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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deciding to let the matter rest, Aragorn nodded.  

“Shall we go there now, my lord?” 

“Lead the way, Faramir.” 

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

... 

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aragorn nodded.   

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They moved on to discuss the Council of Gondor. 

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

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

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

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

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

He stopped short, noticing Aragorn. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Faramir nodded with a smile. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Húrin stepped back. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where else would I be, my lord?” 

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

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

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

“Certainly, my lord.” 

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

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

Faramir looked at him with growing wonder. 

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

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

Aragorn nodded. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

But he regarded Aragorn, and stopped his needless apology. 

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

“On what matter?” Aragorn asked. 

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

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

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

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aragorn nodded.  “Are there other concerns?”  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Faramir’s voice sank to almost a whisper.   

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

“Treating you in what fashion, exactly?” 

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

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

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

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

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

Faramir was silent, and Aragorn pressed on. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This time, it was Faramir who spoke first. 

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

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

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

“Aye.” 

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

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

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

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

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

“Aye, my lord, with all my heart.”

...