappear into Osgiliath, I’d say probably about even with the Field of Cormallen, perhaps a day’s march from the turn eastward.  They will probably be before the Black Gate day after tomorrow.”

            Merry nodded thoughtfully.  “And Frodo and Sam--Lord Faramir says that he saw them last fifteen days ago.  They ought to be well within Mordor by now--if they found a way into it, at least.”

            “They did have a guide of sorts with that gangrel creature, from what was told to my cousin.”

            “He is your cousin, then?”

            Húrin nodded absently as he peered eastward.  “My mother was Lord Denethor’s elder sister--I think she was about twelve years older than he.  She and my aunt died some years ago, my aunt when I was a boy and my mother shortly after the death of the Lady Finduilas.  There was a pestilence that was making its way through the city at the time, you see.”

            “Oh.”  Master Merry turned to look up at him.  “Then you are indeed Faramir’s first cousin?”

            “Yes, and twenty years the elder.  And what is your relationship to Guardsman Peregrin?”

            “Pippin’s my first cousin on the side of his father and my mother--my mum’s Uncle Paladin’s younger sister, although they have three older ones.  Then we’re third cousins on my dad’s mother’s side, for I’m great, great grandson twice to the Old Took, and him once.  Frodo’s great grandson to the Old Took also through Mirabella as I am great, great grandson through her, so he’s both my first and second cousin, once removed each way.  But I suspect that this is all only serving to confuse you.  Aragorn understands it, but then he’s the heir to the Line of Kings, after all, and has had to keep track of his ancestry as close as any Hobbit; but poor Boromir would only look confused when Pippin would try to explain it all to him.”

            Húrin surprised himself by laughing.  “I suspect that Faramir will appreciate the relationships better than his brother did, for he’s always loved to tease out such details.”  Then he grew more grave.  “Alas that Boromir did not return to us--the news that he was dead greatly weakened my uncle’s courage.”

            The Hobbit nodded as he looked back eastward.  For a time they were quiet, before he at last said, “I hope Pippin comes back to us.  I don’t know what I’ll do if the battle’s won but he’s lost--Uncle Paladin and Aunt Eglantine would be destroyed by it, you see.  As will I,” he added, more softly.  “It would feel like losing a part of myself, just as it does thinking----”  He took a deep breath.  “--Thinking that it’s very possible I’ll never see Frodo again.  And there’s a good chance I won’t see him, isn’t there?”

            Húrin sighed as he looked down on the Hobbit and placed his hand on Meriadoc’s shoulder.  “You must not give up hope, my friend.  I will not lie to you and assure you that you will see him again--we truly cannot know that at this point.  But miracles do happen, as happened out there eight days since when a Pherian and a woman from Rohan cut down the Enemy’s great general.”

            Indeed there was hope in the Hobbit’s face as he again peered eastward.  “Yes, there is that.  Still can’t believe we did it, Éowyn and I.”

 *******

            On the twenty-fifth it seemed to be as dark and dread as it had been the day on which those who remained within Minas Tirith had stood upon the walls and first looked out to see the forces of Mordor facing them.  There was a heaviness in the air that made it hard to breathe, and all felt oppressed.  When Húrin came to the Houses of Healing and saw that his younger cousin stood there with the Lady Éowyn, particularly once he’d seen what garment Faramir was at the moment wrapping about her shoulders, he’d gone on to seek out Master Meriadoc.  Dendril and Leonid were going through the records of the debates surrounding the rejection of the claim of Arvedui and Fíriel for the Winged Crown and the subsequent acceptance of the suit of Eärnil for the same object, along with Master Alvric and two others from the Guild of Lawyers, and were likely to be much of the day about it, if Húrin didn’t miss his guess.  The reports had come back from the Citadel’s artisans that all within the Royal Wing was sound, and the replastered walls had just been painted.  A woodworker was now busy setting new shelves along one wall of what would again soon be the King’s private sitting room, and windows were now being measured for new draperies while Master Balstador, the Seneschal for the Citadel, had set his folk to scouring the storehouses for possible items of furniture likely to be found appropriate for furnishing the wing.  It was, Húrin thought, a good time to be out of the Citadel itself.

            Master Meriadoc was not in his room, but Mistress Ioreth was quick to let him know that the Pherian who’d ridden with the Rohirrim was down visiting those of the Riders of Rohan who were yet housed here, and that he’d gone to speak with them and learn their songs--he had quite the love for songs and poetry, did Master Meriadoc; and his presence was deeply appreciated by the Rohirrim.  They’d all made the place gay with their golden hair and their free-spirited ways, and truly made over the Pherian.  Was Lord Húrin aware that the Pheriannath referred to themselves as Hobbits?  Now, Master Meriadoc, now that he was feeling better, was proving to have quite the appetite....

            Húrin found himself hurriedly making excuses and fairly scurrying off to the ward where the Rohirrim were housed lest he be trapped in the hallway for the next hour listening to Mistress Ioreth prattle on.

            As he approached the door he could hear singing.  It must be almost everyone within, he thought as he paused just outside the door.

            “Hey, ho, to the bottle I go,

            to heal my heart and drown my woe.”

            Ah, a drinking song!  Appropriate, he knew, for the Rohirrim, although this song sounded a good deal less sonorous than most of the songs he’d ever heard from that people in the past.

            “...but I still have many miles to go.”

            He smiled as he pushed the door open, finding the room filled with a glad laughter in direct contradiction to the gloom of the day.  Yes, there was laughter here, but it was offered to spite the Nameless One, he realized.  Not quite forced, but....

            Master Meriadoc stood on a chair and was directing the Riders in the singing of the song.  Yet in spite of the laughter in his eyes Húrin could detect the great anxiety that he was so seeking to suppress.

            The song came to its end, and all within laughed and applauded themselves.  “A fine song, Master Holbylta,” said one of the Riders.  “Your folk know well how to enjoy the gifts of the Lady of the Fields!”

            “Thank you!” replied the Hobbit with such a sweeping bow he almost fell from the chair on which he stood.  He looked up and saw the Keeper of the Keys for the City and Citadel and gave a nervous smile.  “I see news might have come for me regarding my kinsmen.  If you will excuse me.”  So saying he hopped off the chair.

            “Go, and hurry back to us,” shouted one of the Men in the room.

            “And when you stand guard next by our Lord Théoden’s bier, bear him my best wishes,” said an older Rider, one who wore about his arm a bracelet that must have been bestowed on him by his late sovereign.  Most likely he’d been one of the knights of the King’s House, Húrin thought.

            But as he came to Húrin’s side, all thoughts of Rohan were fading already from Master Meriadoc’s mind, the Man realized.  The frown lines that ought not to be present already between the brows of one so young were more obvious than ever.  He still thought to turn, bow deeply, and wave to the residents of the ward before coming forth and shutting the door behind them, but his first low words were, “Is there any news as yet?”

            “No, none.  However, as looming as are the clouds of ash, I suspect that the battle is already on.  Come--come out with me, and let us seek comfort in the beauty of the garden.”

            “What can be seen of it in this murk!” muttered the Hobbit as they returned to the main hallway.  They stopped long enough for the Pherian to fetch his cloak and throw it about his shoulders, and then they were hurrying out of the building, seeking some place where the air didn’t feel so dead.

            They started toward their favorite place to look out together, but paused, for there were already two together there, two who were unlikely to appreciate anyone joining them.

            “Then I tell you that you are fair....”

            “We’d best go this way,” breathed Merry, and soundlessly he led the way further northward, away from the Man and Woman who were beginning to find themselves and one another as they spoke.  “At least one good thing is coming out of this darkness, if those two are realizing they love one another.  Not, of course, that my sword-sister will give her heart easily at all this time, considering how badly things went the last time.”

            “She’s loved before?”

            “Well, she thought it was love, from what little she’s let slip; not that there was any hope from it.  No, I’m not certain, but I think that there’s a far different love for our Strider, although he’s willing to love the Lady Éowyn as a sister.”

            This intelligence caused the Gondorian’s eyebrows to rise.  “She was in love with the Lord Aragorn?”

            “I think so--I think that this is why she chose to ride with her uncle rather to stay home as she’d been bade by him.  From what Elfred’s said, she did little but watch Aragorn the whole time they were within King Théoden’s halls, and at whatever he said to her as he took his leave of her at Dunharrow she came away in mixed grief and outrage.  He said he saw her step too closely toward Strider, and he stepped back, speaking in low tones to her, taking her hand and kissing it, then stepping back further and bowing low before leaving her.

            “At least she knew well that her uncle and brother both loved her dearly, and she sought to spend what time might be left all of us as close to them as she dared be.  It’s not easy agreeing to stay home, supposedly safe, when those you love best are going out to face dangers you can’t imagine.”

            “You speak as one who has experience in such things.”

            “Frodo was going to go alone at first, until Gandalf insisted that Sam go with him.  And none of us wanted Pippin to come along with us--he’s not even of age yet!  Uncle Paladin will skin me alive when we get back for allowing him to come at all!  But there was no way in Middle Earth I’d have let Frodo go without me, and even less that Pippin would have allowed the same of me and Frodo both!”

            The Man nodded.  “Then you love him, this first and second cousin once removed each way?”

            “Oh, yes.  He’s like my older brother, and Pippin’s like my little brother.  As for Sam--he’s become like the big brother to all of us, for all he’s not that much older than me and is so much younger than Frodo himself.  I don’t know what we’d all have done without him--he’s the most practical and steady of all of us, you see, but still hides a romantic nature behind his Gaffer’s sayings and his attention for comfort.”

            They stood together, looking out.  Lord Elfhelm from Rohan came to join them, standing on the other side of them.  “I’d thought to have a few words with the Lady,” he commented in soft tones, “but I see she hears but one voice today.  I am glad--she deserves a good husband, and he will love her as she ought to be loved, I think.  He will respect the Shieldmaiden and nurture the woman both.  One of the finest I’ve ever seen, your kinsman, Lord Húrin.”

            All three became quiet.  Now and then they would catch a word from the two down the wall from them, but mostly they looked eastward as well as they could.  “Oh, Frodo--where are you, you and Sam?  Are you nearly there, there by the Mountain?  They’re doing their best, Frodo, to see to it the way’s open for you!”  The Hobbit’s whisper was fervent.

            And just then they felt it--that terrible moment of balance when it all could have gone one way or another.  They heard the Lady Éowyn cry out, and Faramir’s voice rose in response, challenging the East and declaring his intention to protect this woman as he could.  They turned involuntarily and saw the two of them together, drawn close to one another’s side as the darkness appeared to close around all of them----

            ----And then the Wind sprang up!  It blew in the trees and bushes about them, and raised the white pennon of the Stewards and let its device of bare white tree upon a white background be seen!  They heard it sing about the Tower, and rise to rip at the lowering clouds of ash, saw the brown and grey begin to tear apart.  Afar off to the east the winds also tore at the sky, seeking to allow honest sunlight and blue heavens to be seen over a horrible battlefield and tortured land.  But a darker cloud was rising, and about it they saw great bolts of lightning tear--but this darkness proved feeble in the end, and with gladness the winds of the world tore it apart, dispersing it away, allowing all to breathe freely!

            And without volition they turned to where Faramir stood, his arm about the White Lady of Rohan, and he turned his face to her, spoke in low tones, and then kissed her!  And the wind mingled their hair together, long, dark threads and longer golden ones whipping about their heads and forms, molding their clothing to them on one side and blowing it away on the other; and the three reluctant watchers felt the wind doing the same with themselves as their cloaks and shirts and hair were whipped first one way and then another.  Merry laughed aloud with sheer heart’s ease.  “They did it!” he cried out in gladness.  “Frodo and Sam--they did it!  With Gollum’s help or in spite of it--they did it!  The Ring is destroyed!”

            And below them in the city they heard the cries of awe, surprise, and joy as all realized that the darkness of the East was gone--and Sauron could now be freely named for he was no longer a danger to any!

A Crown Claimed

            It was with a feeling of loss that Húrin bade farewell to the Hobbit as he set off eastward with what supplies could be sent across the river in haste to the needs of the army.  “Cormallen is a fair place--you will learn that,” he assured Master Meriadoc.

            “I’m certain it is--I only fear what I’ll find.  The letter said so little, but it was enough to let me know all three of them are injured.  If Pippin’s lost----”  He stopped in embarrassment, his eyes flickering to and away from Húrin’s empty sleeve.

            “You need not fear the loss of a limb--I may no longer wield a bow, but I am still a worthy adversary with a sword and thrown knives--indeed, I carry six upon my person at all times.  And it has done nothing to blunt the keenness of my mind or the effectiveness of my pen.

            “Remember, Master Meriadoc, he is tended by your friend Strider, and he was the one who was by me when I lost my arm.  How it might have been had it been any other I could not say, but there is a reason that those here within the City already name him the King due to the healing hands he bears.  And if he is as good at calling light out of the shadows in the business of the realm as he is at easing the fears of a young Ranger who’d just learned he’d lost his left arm, or calling a Pherian from the darkness of the Black Breath, then he will make a good King indeed.  You will see.”

            Once the cavalcade of wagons had set off eastward to Osgiliath where they would be loaded on boats and sent northward to the encampment of the Army of the West, Húrin turned back reluctantly to the Citadel where he was expected to sit at Faramir’s right hand as the Council met one last time, Erchirion of Dol Amroth sitting in for his father, Lord Elfhelm and the Lady Éowyn for Éomer King of Rohan, a goodly number of the greater and a few lesser lords or their wives and sons or brothers, all come to debate the claim they would face for the Winged Crown of Gondor, all witnessed by Lord Halladan of Annúminas, who’d come from the camp at Cormallen to represent the interests of Arnor and his Lord Cousin.

            The Master of the Guild of Lawyers presented the arguments that had been made a thousand years past when it was a different Heir of Isildur who’d come here to Gondor.  “The major argument against him was that he was too far removed from our line of Kings,” the lawyer explained.  “However, in examining the rolls of the lords of the various fiefdoms we find that the same can be said for all at this point in time.  Not a one is closer to the line of Anárion than fifteen removals.  However, in Lord Aragorn’s case he is in direct lineage of both lines, father to son in the case of the North Kingdom and father to son from the daughter of Ondoher in the case of the South.  I’ve not as yet had the chance to examine the Roll of the Kings from the North Kingdom--if, of course, it yet remains; but it is clear from the list of names given independently by Lord Halladan here and from what the King and one of his Elven brothers have written that there can be no question of his lineage--all agree in the names and particulars.”

            “But if we denied the claims of Arvedui....” began a lord from Langstrand.

            “Who was it who did that but the Steward Pelendur?” demanded Faramir.  “And what was the reason he did so?  Was it not primarily due to envy that Arvedui had won the bride he’d wished for himself?  His decision certainly could not be argued on the basis of who held the closest blood claim--Arvedui claimed the crown, intending for it to be held jointly by himself and his wife, and none questioned that the Lady Fíriel was Ondoher’s own daughter, and of legitimate birth.” 

            One of the lords commented, “Perhaps he ought to have claimed the Crown in the name of his son Aranarth.  Pelendur could not have contested the legitimacy of the marriage nor the claim the child as the grandson of Ondoher held for our rule.”

            “But he was not but a child of what--five or six years at most?”  Erchirion was shaking his head.  “Perhaps the lords and people at that time might not have questioned his right to the Crown as they did that of his father, even if he did propose to rule jointly with his wife as daughter of the late King; but in a time of such instability as there was, such could easily have proven disastrous.  Such situations all too often lead to abuse and civil war as various factions seek to set themselves in control of the regency and the regent finds himself fighting for independence of action--and then having to release the rule when the time of minority is over.  And had the child’s parents been suggested as regents for him, Pelendur would still have fought it, for it would have led precisely to their rule, against which he was firmly opposed.  We have seen how strongly his will was represented within the records read us over the past three hours.”

            For a time all were quiet.  “We could deny this one, too,” pointed out the lord from Langstrand.  “We were content under your father’s rule, Lord Faramir.  We do not need to accede to the rule of any King at this point, I think.  Let him go back to his own lands and make of them a kingdom again.”

            “Were you truly content under the rule of my father, or did you not merely feel safe, knowing that no undue changes were coming, Lord Mardiol?” Faramir asked.  “He saw to it that the army was strong and had as adequate supplies and weapons as the land could provide; he accepted little foolishness from those who ruled the land under his guidance, and allowed none to become too independent or to use his people too badly or to lord it over other fiefdoms. 

            “But as a land we have not grown.  Most of the grainfields of Anórien have had to lie fallow for too many years as we’ve drawn their menfolk into our armies and have forced the remaining women and children to move away from the farms and into the towns where they might be offered better protection.  Since the victory at Umbar in the days when my grandfather was Steward we have let our navy deteriorate until today there are barely enough warships to protect a small convoy of merchant ships from here to beyond the coast of Harad.  The orchards of Ithilien have seen more burning than harvests during most of my life.  The oyster beds of Langstrand were poisoned six years back by some substance dropped from Haradri and Umbari vessels, and only in the last year have there been reports that they again begin to support the life of the oysters once more.  It will be at least ten more years ere they again support our needs for such gems.  The townlands of the Pelennor have been burned and trampled, its villages flattened, its folk fled or murdered, its trees hewn down and destroyed.  We cannot look to set cattle or sheep to forage upon it for at least two years--indeed, before many villages can be rebuilt we must make certain the wells are clean and that no fell weapons or substances have been left there to poison or kill those who would restore their homes or farms.  And we have had the difficulties of disposing of the bodies of the dead, both our own and those of the foe, as well as the many great beasts brought here--the dread flying thing, the mûmakil and the animals used as draft beasts.  We have been fortunate that the days have been relatively cool and that in the greyness few flies have bred as yet, or we would have contagion beyond telling within the city.”

            All muttered at how well he’d summarized the situation.

            At last the lord from Langstrand asked, “Well, do you accept the claims of this Aragorn son of Arathorn, my Lord Faramir?”

            Faramir looked about before answering, “Yes, I do.  He has come along with witnesses who have known his ancestors from the days of Valandil, and whose father has known them from the days of Elros Tar-Minyatur himself, and who fought our Enemy alongside Elendil, Isildur, and Anárion.  He came to the needs of our land and our capital when we were sore beset, and has drawn to our defense such an alliance as we’ve not seen in Gondor since the Elven havens failed near Dol Amroth.  He commanded the forces of the Dead from beyond the Dimholt Door, and it is written even in our annals that it was foretold that Isildur’s Heir alone could do such a thing.  He has wielded Elendil’s own sword reforged, and the Elven Light gathers about him.  And he possesses the hands of the healer, the gift to his line through his ancestry from Eärendil himself.  Certainly I would not be here today were that not true, as is true of countless Men both here within the bounds of the Pelennor as well as in the encampment the army has made at Cormallen.”

            “I doubt there are many of us who followed my brother southward to find Aragorn and to fight at his side who have failed to enjoy such healing also, my Lord Faramir,” commented Halladan.  “When he was returned to us, some who questioned whether he was perhaps merely an orphan child raised up as a pretender by Lord Elrond gave over such questions when it was shown he had this gift in full--not, of course, that many would seek to question the word of the Lady Gilraen when she came forward at last and confirmed her son’s lineage.”  He was smiling.  “Nay, few found it easy to question her.”

            Many of those sitting about the Council Table were smiling also.  “She was a strong one, then?” asked Lord Fedwion.

            “One of the strongest--but then she needed to be strong to see to her son’s safety and upbringing after her husband’s death at the hands of orcs.  It is no simple thing to leave one’s people to live in one of the lands protected by the Elves, even if it does offer safety to a beloved child.  Much of her joy was lost to her, my mother always held, when Lord Arathorn died and it was learned that the Enemy was seeking out our strongholds one by one, intent on finding Arathorn’s son and seeing him dead also.”

            All looked at one another following that revelation.  At last Lord Erchirion said, “My father has already announced he has given his fealty to Lord Aragorn, and we of his house will follow suit.”

            Fedwion sighed.  “I swore that if he led us to victory at the Black Gate I would acknowledge him.  He did so, and I will fulfill my oath.”

            “But he did not bring about the victory,” argued the lord from Langstrand.

            “Yet if he had not led our army to the battle at the Black Gate there would have been no victory, for the Ringbearer would most likely have been captured before he and his companion could reach the Mountain.  In this way all who went in that company contributed to the final victory.”  Faramir sounded very certain.

            “I would see this mysterious Ringbearer,” muttered the lord.

            “He was hurt near to death itself,” Faramir said.  “He yet lies in healing sleep, according to the word brought by these who have come from the camp and what was written in the King’s reports.”

            “And how do we know that such a person existed to begin with?”

            Faramir gave him a long, searching look, and at last shook his head.  “I myself saw him, as did my Men who took part in the assault on the Southrons, as he traveled upon his way.  You have served in the defense of the city, and have seen Master Meriadoc and Guardsman Peregrin.  Do you doubt their existence or their worry for their kinsman who’d parted from them to complete the journey in greater secrecy?  Or do you accuse me of making up such a personage as I’ve described for some reason of my own?”  The apparent mildness of his expression no longer hid the steel in his voice. 

            Somehow that quieted the debate.  The vote, when taken shortly after, was unanimous to accept the claim for the Winged Crown by Aragorn son of Arathorn, late the Chieftain of the Dúnedain of Arnor, and the defender of the West before the Gates of Mordor itself.

            Húrin smiled to himself.  Their new Steward had just shown himself the ruler of his own Council, even though he sought to give it to another.  He prayed that the new King realized just what a powerful ally Faramir would be and would continue Faramir’s role in the government.  Although, considering what he remembered of Thorongil and what he’d seen of him at the captains’ council a few weeks earlier, this new King of theirs would realize just how sufficient a jewel Faramir was and would treasure him as a helpmeet in the act of rule.

            The lord from Langstrand then asked, “Then when will we do this thing--give over rule of our land to this newcomer?”

            Halladan now joined himself fully to the discussion.  “Many are sorely wounded and should not move from their current camp.  Certainly the Ringbearers are yet deep in healing sleep as Lords Húrin and Faramir have indicated, and it is still in question whether they will awake, particularly the Hobbit Frodo Baggins.  I doubt Aragorn and the healers will give permission for most to be moved before the end of April.”

            “There is also the need to allow the news to be sent out throughout Gondor and Rohan so others might gather for the event,” suggested Erchirion.

            “The first of May, then?” asked Faramir.

            “That gives a month in which to prepare the nation and the populace,” Húrin noted.  “And I suggest that those who come for the coronation be asked to acclaim him if they will have him as King.  It will show we do not accept him with no thought to the will of the people.”

            All agreed to the wisdom of this suggestion.

            “Then so be it,” stated Faramir.  “The law indicates his claim is valid--certainly far more valid than any to come forward since Arvedui and Fíriel--or Eärnil.  His acts in defense of the realm and Minas Tirith in particular and in leading the Army of the West have shown he is capable of decisive action but also great compassion.  His demonstration of having the healing hands of the King has led already to his recognition as the rightful King by all who’ve known and witnessed his ministrations to those wounded in the battle of the Pelennor.  His insistence on not pressing his claim untimely indicates his is unwilling to bring strife to our land.  And the Elven witnesses have affirmed his lineage.”

            Master Galador, the Master of Protocol, asked, “Is he married?  Does he have yet an heir?”

            All looked to Lord Halladan.  “He is not yet married, but it was laid upon him that he should not do so until and unless the victory over Mordor was won.  That has been achieved, and so he is now freed to take for himself a wife.”

            “Then this will need to be considered as soon as is possible.  How old is he?”

            “Eighty-eight,” Halladan said.  “It is not an unusual event for those of us within Eriador to wait nearly this long, although I admit he is somewhat older than most.  He is, however, almost wholly of pure blood.  However, I will advise you that my beloved Lord Cousin has indicated he will marry only when he is certain all conditions have been properly met.”

            Master Galador appeared troubled, and the rest found themselves exchanging glances.

 *******

            It was after the rest had been dismissed and Lords Halladan and Erchirion had departed to spend the night in the house the Princes of Dol Amroth had kept in the Fifth Circle for many generations that Húrin found himself alone with his younger cousin for the first time in weeks.  Together they left the Citadel to pass out toward the walls to look across at the Ephel Dúath under the light of the approaching sunset.  “That was masterfully done, Faramir,” the Keeper of the Keys told the Steward of Gondor.

            “You think so, do you?”  It was all the older Man could do to keep from laughing outright at the look of relief on his cousin’s face.

            “Your father would have been most pleased--and, I fear, more than a bit shocked as well to see how well you handled them all.  Will any of those who attended today be returning to Cormallen?”

            “Erchirion and Lord Halladan will do so tomorrow.  I understand they intend to cross on the bridge of barges set up by the Enemy’s slaves and ride up the North Road, surveying much of the way as they go.”  Faramir sighed.  “We will need to examine it to determine whether it might be dismantled swiftly and then made whole again, for we must send more goods north to the camp at Cormallen as soon as possible.  Several of the ships taken from the Corsairs have been sent to ports to the south such as Pelargir, Dol Amroth, and other such places to bring what food and other stores as escaped the burning.  We will need to get them through the line, of course, if we do not wish to handle the goods several times before they reach the encampment.”

            Húrin considered this thoughtfully.  “Yes, I can see the need, particularly if it will be another month before they return to the city.  And what do you think of Mardiol’s concerns?”

            Faramir shrugged.  “They will be common among the lesser lords of the land, as you know.  He is too young to remember the great Captain Thorongil and his exploits, and would never connect this candidate for the crown with one come out of the legends of his childhood.”

            “You recognized that this was whom he must be?” asked Húrin, intrigued.

            The Steward’s smile was particularly wry.  “How could I not, considering how much my father had to say about this ragged vagabond being brought by Mithrandir to Gondor to supplant him?  But, then, Masters Frodo and Samwise had also discussed this somewhat with me, assuring me that my brother had recognized this Aragorn’s lordship.  I look forward to seeing those two once more--two more worthy individuals will never be found, I deem.  But I fear that most within the Citadel will find Master Samwise a great shock.  They will have difficulty reconciling his speech and tastes with the greatness of his deeds.”

            “Were they by Boromir when he died?”

            Faramir’s expression had become saddened at the question.  “Nay--they broke from the others sometime ere the Uruks of Isengard attacked the rest, or so Master Meriadoc has told me.  Master Frodo had not intended to take any others with him on the last leg of the journey to Mordor, for he recognized that--that what he bore sought to corrupt the rest, and he would not willingly take any others with him into death, which he saw as the inevitable end to the journey to the Mountain.  When I told him that Boromir had died and I had seen--and I still know not whether in truth or in vision--his funeral boat, he was shaken deeply.  He knew naught of it, and had not heard the horn blow, although we heard it, those with me and even my father, here within the city.  He must already have crossed the river and been in the folds of the Emyn Muil when the assault began.”

            “If he would take no others, then how was it Master Samwise was with him?”

            Again he saw the wry smile that had become so common to his cousin since he’d awakened in the Houses of Healing.  “One thing I saw in Master Samwise’s character--he is loyal to a fault, and knows the one he deems his Master full well.  They spoke little of the break from the others, but it was plain to me that there was an argument between Master Frodo and my brother just ere the--the Hobbit made up his mind to leave the rest at Amon Hen.  Apparently Master Samwise realized his Master’s intent and thwarted it.  And so agreed Master Meriadoc.

            “I will tell you this--after knowing these four, I find that the Pheriannath terrify me.  No more than plentiful harvests and full bellies and peace for their people do they wish, yet when roused they must be the fiercest and most single-minded of all who seek to protect their own.”

            Húrin felt confused at this.  “I do not understand, Faramir--they are but a small folk who don’t, I understand, wield more fearsome weapons than small bows and slings in the normal course of events, or so Guardsman Peregrin assured me when I saw him at weapons practice ere he left to go with the Army of the West.  He and Master Meriadoc have both told me that they are a peaceful folk who rarely quarrel seriously amongst themselves, and have not needed to defend themselves or their land for many centuries; and that their greatest joys are in enjoying the bounty of their harvests and delighting in the love of their families and friends.”

            The younger Man was nodding.  “And that is a good part of what terrifies me, cousin.  When a Man’s home, family, or land is threatened, the first thing he does is reach for what weapon he can for their defense.  However, had you just learned that what you thought was a small but valuable trinket brought back by your uncle from his travels abroad and then left to your keeping is instead the most fell of weapons ever to befoul Middle Earth, what would you have done?”

            Húrin found himself thinking furiously.  “Is this how it was with Master Frodo, then?” he asked.

            “So Master Meriadoc has assured me.  Tell me, what would you have done?”

            “He suddenly realized that a ring he had inherited was the Ring, the great Enemy’s Ring of Power?”

            Faramir’s gaze was steady as he gave a single nod of assent.

            The older Man was shaking his own head and he dropped his eyes to the city below as he considered the question.  “First, I suppose,” he began slowly, “I should wonder how it was that such a thing came to pass, that first my kinsman and then I should have come into possession of such a thing.”

            “Yes, and so should I, or so I would think.  And according to what Master Meriadoc has said, so it was with Master Frodo as well.  But tell me, what would you do then?”

            Húrin looked into his younger cousin’s eyes, then answered, “I think that then I should begin thinking how it was that I could use the thing to our advantage.”

            Again a slow nod from Faramir.  “According to what Master Samwise told to Master Frodo’s kinsmen, his first question to Mithrandir was, 'What must I do?'”

            The older Man was shocked, and saw that Faramir recognized this and was gratified.  “He did not think how to use the thing?”

            “No.”

            “And Master Samwise was there to see this exchange?”

            A corner of Faramir’s mouth rose in amusement.  “I understand he was spying on the Wizard and his Master from the garden beyond the window.”

            The two Men shared a laugh.  “So,” Húrin said, delighted, “then the Pheriannath are not all perfect beings, are they?  Spying, was he?”

            “Aye, even so.”

            “How wonderful!”

            “You will see, or so I hope, should the two of them awaken again still within the Bounds of Arda.  Master Samwise is most careful for the welfare of his Master, even to the point of spying to see Master Frodo’s plans that he might have all arranged to his friend’s greatest comfort.”

            “And he never thought how to use the thing to achieve his own ends?”

            “Apparently not--or, if so, not until all else had been achieved.”  He straightened, looking toward where the pillar of cloud had risen when Mordor fell.  “Consider, cousin--until they came away upon this journey, none of these Hobbits had even seen swords save for two that hung upon walls as decorations, or so Master Meriadoc assured me.  None of the four had held a blade in his hand, much less learned how to wield it to protect others or slay an enemy.  None of them had been further from the borders of their land than into a wilderness area just beyond the district in which Master Meriadoc was born, a place called the Old Forest.  Although they had heard tales of the outer world all their lives, tales told them by Mithrandir, whom they name Gandalf, and the one they call Bilbo Baggins, none truly knew the meaning of danger or enemies.

            “Yet they speak of the Onodrim casually as if meeting such beings were merely to be expected instead of almost unheard of outside the oldest legends.  They speak of passing through Imladris, the depths of Moria, and the Golden Wood as if all travelers were welcome therein.  Guardsman Peregrin was able to help his kinsman and himself escape from the Uruks who had stolen them away, and at the battle before the Black Gate offered up his own life to save that of his friend Beregond, they tell us.  Master Meriadoc, seeing the Lady Éowyn in danger from the Lord of the Nazgûl, neither fled nor allowed himself to go senseless, but stood to defend her, daring to stab the one from whom even Eärnur found himself fleeing.  And two others, with less training in defense than even these two, have passed through the desert of Mordor and have managed, without raising a blade, to bring down the great Enemy of all the Free Peoples of Middle Earth for the last two ages of this world.  Would you have attempted to go to Orodruin itself to the Ring’s destruction?”

            “I doubt any could have convinced me even to try.  No one wishes to begin a task that is deemed impossible.”

            “Indeed.  Still, knowing it was impossible, yet Master Frodo took the task as his own; and knowing his beloved Master would do this, Master Samwise went with him.  And, had they not, and had not our Lord Aragorn agreed with Mithrandir that only by drawing the Eye to himself could we assist the Ringbearer to win through, it is likely this city today would lie in ruins.  Can you not see why I consider the folk of the Pheriannath to be amongst perhaps the most dangerous within Arda, for they look not first to possibilities and impossibilities, but instead to what needs to be done, and see it through?  If only Men had the same resolve!”

            “Some do.”

            “Some, but not most, I fear.”

            The two stood for a time in quiet contemplation.  At last Húrin asked, “When will you go to the Hallows to retrieve the Winged Crown?”

            “It would be best, perhaps, to wait until but a day or two before the coronation, do you not agree?  It is made of mithril, so will require no polishing.”

            “But to see that the gems of the wings are yet sound?  Perhaps a few days earlier....”

            Faramir shrugged.  “You are perhaps better suited to judge such things than I.”

            After a moment Húrin added, “I wonder if we should send a tailor to the King’s camp to see to proper clothing for him.  You must admit that in traveling as he has been forced to do his clothing is perhaps not the most regal....”

            Again the two shared a laugh.  “Ah,” the younger Man sighed at last, wiping his eyes, “what a contrast with my lord father!  I cannot imagine him ever appearing wearing leathers so obviously long used!  Although I must say that when Lord Aragorn stands straight with his head lifted he appears worshipful enough no matter how he is garbed.  Well, it would be worthwhile, I think, to send to ask his pleasure in this.  I have some fabric that my aunt sent to me to have made into dress robes--it should suit his coloring well, and I certainly have little need for yet more garments.”

            “And then there is the question of seals for his use, particularly when he is traveling.  I have an idea that our new King will not agree to remain within the bounds of the Pelennor for any particular length of time.  Nay, he will wish to see the whole of the realm with his own eyes, or I have lost the knack of reading Men.”

            “I agree,” Faramir said.

            “You do not appear particularly discomfited to allow another to take up the rule of Gondor, my lord Steward.”

            Faramir gave that wry smile once more.  “When ever did I expect to rule, cousin?  That was for my father and my brother----”

            But Húrin was shaking his head.  “As much as I loved and honored your brother, Faramir, I have never been able to imagine him sitting easily in the Black Chair, nor wielding the Rod with any confidence.  Nay, he would have had you ever standing at his side, advising him and undoubtedly doing most of the rule while he made certain that the armies were sound and our borders ever secure.  He was ever too much a Man of action.  He would have made a perfect Captain General for our new King, but would have been woefully inadequate as second in rule.”

            “There is no guarantee that Lord Aragorn will continue to allow me to serve as his Steward, cousin.”

            “He would be ten kinds of a fool to dismiss you--and from what I remember of the Lord Captain Thorongil, he was never that.”  Húrin shook himself.  “Well, I’d best be returning to my house--Lynnessë is beginning to think that I no longer dwell within the Sixth Circle, so much time have I been spending here within the Citadel since your brother left Gondor.”

            “Give her my love, cousin.”

Tokens of Honors Earned  

            Two days later Húrin was looking over an inventory for one of the storage houses behind the Citadel when a page knocked at the door.  “I beg pardon, my lord,” the youth said tentatively.

            The Keeper of the Keys raised his head.  “Yes, Sephardion?”

            “Lord Faramir sends his apologies, but asks that you come to him now.  Apparently two of the--of the Lord Aragorn’s companions have just arrived with a missive.  There is need, apparently, to visit one of the treasuries where precious metal is kept.”

            “He would wish a diadem fashioned or some such thing brought forth before he has been crowned King?”  Húrin frowned, feeling such was rather pushing the process when the King’s own folk had set the coronation for the first of May.

            “I cannot say, my lord.  However, if you will come?”

            He found Faramir within the Hall of Kings, flanked by Fedwion of Lossarnach and one of the officials just arrived from Pelargir with a ship filled with supplies for the encampment in Ithilien, facing the blond Elf and the Dwarf he’d seen fleetingly over the days before the Army of the West left the city for the Black Gates.  “...So,” Faramir was saying, “this was requested first by the Great Eagles?”

            Lord Fedwion’s expression was bemused, while that of the official from Pelargir was flatly disbelieving.  Húrin had to remind himself that those who’d not been within the city when the victory was announced could well be expected to question the idea that eagles might speak as do Men.

            “Indeed,” agreed the Elf.  “Certainly my people will have no difficulty in ratifying this ennoblement.”

            “Nor shall mine,” affirmed the Dwarf.  “Not, of course, after knowing the service given us in the retaking of Erebor by Bilbo Baggins that we Dwarves would expect anything less from his kinsman and heir.  Once I send word to King Dáin he will ratify it as well, as will Brand of Dale.”

            “What is this about?” Húrin asked the Steward.

            “The Great Eagles have brought a message to Lord Aragorn, directing that Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee are to be declared Lords of all of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth.”

            “On whose authority is this directive given to our King-elect?” Húrin asked.

            Faramir smiled as he made a most eloquent shrug.  “I will remind you, cousin, of the lessons given us many years ago regarding the messengers of Manwë.”

            It took a moment for Húrin to appreciate what that meant, at which time he found himself suffering difficulties swallowing.  Fedwion’s eyes had become extraordinarily large, while the official from Pelargir had turned an interesting shade of grey.

            Faramir continued, holding out the missive he held in his hand, “It is Lord Aragorn’s desire that we should mark this by presenting each with a circlet of honor as soon after they have awakened from healing sleep as possible, and he has asked his friend Master Gimli to craft these circlets.  To this aim he has sent Master Gimli and Prince Legolas with a request that our treasury provide the metal for the circlets.  And my lord uncle has directed that the sea diamond that he stores in our treasure vaults be given to Master Gimli to be set in the circlet for Lord Frodo, and he has entreated me to match it with a stone of equal size to be set in the circlet for Lord Samwise.

            “He also sends to ask if it would be possible to find a set of mail appropriate for Samwise Gamgee to wear in keeping with his new status.”

            Húrin felt the smile of appreciation stretch his face.  “Ah, but for this--of course we will open the treasury to them with gladness, and I’ll scour the armories myself with pleasure.  After all, even with the victory upon the Pelennor, all still would have gone for naught had these two not remained faithful!  Will lands for maintenance be settled upon them as well?”

            “I will look into this--there are some lands now left lordless that are apart from the proper bounds of the past lords’ primary holdings that could be offered them--this is information I have been preparing for the King’s consideration in any event.  Master Alvric could perhaps advise me as to how to write the tenancy agreements.  But if you will take Master Gimli and Prince Legolas to the third vault--I should think that would contain all that they might require; and Master Cuillion of the Guild of Smiths could assist in finding a forge where they might work.”

            Húrin turned to summon the page Sephardion, who lingered near the door to the Hall of Kings.  “Please summon Master Leonid, and ask him to bring the fourth and seventh ring of keys.  Then have a messenger sent to the Third Circle to the House of Silver on the Street of Jewelsmiths to ask Master Cuillion if he could wait upon us within two hours’ time.”

            The youth gave his salute and turned swiftly away.  Soon Leonid was approaching them, carrying two great rings of keys, pausing at the sight of Elf and Dwarf by his master’s side, going a bit pale and then flushing some.  Legolas, on the other hand, was going still with recognition as the Dúnadan approached.  “So,” he said once Leonid had reached them, “this is what you were journeying to, then?”

            Leonid bowed deeply.  “Yea, so it has proven, Prince Legolas.  And I again offer you my thanks for the guidance you gave me as I came southward.”

            “You need give me no such prolonged obeisance,” Legolas encouraged him.  “Your own lord will return soon enough.”

            Leonid straightened, then smiled.  “And I look forward eagerly to that.  He set me here beside Lord Húrin, you see--there, long, long ago.  Not, of course, that it should seem that long, perhaps, to you.”

            Húrin gave his cousin and the other lords with him a bow.  “If you will excuse us, my lords?  And perhaps you might wish to be by me in an hour’s time, cousin, at the door to the mail shed?”  At Faramir’s nod of dismissal he beckoned Dwarf and Elf, and accompanied by Leonid they went to search out what was needed.

            Soon they were approaching a set of guarded doors whose key was on one of the rings Leonid had brought; then down the steps behind it they went until they came to the door to the third vault, which Húrin opened for them.  Leonid saw the lamps lit, and they entered, Húrin indicating to their guests one wall where ingots of precious metals were stacked on stone shelves.

            A small ingot seemed to sparkle particularly brightly, and suddenly Gimli was smiling behind his beard.  “That one is eager to capture our attention,” he grunted, stepping toward it.  “It wishes to be used for this purpose.”  Then he paused, growing more reverent.  “Mithril!” he said softly.

            All looked at one another, and at last Húrin nodded.  “Bring me the inventory,” he said to Leonid, who fetched a tome to one side, producing a steel pen and traveling inkbottle from his scrip.  Once the bottle’s cap had been unscrewed, notations were being made that a particular ingot had been removed on the Lord Steward’s authority to be given to Master Gimli son of Gloin of Erebor, from which to fashion circlets of honor for Lords Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee.  Then Húrin chose out two caskets, one carved with the swan ship of Dol Amroth and one with the image of the bare White Tree indicating the Steward’s house, and broke the seals on both, indicating again in the ledger he’d done so.  From the casket belonging to Prince Imrahil he took a particular crystal box; and he searched through the second until he found a stone that caused him to smile.

            “Yes, that one,” pronounced Prince Legolas decisively. 

            The crystal box was opened and the stone it contained was compared to the one taken from the Steward’s own store.  Gimli was smiling in satisfaction.  “These two indeed have a shared purpose and will complement one another well,” he said.  “Yes, they will be honored to serve our Sam and Frodo.”

            The two boxes were soon resealed and notations made, witnessed by Leonid, Legolas, and Gimli, and then Húrin paused, looking at the casket that was marked with the symbols of his own office.  At last he took it up, carefully broke the seal, and searched through it until he found the silken envelope that held a carefully cut small tile of obsidian shot with silvery flakes.  He slipped it out its case and held it out to the Dwarf.  “I, too, would have a gift wrought, but one for our King-to-be, with this at its heart--a signet, perhaps.  But I have no idea what to use as the housing for it.”

            The golden-haired Elf gave a wordless exclamation, and drew out of an inner pocket a small pouch.  “Here,” he said as he swiftly unknotted the ties and drew it open.  “I have carried this so long--I think it will serve.”  He shook out the twisted remains of a great ring.  “This was my daeradar’s signet, taken from his hand when his body was found upon the Dagorlad.  It was given me to remember him by.  It is only fitting that again it should hold a signet used by a living King.  He would be honored, I think, to know it is again in use, now that the Enemy he fell to see bested has been conquered at last.  The Third Age of Middle Earth has come to its end; now that the Fourth Age begins, again this shall grace the hand of a King.”

            Gimli took the ruined ring, and examined it carefully, particularly interested in the single stone that had been set into it.  “This crystal is not from nature,” he murmured in a soft rumble.  “Nay--this is a crafted stone.”

            “It is rumored it came from Valinor,” agreed the Elf.  “The ring itself was said to be crafted by Celebrimbor while he dwelt in Gondolin, who bestowed it upon Celeborn, who in his turn gave it to my daeradar to mark his wedding to the Lady Galadriel Artanis.  When I meet Oropher on his release from the Halls of Mandos, should he not already be returned to our people there, I will rejoice to tell him that I gave it into the keeping of the one Man whom I believe matches his sagacity, hoping it reminds him of the proper use of rule.”

            The final notations were made in the ledger, all seals were renewed using the special wax Húrin carried upon his person, and they went out, the Keeper of the Keys seeing all secured behind them.  Shortly afterwards he and Leonid approached the building casually designated the mail shed to find Faramir was already there.

            “Your father had me come here to find mail appropriate for the use of Guardsman Peregrin,” Húrin commented as he unlocked the outer door and had Leonid pull it open for them.  “I hope it did not offend you that I gave to him that armor wrought for you as a child.”

            “Indeed not,” Faramir said.  “Indeed, I suspect it is worn to far better effect by Guardsman Peregrin than it ever was worn by myself.  Not for me, standing on guard for hours at a time.  I’ve ever been happier amongst the Rangers.”

            They went through the workshop where mail was crafted and repaired, and wound their way to the back half of the place to the storehouse for armor.  It was here that they had sought armor fit for the Lord Aragorn’s stature and intended station that last day before the Army of the West had left on its mad errand, finding it in that kept in a particular box marked L*ND*L.  None others in the history of Gondor had apparently approached the height of either Man--or at least none other whose armor had been brought back to Gondor.  Today, however, they were searching the other end of the room, in the chests and amongst the stands where mail crafted for the sons of Kings and Lord Stewards was kept.

            This mail, of course, was for the most part in better repair than that intended for Men grown, as little of it had been ever worn in battle.  And it was in a chest marked with Ondoher’s sigil that they found what was needed--a fine shirt of gilded mail, one apparently originally crafted for Prince Artamir as a child.  “Yes,” murmured Faramir as he held it up and turned it this way and that.  “Indeed, yes--this looks to be the proper fit for Lord Samwise.  Prince Artamir must have had a broader chest than is common among our folk.  A proper guardian of many realms Samwise Gamgee will appear in this!”

            Two days later the Elf and Dwarf returned to the Citadel, and returned the material from the ingot of mithril that was not used in the crafting of the circlets of honor.  Faramir and his older cousin inspected the completed circlets with delight.  “They are beautiful,” breathed Faramir.  “Iorhael.  It will look so right on his dark curls--and the blue sea diamond matches the color of his eyes.”

            Húrin was examining the second one, and read the graceful inscription.  “Panthael.  Is that the translation of Lord Samwise’s name into Sindarin--Fully Wise?”

            Gimli grunted.  “No, not exactly.  But I refuse to name him Half-wise, whether that’s what his name translates to or not.  Not for Master Sam Gamgee, when he’s proven himself the greater wit when compared to far too many others I’ve known, Elves, Men, Dwarves, and even a Wizard or two.”

            The Keeper of the Keys to the realm of Gondor noted the proud look of indulgence the Elf gave his unexpected friend as the Dwarf accepted the two circlets back, carefully stowing each into a dark bag of finest silk velvet.  “These will offer the circlets the best show of honor,” Gimli was saying with satisfaction.  Once both bags were properly secured he gave them into the hands of the Elf.  “Here--you keep hold of these,” he said to Legolas.  “Now, to give the other to Lord Húrin.  Here, my lord.  I hope it meets your vision of what you’d wished.”

            He brought forth a small box of carved lebethron.  “Master Cuillion had several of these, and suggested this one was perhaps the most fitting for the finished ring.”  So saying he gave it into Húrin’s hands, and the Gondorian lord opened it, pleasure filling him as he saw what had been made of the tile of obsidian.

            “Oh, yes, Master Gimli--this is even better than what I’d imagined.  It will serve him well as his personal seal, do you not agree?”

            An intaglio representation of the White Tree with a circle of seven stars about it had been cut into the surface of the obsidian tile.  The small, brilliant crystal had been set into the center of the topmost star.  A single blossom opened toward the center of the Tree.  Gently the Man stroked the surface of the signet, admiring how it had been set into a great gold ring as if held in place with an eagle’s talon, the face of an eagle on each side of the shaft of the ring, appropriate to be worn as the King’s own ring of office.  “So different than the Ring that was destroyed--a sign of Hope Restored and Fulfilled,” he said reverently as he handed the box to Faramir. 

            The youthful Steward’s eyes also shone with pride as he examined the work and returned it to his cousin.  “A most proper and kingly gift for our new Lord,” he said, “particularly for the one once thought of as the Eagle of the Star.”  He smiled at the Dwarf.  “A great craftsman you are, Master Gimli--certainly one of the greatest I’ve ever seen.”

            “Well,” Gimli said, trying--and failing--to appear properly humble at the praise, “I must admit that the Elf here suggested the design.  The Stars of Arnor and the Tree of Gondor--and the Eagles who have ever come at the true needs of our peoples to see us aided.  I think Aragorn will truly appreciate your gift.”

            “Such is my hope,” agreed Húrin.  “I thank the both of you.  Do you return to Cormallen soon?”

            “We leave within the hour,” advised the Elf.  “We wish to be there to see how young Pippin fares, and then when Frodo and Sam awaken.”

            “They were badly hurt?” asked Faramir.

            “Indeed--both were covered with a variety of wounds and burns, although Aragorn says what brought them down at the last was the fumes and heat of the Mountain.  And they had lost so much weight,” sighed Gimli.  “Not that Frodo had that much flesh he could afford to lose to begin with, or at least not considering how he appeared when I saw him first in Rivendell.  But to see Sam so thin--it’s an evil that should never have happened at all.  He has a good many feasts owed him, I’m thinking.”

            “I wish to know--for certain--how it was Frodo lost his finger,” said Legolas, his fair face stern.  “Had Sauron remained where we could confront him, he would have much to answer for, considering what was lost, and particularly that finger.”

            “Both have required careful nursing,” rumbled the Dwarf, “sips of water and other fluids frequently, careful handling, frequent anointings.  It was a wonder to me they survived through the first night, although both are particularly stubborn ones, even for Hobbits.”

            “Well, we have the mail as well, and a fine new belt for Lord Samwise’s sword.”

            Both Elf and Dwarf indicated the greatest of appreciation for the gilded hauberk.  “Yes!” Gimli gloated, holding it up and turning it so as to admire it from all sides.  “Yes indeed for our Sam.  He and Frodo will make quite the pair of lordlings for the company to honor.”

            Húrin asked, “But you need no mail for Lord Frodo?”

            The Dwarf looked up at him, obviously amused.  “I will tell you this--the corslet Frodo has worn is far finer than anything within your treasuries or armories--of that I can assure you!  But you will see when he returns here to the city.”

            In moments the gilded hauberk was carefully rolled with a thick cloth of felt and returned to its protective bag, and the Dwarf was negligently laying it across his shoulder as he and Prince Legolas prepared to return to the stable in the Sixth Circle to retrieve their horse for the return journey to the army.  With their final salutes offered, they left, and Húrin, Faramir, and Leonid watching after.

            “I’m thinking,” the Keeper of the Keys of Gondor sighed, “I would love to be one of those there to first acclaim the two Pheriannath who made the journey as Lords of the West.”

            Faramir was slowly nodding his agreement, while Leonid appeared full of anxious energy, peering eastward and northward toward the distant place where the Army of the West camped, allowing their wounded to recover.

The Coronation of the King Returned

            On the last afternoon of April the remaining bulk of the army of the West was to return at last to the Pelennor.  All day Men had been busy upon the portion just north of the ruined gates, setting up proper camps and pavilions, latrine lines, kitchen tents, and even bathing tents.  Three clean wells had been located amongst the ruins of farmsteads and villages, and water had been drawn to the needs of those who would remain there overnight.

            Just within the northernmost wall of the Pelennor had a new graveyard been made, and most of those who’d died in the defense of Gondor had been laid there, as many as could be identified in company with their fellows.  The few of the Northern Dúnedain, however, had been carried to the Rath Dínen and laid with those who’d died from amongst the Guard of the Citadel; and the body of Halbarad of Eriador, having been identified as the kinsman of the King himself, had been given over to the embalmers and laid in the tomb of the lords of the city, or at least until Lord Aragorn should return with Halbarad’s brothers to give other direction.

            Outside the Rammas Echor was another graveyard made, and there were buried many orcs and Men, and such trolls as had not been petrified when the clouds of Mordor had been dispersed at the arrival of the black ships from the southlands.  Pyres had been raised and burned for the disposal of most of the orc-kind, but there had been too many all to have known such an end.  As for those trolls petrified by the Sun--the great figures had been dragged with great difficulty to one side, and some were being barged down the river to be set up in city squares in Pelargir and Passaurin, although the thought was to take most down beyond the shorelines of Gondor and drop the stone corpses into the depths of the Sea.

            As for the oliphaunts and other beasts--several had been skinned, but most had needed to be burnt lest their putrefaction should poison the soil or water.  All had been glad when sufficient wood was gathered about the body of the Witch-king’s fell beast to allow it to be burnt, while a great howe had been raised over the body of Théoden King’s steed Snowmane, some of the Rohirrim led by Lord Elfhelm working alongside knights from Dol Amroth who’d remained within Minas Tirith to see the warsteed properly honored.

            And now, as the day waned, Húrin watched from the walls alongside his cousin, as parties converged on the newly raised camp from the Harlond and from Osgiliath, some afoot, some on horseback.  Great wagons filled with fodder for the horses had been brought from Anórien and Lossarnach and upper Lebennin; freshly butchered fowl and kine were already being turned upon spits in the kitchen tents; wine from Anfalas, Belfalas, and lower Lebennin sat in barrels by others filled with ale from Lossarnach and Anórien; the last of the winter stores of root vegetables were being supplemented with herbs brought from the farms and woodlands near the feet of the mountains.  They could see the new arrivals pause and lift their heads with interest at the scent of meals being cooked and hay being readied along the picket lines.  Men and horses, steps quickened and eyes widened in anticipation of the night’s rest.

            And one party caught the attention of those looking out from the city as, walking before the banner of Elendil, there came a variety of figures, some markedly taller, some decidedly shorter than the norm.  It would appear that the King had traveled with at least three of the Pheriannath by him.  Soon afterwards a troupe of mounted Rohirrim swept out of Osgiliath, led by the banner of Eorl, and behind the gilded figure of Éomer King rode a small figure, clutching at his waist.

            “It appears that Master Meriadoc is well mounted,” Húrin commented to Faramir.

            The Steward nodded, turning his own attention back to the King’s party as it approached the pavilion prepared for them, and he saw guardsmen pulling open the tent flaps to allow them entrance.

            “Why do you not go down to him?” asked Húrin at last.

            Faramir shrugged.  “Galador will go down, of course, to check what further proofs the sons of Lord Elrond might have brought with them.  I would not overwhelm them.  And for tonight--well, tomorrow a new order will be upon our land.  Let our folk feel reassured that their Steward, such as I prove, remains here within the White City with them this night.  We will have much to do tomorrow.”

            The Keeper of the Keys sighed, indicating that this was undoubtedly right and proper.

            As the glorious sunset of that day finally gave over to the shades of evening Húrin returned to his own house in the Sixth Circle.  His wife Lynnessë met him at the door.  “Ah, good, my lord husband,” she sighed as she put her arms about him.  “The maidens returned at noon along with my parents, and they are eager to see their father.  I fear they are over-excited and most voluble.”

            Their two daughters had been sent to Pinnath Gelin to stay when the city was threatened, and it had seemed the house had been overly quiet without them.  As he heard the voices of the children raised in the upper reaches of the house Húrin found himself smiling.  “As much as I hated how unnaturally quiet it has been without them, I must say that within a short time we shall be insisting we would prefer it were they still gone,” he noted wryly.  “The Lord Aragorn’s party has just entered the camp and has taken possession of the pavilion prepared for them.”

            “I know--Lindriel has been coming down to tell me each and every new action of which she is made aware.  And Beruthien--she is constantly letting her sister know how I am capable of seeing such things myself from the balcony.  Naneth has taken over the running of the kitchen--I fear that Rienstra may choose to leave us--at least for a while--if I cannot find a way of governing my mother!  As for Ada--he’s been at the barracks complex on the south end of the circle most of the afternoon, gossiping with his old comrades.  I’m certain he will return with all sorts of stories, some of which might possibly be true, but most of which will be sheer nonsense.

            “As for you, Húrin--what time must you be awake in the morning so as to be at the gates on time?”

            “At least an hour and a half before dawn.”

            “The Lord Steward has all in hand for the Coronation?”

            “Indeed.  Guildmaster Cuillion has inspected the Winged Crown and assures us it is intact and sound; and Master Balstador has had the entire Citadel cleaned  and dusted within an inch of its life at least three times over in the past five days.  As for the Throne--it would not surprise me if the new King slips from it and down the steps again when he sits himself upon it, so carefully has it been polished.”

            Lynnessë broke out into a peal of laughter.  “Ah, but I can but imagine that!  Now you have spoiled it--I shall not be able to keep a straight face on the morrow when the Lord Elessar sets the Crown upon his head, anticipating what might await him within the Hall of Kings!”

            Just then they heard from above as Lindriel came clattering down the stairs, “Oh, Nana--I swear I can see the Pheriannath!  They look like little boys from here in the light of the torches!”

            And from behind her they could hear Beruthien scolding, “How many times must I tell you, Lindë, that Nana is capable of seeing such things for herself if she wishes!”  She was already visible at the top of the stairs, staring sternly down them at her little sister.

            Lindriel stopped and glared up at the older girl, and stuck out her tongue.  “You always think you know better than me, just since you’re older!” she shot back.  “But you haven’t been looking, have you, Nana?”  She turned to her father, and a wide smile broke out, revealing the space where a tooth had been recently lost.  “Ada!” she squealed.  “You’re home!  Did you see them come--the new King’s party?”

            He knelt to hug her close.  “Yes, our Lord Steward and I have watched them from above.  And you--how was your visit in Pinnath Gelin?”

            “It was a very long trip--I shouldn’t like to do it again, Ada.  It was too long, and it was cold in the mountains, and it was so dark for so long--I didn’t like it at all!  But it looks all different here--it’s bright and shiny!  Is it true the war is over, and the Enemy is gone?”

            He could see her excitement and the lingering anxiety.  He smiled, and was glad this smile was unfeigned.  “Yes, my heart, the war is over and is won.  The Lord Elessar is come now, and tomorrow shall be King--and you shall see it happen, if you can awaken early enough.  Would you like that?”

            Her face was shining.  “Oh, yes!  And can we see the Pheriannath, up close, I mean?  Have you got to meet any of them?  Do you know what they are like?  Do they like to play?”

            He laughed.  “I’ve met two of them now, before they went out to be reunited with their kinsman the Ringbearer.  But I do suspect you shall be able to see them a fair amount, for they are among the Lord Elessar’s close companions, and will most surely be frequently about the Citadel.”

            “And the Lord Elessar--is he nice?”

            “Yes--most nice indeed.”

            “And does the Lord Steward like him?”

            “From the little he’s been able to see of him, yes, he does.”

            “Is he a good fighter?” she asked.

            “One of the greatest,” he assured her solemnly, and looking up saw that Beruthien was listening from the bottom of the stairs.  “Come here, Ruthië--ah, how I’ve missed you so, and how glad I am to know you were kept safe from all this.”  He let go of his younger daughter to hold out his hand to the older girl.  She smiled, and he saw that the last of her own anxiety was leaving her as she came into his embrace.

            “Oh, Ada!  But it’s good to be home again!  But the lower city--it’s so awful!  I was afraid that all here would be broken and burnt also!”

            “I know, my darling one.  Oh, I know.  But the bad times are over now, and all will be rebuilt or restored or replaced.  And soon you will find all is better than it was before.”

            She pulled back to search his face.  “And the Enemy?  He’s really, really gone?”

            “Yes, Ruthië--he is really, really gone, and this time he cannot return again.  When his Ring went into the fire----”

            “His Ring?” demanded his wife’s mother, Endorë, as she came from the kitchen.  “What’s this about his Ring?”

            “The Enemy’s great Ring of Power--It was found, apparently by accident, some years ago.  The one who held It learned from Mithrandir just what It was, and determined to take It to Its destruction.  Only when that happened was the Dark Lord vanquished utterly, for although he held It not, yet Its power was not wholly lost to him as long as It remained in Middle Earth.  And those who were at the final battle before the Black Gate tell me that once the Ring fell into the abyss all of his orcs and trolls and other evil creatures lost their will to evil, for he no longer commanded them with his own will.”

            “It’s so hard to believe,” she murmured.

            He smiled.  “Oh, again I know!  But it is true.  And tomorrow you shall see legends spring out of the remains of the fields of the Pelennor, and you shall see Elves, and a Dwarf, and Hobbits!  Yes,” he added turning to his daughters, “you shall indeed see Pheriannath, and shall see the King Returned!”

            “And Uncle Denethor--is he truly dead?” asked Beruthien.

            His face grew solemn.  “Alas, you have heard rightly there.  Boromir died upon the northern borders, only just within our land; and your uncle died on the day of the battle.”

            “Did he fight hard?” asked Lindriel, her face far too serious for a child of seven.

            “Ah, child, indeed he did fight; but the Enemy had tricked him, and so he was open to the Enemy’s stroke.  Your cousin Faramir is Lord Steward now.”

            The two girls considered this solemnly.  Endorë cleared her throat uncertainly.  “The--the evening meal will be ready soon.  Perhaps you should go wash your--your hand, Húrin.”

            “Indeed I shall.”  He rose to his feet, and looked out the open balcony doors at the last of the day’s light lingering on the fields below.

            “That’s not right, either,” Beruthien sighed, looking out.  “I don’t like looking at it.”

            “Nor do any of us.  But I will tell you this--you would have liked it less had you seen the Enemy’s army camped there!  But they are defeated, and we shall dwell from now on mostly in peace.  You will see!”

 *******

            They walked down through the city alongside Mistress Ioreth from the Houses of Healing and a number of others, including a slightly younger woman in the dress of Ered Lithui.  “It has been such a flurry of things to do, cousin,” Ioreth was saying to the one with her, “what with all the work that there has been to do with the wounded and those who suffered from the Black Breath and those injuries and illnesses that must happen when folk live in such a city as this.  I am only glad there were few with weak lungs left in the city, for the ash would have troubled them mightily--it crept in everywhere over the last few weeks, or so it has seemed.  And wait until you see our Lord Elfstone and the Pheriannath!  And did you hear that there are three of the Eldar with him?  Elves!  Elves here within Gondor and the White City!  Did you ever think such a thing could happen in our lifetime?  And the day of the battle....”

            Húrin exchanged glances with his wife, and urged his family forward.  His wife’s father carried a lantern to light their way, although as the light increased about them as the dawn approached it would soon be unneeded.

            As they reached the Third Circle more were coming out, many following the multitude down to see the Coronation from the area around the barrier where the gates had been, and others seeking out places to watch from the walls of the city.  A group of singers was gathering in the courtyard of the Inn of the Dragon’s Claw, while musicians were paused in the drive for the Inn of the King’s Head to bring out their instruments and to await their fellows.  As they passed through the gate into the First Circle several folk gathered about a wagon handed each of them flowers and sheaves of greenery to carry, and at last the lantern was blown out and left in the keeping of one of the Guards, who promised to return it as they came back up again.

            “I’ve never been up this early before, save when we were traveling,” Lindriel commented.

            “Must I go out with the others,” asked Beruthien.  “I’d rather stay by you, Ada.”

            “But don’t you wish to see?” he asked.  “I will have to stay at the barrier until the King comes to us, you realize.”

            “I want to stay by you,” she repeated.  A glance at Lynnessë, and he nodded.  “Good,” she said, and her face brightened noticeably.

            Leonid waited at the gate, the great box carrying the Keys to the City and Citadel sitting on a fallen stone before him, his face pale above his dark livery.  His posture relaxed as he saw them come.  “Good!” he sighed.  “My lord, my lady--all is in readiness.  Guardsman Tervil there shall show you the place saved for you and your family, Lady Lynnessë.”

            She paused to kiss her husband briefly, then went out with her parents and Lindriel, leaving him to take his place at the barrier.  Húrin turned briefly to peer upwards, hoping that those set to see to it the new King’s Standard was raised at the proper moment would do so with no error.  Then he looked out.

            The musicians began to gather, and a single piper played a mournful air, and all grew quiet.  As the last of those who chose to go out upon the Pelennor to see the King come passed him, Húrin began looking about for Faramir, and finally saw him approaching with a Guard of Honor, followed by those given the honor of carrying the casket of lebethron that held the Winged Crown.  The young Steward of Gondor walked most erectly, his face also pale but set, patently ignoring Master Galador, who walked by him and was trying to voice objections of some sort or another, clutching his clubbed hand in his good one.  At the barrier Faramir paused, turning to the Master of Protocol.  “Please, good Master Galador--let that be enough.  The matter has been settled--I’ve chosen to bring the Crown to him, and that is how it shall be.  He is no son of Eärnil or Eärnur either one to go into the Hallows to fetch it himself!  Let all see him take the Winged Crown--he is our first King in a thousand years.  It is a time of renewal, and renewal of our ways as well as renewal for the land.”

            Master Galador quieted, and his face grew pale.  “As you say, my lord,” he said humbly.

            Faramir gave him a grateful smile and reached out briefly to clasp his shoulder, then turned, looked out, straightened again, and with a nod to indicate the Guard and bearers should move forward led the way.  Once he was past the wall he stopped, and Húrin gave a gesture to those who would close the barrier, and now all waited.

            The lament of the pipe finished at last, and all went quiet.  For several moments all that could be heard was the soughing of the wind in the sprouting grass and the rustling and quiet murmuring of the crowd.  Then all went utterly still briefly, and then they could hear the sound of feet as the King’s procession approached.

            Leonid reached down to Beruthien, who was squirming to see, and lifted her up to balance her on the fallen stone on which sat the Box for the Keys.  Húrin gave his aide a grateful smile, and they turned their heads again toward the place where the King’s party would pause, just barely to be seen in a cleared area before the gates.  There came many, and before them all walked---

            “Ooh, Ada!  Is that a Pherian?”

            “Yes, Guardsman Peregrin son of Paladin of the Shire, one of the King’s Companions.”

            “Those don’t have uniforms,” Beruthien objected, indicating those cloaked in grey, green, and silver who walked toward them.

            “They are the King’s own kinsmen from Arnor, my child.  Hush!”

            She nodded, turning her attention back to the ones coming.

            Behind him he heard a nickering, and turned to see the grooms from the lower stable leading out the two ponies that had been ordered made ready.  Good--another detail requested by their new Lord met.  Again he looked forward.

            He could see the Lord Elessar now, walking with quiet dignity, dressed in the formal armor taken from Elendil’s own chest, his head bare, the green Elfstone shining on his breast.  And by him----

            Húrin straightened, for he’d not thought to see two who appeared like this.  He’d thought that Master Meriadoc and Guardsman Peregrin had looked absurdly like children at times.  There was nothing childlike to the two Pheriannath who flanked their coming King.  The one with lighter hair walked solidly upon his bare feet, as if he felt the health of the soil through his soles and affirmed it, his stance utterly responsible and dignified.  The other----

            What could be said about the other?  He was taller than the lighter-haired Hobbit, and his build was slight.  It could be seen he wore a fine mesh of silver under his surcoat and shirt, and there were clear crystals to be seen sparkling at its placket and upon the ends of its sleeves.  He walked with a quiet, native grace, as if he were a dancer of great skill; but with an unexpected wariness as if he’d been through great trials.  The circlet of honor lay upon his dark curls, and the blue of the sea diamond did indeed match the blue of his eyes.  The silver of the circlet matched that of the fine mesh of his corslet, and the Man realized it, too, was wrought of mithril.  “Aah,” he breathed.  And there was to him much the same feeling of isolated dignity and reserve he saw in the figure of the one who would shortly be King.  The Man gave a single glance at the Hobbit, his face softening; and the Pherian returned the glance in kind.  There was, Húrin realized, mutual respect there, and mutual love as well.

            Faramir gave his last nod, and Leonid lifted Beruthien from the stone just in time for her to follow a half step behind her father as he walked with Faramir to greet the King.  And then they were standing before him, and together they bowed ere Faramir knelt to hold out the Rod of the Stewards.  When the Lord Elessar returned it, Húrin felt a fierce pride and gladness surge through him, and saw the relief and growing joy in his cousin’s eyes ere he turned to the crowd to ask them to acclaim their new King.  He felt Beruthien reach to take his hand and squeeze it, and realized that she, too, was moved by what they saw.  He exchanged a glad smile with her as the crowd, both without and within the city, called out to welcome the King Returned!

            “But it is by the hands of many that this day is come,” the King spoke, and all watched in growing respect as he gave the Crown back into Faramir’s hands and stepped backwards, composed himself, then knelt, humbly awaiting the Crown to be given him by others.

            “He knows he owes them this,” he heard Leonid whispering into Beruthien’s ear, and he felt more than saw her nod of understanding.

            The Ringbearer came forward to receive the Winged Crown from Faramir’s hands.  He’d looked uncertain for a moment, but then there was purpose in his expression as he turned to carry his burden to Mithrandir.

            Lord Húrin had seen the Wizard Mithrandir many times over the years.  He’d seen the Istar when he seemed nothing but an impatient old Man, and when he’d told fanciful stories to the young boys he, and later Boromir and Faramir had once been.  He’d seen him with his odd pipe, breathing the essences of smoldering dried leaves and blowing rings of smoke that took various colors and sometimes odd shapes; had seen him stand with great dignity to counsel Ecthelion and later Denethor during his visits.  He’d seen him searching through old records, scrolls, and parchments; he’d seen him standing wearied, looking relentlessly eastward as if seeking to divine the Enemy’s thoughts.  He’d heard him sing absurd songs and speak solemn odes.  But today--today he stood white and shining, filled with a Light that only rarely had Húrin glimpsed; and there was a true benediction as he gently accepted the Winged Crown from the solemn Pherian and turned to place it with remarkable authority on the head of the King.

            And then the King rose, and all of the great company gathered to see, there upon the Pelennor and there within the walls of the city, seemed lifted up with him.

            “Behold the King!” Húrin heard, and he felt the surge of joy as it was at last fully expressed by all present.  He went gladly before the rest to see the barrier moved aside, and to lead the Lord Elessar Envinyatar Telcontar into the capital of Gondor, to lead him toward his throne.  And he could fairly feel the pride his daughter held for him as he did this!

 *******

            The two Pheriannath who accompanied the King were mounted on the ponies that had been readied within the First Circle, and now all walked in procession into the City and up its winding high road.  It was when they were passing the marketplace in the Third Circle that Húrin decided that it was time to present his gift.

            “My Lord King,” he said as he approached his new liege, “I had this prepared for you.  I hope that it will serve you well.”  He pulled out of his scrip the small carved box and held it out.

            He who’d once been known as Thorongil accepted it with open curiosity.  “A gift?”

            “Of course, Sire.  You were crowned King this day, and besides the Keys to the Realm, City, and Citadel I had thought you might appreciate another sign proper to your sovereignty.”

            Lord Elessar smiled, carefully prised the box open, then stopped as he examined its contents.  “A seal,” he said quietly.

            “Indeed, my Lord.”

            The King lifted it out of the box, surrendering that to Faramir, who walked at his side.  He examined it, and looked on the faces of the eagles on each side of the shank and the taloned setting for the stone, and laughed--laughed in joy and delight.  “I rejoice to receive this, my Lord Húrin,” he said.  “And the imagery is--perfect!”

            “For the memory of the Eagle of the Star,” Húrin said softly, “as well as for the gladness we know as Gondor and Arnor are at long last reunited once more.  Welcome to your new home, my Lord.”

            “I feel welcome indeed, my friend.”  Carefully he slipped the Ring upon his left index finger, and smiled.  “It fits--I’ll not need for Gimli to adjust it.”  He held it down to show Beruthien.  “Did you see it, child?” he asked.

            “That is good,” Húrin agreed.  “Now, I wished to warn you--those who room on the second floor of the Royal Wing will need to be cautious.  A pair of falcons--peregrines--have built their nest off of one of the sleeping chambers there, and their hatchlings have left their shells only four days past.  It would be wise not to disturb them overmuch....”

            Those who watched the progress of their King through the White City rejoiced to hear their King laugh again.  Yes, the darkness was well past.

Author's Notes

            Ah, the joy of challenges, which seem any more to keep distracting me from longer and weightier tales!  This was written for the May challenge issued by the LOTR Community discussion group, to write a story about Aragorn's Coronation and include in it certain elements--in my case, a lantern, a birds nest, and a misunderstanding.  I hope that I have managed to include these things to everyone's satisfaction.  I chose peregrine falcons partly because of the ties to our Pippin, and even more because this particular breed of falcon has been known to build nests on ledges on buildings in several cities, including returning to the same building nesting site in Seattle for at least three years running.  And what other bird would be as worthy to have nest on the window ledges of the Royal Wing of the Citadel of Minas Tirith?

            As I was looking over my body of work, I noted that Húrin of the Keys barely has been included; and in this story I decided to rectify that wrong to the worthy Gondorian lord, warrior, and warden.  As I wrote, I found that it was another tale that kept growing in the telling, exceeding the planned two chapters by several more.  So it was that it became a novela in the end, challenging Cathleen when she went to post it on the challenge site on LiveJournal where the original was first published.  It has since been edited to include Húrin as a participant in the Battle of the Pelennor, Agape having reminded me that the Master included him there.  And within this story I was able at last to indicate a possible origin to the circlets of honor worn by Frodo and Samwise as they were acclaimed by those gathered in the Fields of Cormallen.

            I have had a few folk question my decision to indicate Frodo and Sam were truly ennobled upon the Fields of Cormallen, much less that they were made Lords of all the Free Peoples.  As authority for this, I refer those who question this to the words of acclamation called out to them; one of the lines, I've been assured, names the two of them "Princes of the West" (Conin en Annûn).  That is a weighty title to be granted to two mortals with no hope of blood of Westernessë running in their veins.  For them to receive such an honor, I would think that the original authority would have had to have come from the West indeed.  So it is that the origin of the request they be ennobled is ever derived in my own stories as having come from the Great Eagles, and most likely have originated from their attested Master, Manwë himself, and possibly been passed to him from the Creator.

            I have used some movie-verse elements here--in the movies Aragorn goes to fight before the Black Gates wearing the same armor worn in the prologue by Elendil, and I chose to follow suit.  That Isildur, when coming to invest his nephew Meneldil as King of Gondor under his authority, might have brought his father's armor there is very possible--it would have been bulky for the further journey up the west bank of the Anduin during the journey back to Imladris to retrieve his wife and youngest son.  We know from Unfinished Tales that Elendil's body was originally entombed on a peak in the White Mountains, but was later moved, and perhaps to the Hallows within Minas Anor/Tirith.  Obviously it was brought back from the Black Gate and not buried with those of so many others on the margins of the Dagorlad where later the waters of the Dead Marshes encroached.  That his armor might have proven the core of the collection of armors of past lords of the land and their sons that I depict in the "Mail Shed" just seemed very likely; and that these stores might have been raided from time to time by later lords in need of mail with no time to have it properly crafted from scratch follows.  We know that Pippin's armor, for example, had originally been made for Faramir, after all; why should not the mail given Sam to wear on Cormallen be from that store, also?

            As I noted in comments to those who made comments on Ruvemir's sculpting in The King's Commission, it's been a standing joke amongst sculptors that when sculpting an elephant one starts with a block of stone and starts removing everything within the block that doesn't look like an elephant, leaving one with a sculpture of--an elephant!  So, in that story, as Ruvemir and the sculptors amongst the Dwarves look at the blocks of stone offered from which to carve figures of the Hobbits, they find that each block indicates which figure it holds within it, and one is even offended to have had its base cut at an uncomfortable angle to its grain.  Two of the blocks don't speak to the proposed memorial at all--instead one proves to hold the sarcophagus in which Aragorn's own body eventually will be entombed (admittedly another movie-verse element), while the remaining block holds the enlarged image of the diminutive Lord of Mundolië--the Middle Earth equivalent to Mongolia.

            Would not metal and jewels also somehow speak of their willingness to be used in some particular project, then--at least when the craftsman is a true master as we must assume Gimli was?  So, a particular, rather small ingot of mithril catches the eye of Gimli; Imrahil's "sea diamond" and a more normal diamond of similar size and quality from the Steward's personal treasure "agree" to being used in the crafting of the circlets for Frodo and Sam; and the damaged signet ring of Oropher with its stone apparently crafted originally by Nerdanel become the housing for Aragorn's personal signet.

            As for Húrin being an amputee and yet fighting in the battle--being disabled in no way keeps many folk from seeking to protect that which they treasure--lands, people, family....  That Húrin would resist being pensioned off as too damaged to help fight for his land is likely, particularly if he was relatively young yet sufficiently experienced to know what he was capable of doing when he lost his arm.  I was inspired in part by Rosemary Sutcliff's Warrior Scarlet, a work I read for the first time only a short time before I read The Lord of the Rings.  Drem, a Bronze Age Briton, dedicates himself to proving he is worthy of being accepted as a warrior of his people from early childhood, having recognized having an arm that is useless from birth will be seen as a major impediment to being judged fit to wear the scarlet cloth given only to the men of his people.  Sutcliff herself was disabled due to juvenile arthritis, and her own limbs were foreshortened by the condition; she put a good deal of herself into her story, I think.

            I was also inspired by my late husband.  He'd been in the Navy two years when he was blinded in a freak accident aboard ship and was given a medical retirement.  He always insisted this was unfair, as he was still capable of serving in communications or another support capacity.  It's only been within the past decade that the U.S. Armed Forces have finally stopped automatically mustering out all permanently disabled personnel--a posthumous victory for my husband and many other disabled veterans.  So, Tony, Sam, Lucky, Bob, Carlos, and so many others, this is for you!

            Anyway, as I have been involved in disabilities rights movements and issues for most of my adult life, most already know that disabled folk will appear in my stories.  And considering the kind of warfare waged by the folk of Middle Earth, amputation would, I think, be a relatively common cause of disability--here I have to agree with Surgical Steel.

            So this story fell together, turning out, as I mentioned, rather longer than I'd originally intended--not that unusual a situation for my works, I'll admit.

            Thanks to all who've read and enjoyed it.

For all who have known major disabilities who've nevertheless fought for the recognition of their own integrity and worth and skill.  And particularly for Nance and Ruth Ann.