Gandalf lifted Faramir up and turned to leave the Silent Street. Denethor hesitated, his gaze torn between his feverish son and the oil-soaked bed.

“Come, my lord Steward,” the wizard entreated. “Your City has not yet fallen, and your son is not yet dead. Do not abandon hope until there truly is none left.”

Pippin waited at Gandalf’s side, the tension strung so tight he felt as if he could have lifted his sword and sliced through it.

Then Denethor moved, striding past Gandalf. “The Houses of Healing!” he commanded, and the wizard looked at Pippin with a glint in his eye. The hobbit ran after them, and the Silent Street became noiseless once more.

“There are three who I have not been able to help much,” the Warden said, as Aragorn and the sons of Elrond entered the Houses with Gandalf and Imrahil. “The Lady of Rohan, and the young perian, and the lord Faramir. We have healed their physical hurts, but they wake not.”

“The Black Breath,” said Aragorn. “Elladan, if you will, go and find me some athelas, and I shall see what help they need. Is anyone sitting with the patients?” he asked.

The Warden nodded. “Aye; the other perian with Master Meriadoc, and the King of Rohan with his sister, and our Steward with Faramir.”

Aragorn sighed. “And now is not the time for confrontation,” he muttered to himself. “Show me to the Lady Éowyn first, Master.”

Elladan, with a swift look backwards at his foster-brother, departed in search of athelas, and the rest followed Aragorn to Éowyn and then Merry, who slept with clammy brows and shallow breaths. The few dry leaves of athelas came – Elladan hissing curses under his breath about the inefficiency of the healers – and gently the sleepers were wakened. Aragorn spoke soothing words to them and left, as Éomer and Pippin rejoiced.

“Now for Faramir,” he said.

The room was dark and silent when Aragorn entered after knocking and receiving a curt, “Come in!” He made out the bed and a single dark figure bent over it. “My lord Steward,” he said, bowing, and swiftly made his way to the bed. Faramir was moving restlessly, and Aragorn put the bowl of sweet-scented water down and laved the ill man’s brow. Glancing across at Denethor, he saw the Steward’s eyes were bent on his son’s hand, clasped between his own. Aragorn took Faramir’s other hand and said, “Faramir! Faramir, come back!”

Faramir stirred in the bed, and moaned, and Aragorn repeated his call. The sick man moved again, and then his eyes opened, clear and alert. “My lord, you called,” he said, “I come. What ...”

Aragorn stilled him with a touch. “Rest now,” he said, “and sleep. Your father is here.”

Faramir turned his head, and Aragorn thought Denethor’s lips broke in a smile. “My son,” he breathed.

“Father, forgive me,” Faramir said, his voice low. Aragorn picked up the bowl and made to withdraw, but a word from Denethor halted him.

“Wait. Open the blinds a little.”

Putting the bowl down, Aragorn silently opened the blinds so that some of the new sunshine entered the dim room. He bent, picked the bowl up once more, bowed, and made it to the door before Denethor spoke again.

“You. Turn around.”

Slowly, Aragorn turned, and found the Steward had stood. His son seemed to have relapsed into a normal sleep. Denethor’s deep eyes were fixed on Aragorn, boring into him, and there was a moment’s silence. Finally, Denethor said, “You?” his tone dark and angry.

Aragorn said nothing, and held his ground and the Steward’s gaze.

“Thorongil. I hoped you were dead,” Denethor said.

“My lord, this is neither the time nor the place,” Aragorn returned, keeping his tone deliberately neutral. “There are others I must tend, and I need sleep for I am weary. Your son needs you now.”

Denethor half-turned his head towards Faramir. “My son ...” he murmured, and then looked back at Aragorn. “Aye. He does need me. And the City? Does she still need me – Thorongil?”

“More than ever,” said Aragorn. “I am camped outside the gates, my lord Steward. I bid you goodnight.” He bowed again, and retreated before Denethor could say anything more.

Outside the door he found Imrahil pacing, and the prince turned to him. “How does he fare, my lord? You were longer with him than with the others.”

“He sleeps a natural sleep,” Aragorn reassured him. “He is safe from harm, though his recovery will be long. Where are Elladan and Elrohir?”

Imrahil pointed him in the right direction, and Aragorn hurried away.

And in the morning the banner of the Stewards, silver against the blue sky, floated again from the Tower, and men looked up and wondered if the coming of the King had been but a dream.

[Misquoting ‘The Houses of Healing’, ROTK.]

“Estel. Estel!” Someone was shaking his shoulder. “Valar ... Estel, wake up!”

Aragorn rolled over and unwound his cloak from around him. “Elrohir, I’m awake. I’m awake. What is it? What’s the time?”

“Mid-morning,” Elrohir said, his face concerned. “The Steward is at the Gate demanding to see Thorongil, and Mithrandir sent me to get you.”

Aragorn sat up and ran his hands through his hair. “Is there any water?”

His foster-brother found a bowl of slightly dirty water and brought it, grimacing slightly. Aragorn splashed some on his face and hands and stood up, buckling on his sword. “Is the banner up?”

“It’s furled in the corner,” Elrohir pointed out.

“Good. All right, I am coming!”

“You look rather more like a Ranger than a King,” observed Elrohir, regarding Aragorn critically.

Aragorn fastened his cloak with the mallorn-shaped brooch from Lothlórien and scowled at Elrohir. “Not now, I pray you, brother.”

Elrohir nodded, and followed the Man out of the tent.

Underneath the broken arch of the Gate, Denethor stood in black armour, cloaked in white, a sword at his hip and the white Steward’s rod in his hand. He was flanked by Guards in full livery. Nearby were Gandalf and Imrahil. As Aragorn and Elrohir walked towards the Gate, Elladan appeared and silently joined his brothers. Close by, some of the Rangers clad in grey waited.

Aragorn paused a few metres away from Denethor and the Gate, and bowed. “Good morning, my lord.”

Denethor barely inclined his head. Imrahil’s face flickered, and some of the Rangers’ hands moved, but behind Aragorn the sons of Elrond stood still as statues.

“Thorongil. You returned to serve Gondor again at a timely moment,” said Denethor. Now Imrahil’s brow creased, and he shot a look at Aragorn, though he said nothing.

“I think, my lord Steward, you have been told of the manner of my coming?” Aragorn said.

“Once again you defeated the Corsairs,” Denethor acknowledged. “The City is grateful.”

“My lord Steward!” Imrahil interjected. “Kinsman – do you not know who stands before you?”

“A captain of the Guard who disappeared many years gone,” Denethor said. “A captain of our Northern kindred, I see.”

“He is your liege lord,” Imrahil returned, his eyes bright. “Your king, my lord Steward.”

“So I am told,” Denethor said, staring at Aragorn coldly. “Is this true, Thorongil? Do you claim the kingship?” His voice was icy, hard, emotionless.

“My true name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn,” said Aragorn, meeting Denethor’s eyes steadily. “I am descended in direct line, father to son, from Valandil Isildur’s son of Arnor.”

“This I am told,” Denethor said. “But where are the tokens of your house, and how can I be sure that the line remained unbroken these long years?”

Aragorn drew Andúril and held the blade up, glittering in the sun. “This is Andúril, Narsil reforged, the blade of Elendil, my lord.” He glanced round. “Meneldil. Fetch me the standard, and the Elessar.”

“Aye, my lord.” The Ranger Meneldil, serious of expression, bowed and strode away. Denethor eyed Andúril, which Aragorn had lowered to his side. It rested point downwards, the engravings catching the light. Nobody spoke; eyes flickered from the Steward to Aragorn and back. After a short while Meneldil returned, bearing the furled black standard in one hand and the green stone in the other. Aragorn nodded his thanks and took the Elessar.

“Unfurl the banner,” he said softly, and Meneldil pulled at the binding cords. Unfettered, the standard blew open in the wind. The silver and mithril embroidery shone, and Denethor’s eyes narrowed – whether against the brilliance, or against the symbols, none could tell. Aragorn held the eagle-shaped brooch up, the green stone glowing in his hand. “And this, my lord Steward, is the Elessar, the Elfstone, and it was foretold that I should bear it. My foster-father, Lord Elrond Peredhil of Imladris, has the Sceptre of Annúminas in his keeping.”

“And the Ring of Barahir?” Denethor demanded. “That, I know, is another sign of the House of Isildur.”

“The Ring of Barahir is bestowed elsewhere, for now,” Aragorn said softly.

“And for the lineage,” Elladan said, stepping forwards, his eyes bright, “my brother and I have watched each Heir since the line of the Kings died out, and we can vouch for Aragorn’s ancestry.”

Denethor’s face was growing blacker by the minute. “And you are?” he said.

Elladan nodded a curt bow. “Elladan son of Elrond son of Eärendil, my lord Steward. I and my brother rode with the Dúnedain to Gondor, to honour kinship both ancient and new.”

There was a long silence. Gandalf leaned on his staff and looked from one group to the other, but said nothing.

At length Denethor stirred. “I will consider the claim, as it is my right to do. We who have safeguarded the throne for so many years will not give it up on the spur of the moment. It seems to me strange you did not assert your claim forty years ago, instead of hiding your identity.”

Imrahil again took an impulsive step forwards. “My lord Denethor, the Lord Aragorn rode the Paths of the Dead to reach the City in time, and his coming saved Minas Tirith. He has braved dangers untold for his City – for your City. Had you seen him in battle you would have no doubts.” The unspoken accusation – why were you not there? – hung in the air. The Steward glanced at Imrahil.

“I saw him in battle, many years ago,” Denethor said.

“My lords.” Aragorn’s voice broke through the heavy silence that had fallen between the Steward and the Prince of Dol Amroth. “My claim will be void if we do not take counsel now for the next assault. We have won the Pelennor and the City, but other battles need to be fought before we can say we have won the war.” He looked directly at Denethor. “My lord Steward, if you do not wish me to enter the City I invite you to join the council in my tent. And it would be appropriate for Éomer King to attend also; I believe he is with his sister.”

Gandalf nodded approvingly. “Aragorn is right, my lords,” he said. “Sauron will be gathering his forces for another attack, and we must not let him regain the advantage.”

The Steward said nothing, looking long on Aragorn, and then he stepped out from under the Gate. “Take word to Éomer of Rohan in the Houses of Healing that counsel is to be taken on the field,” he ordered, and one of the Guards hurried away. Denethor came to Aragorn and fell into step by his side.

“Then it is decided,” said Gandalf. “In two days we ride for Mordor.”

Denethor stood up. “I must return to my son. Messages sent to the Houses of Healing will reach me.” He bowed in a cursory manner and, bending his head, lifted the flap of the tent and disappeared.

Imrahil looked after the Steward and hurriedly rose. “My liege, my lords, forgive me – I must speak with Denethor.” He bowed, and followed his kinsman out.

Already Denethor was at the Gate, and Imrahil’s boots thudded on the cobbles as he went to catch the Steward’s long strides up.

“Denethor! My lord!”

“What, Imrahil?” Denethor did not turn, but marched on towards the second circle. “If it is about ... Aragorn, or Thorongil, or whatever he is choosing to call himself, I will not talk. I have said all I will say on that matter.”

“Then listen, if you will not talk,” said Imrahil, falling into step. “What wrong has he done you or the City? He served loyally when he lived here before – that little I remember of Thorongil. Had it not been for his intervention on the field yesterday we would have lost the City – aye, and maybe the war also. He is a noble man.”

The Steward’s face worked, but he said nothing.

“Holding a resentment against him will serve naught,” Imrahil persisted. “I believe his claim is legitimate. Refusing him stubbornly will not do anything, save divide our forces.”

“I said I will not discuss this matter!” Denethor said, stopping in the street and facing Imrahil angrily. “I am going to my son, my lord Prince. Later I will see to the ordering of the troops.”

Imrahil, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword, watched the Steward go, and turned back towards the Pelennor.

* * *

Éomer stretched restlessly. “I have to see to the men and horses,” he said. “To check that the animals’ hurts have been adequately looked after. Send to my tents should you need anything, Aragorn.”

“I will. My thanks, Éomer.” Aragorn exchanged clasps of the hand with the new king of Rohan, and the younger man strode quickly away.

Aragorn threw himself into of the chairs brought out for the debate. “Well, Gandalf, old friend,” he said, “did I do the right thing?”

“You hardly need my advice now,” Gandalf returned, taking his pipe out and lighting it. “You have grown beyond it, Aragorn.”

“Yet I would value it nonetheless,” Aragorn said.

Gandalf puffed a grey stream of smoke out and followed it up with a smoke ring that circled the pole in the centre of the tent. “Denethor’s will and pride have always been at once his greatest faults and among his greatest attributes,” he said thoughtfully. “He loves Minas Tirith, above everything, and I think in his heart he knows what is best for the City. He may not admit it. Your arrival comes hard on the heels of the news of Boromir’s death. But still there is a war to be won, and an army needs a leader. Yes, you did the right thing.”

Looking up, Aragorn smiled. “I thank you, old friend. Now, to business.” He sat up and drew some parchment towards him.

* * *

“Father.” Faramir was propped up by pillows and sipping soup slowly when Denethor entered. “I was hoping you would come.”

Denethor pulled a chair to the bed and sat down, after bending to kiss his son’s brow. “How are you this morn, Faramir?”

“Feeling better,” Faramir said, putting his spoon down. “There is still pain in my shoulder, but the darkness has gone.” He smiled at his father, a light in his eyes. “Did I dream it? Or is it true, that the King has returned? The halflings told me of the bearer of the Sword That Was Broken, but I scarce dared believe it.”

“The bearer of Narsil,” muttered Denethor, scowling. “Aye, he has returned, to a City he forsook decades before. And a company with him more Elvish than Men, already bewitching my people.”

“Father?” Faramir said, his face creased in a frown. “What do you mean?”

“Long years ago,” Denethor said softly, staring past Faramir at the window, “a Man came from Rohan, but he was not a Rohirrim. He was as dark as any son of Gondor, and spoke our tongue with the same fluency as he spoke Sindarin or Rohirric. He said little of himself, save that he came out of the North. He became a Guard, and earned too easily the respect – and love – of his fellows. My father the Steward listened to his counsels, and though we knew naught of this Man’s origins, Ecthelion would trust him above all other.”

“Above all other?” murmured Faramir.

“All other,” Denethor repeated, forcefully. “Thus I was forced to spend time with him, and to better know him I chose him to ride with my company when we visited the coast. When I first saw your mother, Thorongil was by. And yet I learnt nothing – nothing! – of him. My father, I know, had his suspicions, but yet he did not turn him out, and granted even that Thorongil should lead a raid against the Corsairs of Umbar.”

“That Thorongil!” exclaimed Faramir. “His deeds are written of in the archives.”

Denethor grunted. “Aye. He fought the Corsairs and bested them, but he would not return to the City to receive the honour which many thought he was due. Instead he disappeared, crossing Anduin at Pelargir. After a time we gave him up as dead.”

“You were glad,” Faramir said, meeting his father’s eyes.

“You are too perceptive, my son,” Denethor said. “I did not trust Thorongil. And then ... only a few weeks past, I saw him again.”

Faramir dropped his gaze to the coverlet, his voice soft. “In the palantír.”

“In the Stone of Minas Anor, I saw Thorongil,” Denethor agreed. “And I knew him, hunting creatures of little importance across the plains of Rohan; and then fighting for Rohan and not Gondor. And I saw the Corsairs with their sails beating up Anduin to lay siege to the White City.” His fingers grasped the edge of the bed, squeezing so the knuckles were white.

“And you despaired, father,” said Faramir, his hand hovering over his father’s and then coming to rest just by it. “You believed he would forsake Gondor again in her darkest hour.”

Denethor bent his head. “I was sorely grieved, my son. For Boromir is dead, and you were dying, burning, and Mithrandir was the only one who had come to the City – an old meddling wizard, one in league with Thorongil. Would not any man have despaired?”

“But despair such to give up all hope?” asked Faramir, his voice breaking. “To give up life? Father? My lord?”

“Berate me not!” Denethor said, rising from his chair. “Last night as you slept I went over all these arguments, debating for myself what course was best to take. Your father may be grieved, Faramir, but he is no fool, and the City stands in his control. Not that of Thorongil.” He paused. “Or Aragorn,” he amended.

“That is the ... that is Thorongil’s right name?” said Faramir.

“Aragorn, son of Arathorn,” Denethor confirmed.

“You know his claim is true?” Faramir said. “You believe it.” Denethor said nothing. “You must believe it,” Faramir went on. “I was lost in the darkness, Father, wandering. I was alone and afraid, in the black emptiness. And then I heard a voice calling me.” He smiled to himself. “So I turned, and beheld him, clad all in white with a stone shining green on his brow, and I knew him. It was clear to me at once who he was, what he was. I stepped towards him, and he took my hand and led me out of the darkness again. He is the King. All these years we have held the throne in trust, for the day when the King shall return – do you not feel glad that that day has come, Father? That it is your task to hand over the City?”

“If the City survives,” Denethor said. “The King might have returned, in grey with a motley crew at his heels, but we are still at war, Faramir. His coming cannot save Gondor, for our hope lies with two halflings bearing the doom of Men.” He sat down again, and took his son’s hand. “It was decided that in two days the combined armies should ride for Mordor.”

Faramir met the Steward’s eyes. “And do you ride with them? Father?”

Denethor said nothing, and there was silence in the room.

It was evening. On the Pelennor many fires were burning – the pyres immolating the corpses of the enemy, and campfires close to the encampments of the armies. Closest to the City, the simple tents of the Dúnedain surrounded a fire burning merrily, and the Rangers themselves were seated close by, talking softly.

Aragorn sat slightly distant from his company, Andúril unsheathed and a whetstone in his hand. Carefully he ran the stone along the edge of the blade, testing the sharpness now and then with a finger. In the firelight the sword reflected redly, as if the blood it had spilled stained the metal still.

A footstep roused Aragorn from his concentration, and he looked up. Denethor, wearing a dark cloak, stood silently just outside the circle. Aragorn tucked the whetstone into a pouch and stood to greet the Steward.

“My lord. How fares Faramir?”

“He sleeps,” Denethor said briefly. “I need to talk to you.”Aragorn nodded, and led the way into his tent. The Steward took a seat, and for a moment simply stared at Aragorn without saying anything.

Eventually he spoke. “I received your messages regarding the troops.”

“I trust you found the arrangements satisfactory?” Aragorn said. “They are your soldiers after all, my lord Steward.”

“They are not, though, are they?” Denethor returned. “In the end, they are Gondor’s soldiers, and the question is – is Gondor yours to rule or mine?”

Aragorn crossed the tent and sat down.

“In all events,” Denethor continued, “I believe the arrangements are as good as we can hope for. The plan is in all likelihood doomed to failure.”

“Doom does not rest with us,” Aragorn said softly. “Our hope is to draw the Enemy’s Eye away from his realm. This, we can do, even if we all die in the doing. In Bree, many months ago, I pledged myself to the service of the halflings. Though Frodo and Samwise are now separated from us, I will keep my word.”

Silence fell again. Aragorn watched Denethor but said nothing, wondering what the Steward was thinking, and seeing indecision on the other man’s features.

“Why did you leave the White City?” Denethor asked after a long pause, not looking up. “What was it that drove you away?”

“Nothing drove me away,” Aragorn said, surprised at the phrasing. “It was simply time to go. There were errands calling me elsewhere; information needed by Mithrandir, and by Elrond.” He smiled a little. “And questions that needed answering.”

“But you abandoned the City,” Denethor persisted. “When my father would have showered you with pomp and honour, you turned and disappeared.”

Aragorn laughed without humour. “My lord Steward – I did not wish for pomp, or honour. I do not wish it. That Gondor is safe has always been one of my greatest wishes.”

Denethor stood up, and began to pace the tent. “Ah yes,” he said, “the ever-modest Thorongil. But you cannot be both self-effacing and King, can you?” He turned, and Aragorn saw a mixture of grief and anger on his face. “Since my father died I have ruled Minas Tirith. I have sat in the Steward’s chair and ruled in the King’s name – in your name – and I have brought my son up to rule after me. And now in a fell swoop my son is dead and you have come to take away the Stewardship. Did you not think my father would have surrendered the rod to you, all those years past?”

“He would have done,” Aragorn said. “I know that. I also know that then was not the time. It was not right, for me or for Gondor.”

“And now it is?” Denethor returned.

“Maybe, when the war is won and Sauron is defeated,” said Aragorn, shrugging. “My lord, I will not enter the City again unless we are successful. If the Ringbearer fulfils his quest.”

“Then you will in all likelihood never enter the Gate again,” Denethor said, taking his seat once more. “I may not know these wizards and these Elves like you, Thorongil, but I know Men. The men of Gondor would fight to the death, and too many of them have. Now they will be led to darkness.”

Ignoring the use of his long-abandoned name, Aragorn decided to cut to the point. “Who will lead them, my lord Steward? Will you ride with us, when we leave? Éomer King and the Prince of Dol Amroth have already said they will lead their forces, but for Gondor there is as yet nobody.”

“Not yourself?”

“I am leading the Dúnedain,” Aragorn said. “Though it is long since we have fought together in such a number, I am their Chieftain and their captain.”

“If I ride, Minas Tirith is left with nobody,” Denethor replied, his head low in thought.

“There is Faramir,” said Aragorn, wondering that the Steward did not mention his second son. “He is hurt in body, not in mind. He is your heir now, my lord.”

“Alas that he is!” said Denethor. “Alas for Boromir!”

Aragorn closed his eyes, remembering Boromir’s struggle with the Ring and his grief before his death. “He died bravely and nobly, a death fit for one of his station,” he said softly. “He died as he had lived. And he is at peace.”

Sudden comprehension flooded Denethor’s face. “Then it was you who arrayed him in the boat? Faramir came upon it by Anduin, and thought it was but a vision.”

“Myself, and Legolas and Gimli. We had no time to lay him to rest, and so we sent him to the Sea.”

“Then ... then I thank you,” Denethor said, with difficulty. He paused, and Aragorn said nothing, waiting for the Steward to speak again. “It is many years since I have fought a battle,” he said, eventually. “Though this sword hangs by my side I have scarce used it in ten years.”

“It is a skill not easily forgotten,” Aragorn said.

Denethor’s lips bent in the ghost of a smile. “That is so. But is the hand that wields the sword as strong as it used to be? I am no longer young.”

“Do your veins not flow with the blood of Númenor?” returned Aragorn. “You are not young, but neither are you a dotard.”

“You would have me ride to my death?”

“Maybe so,” said Aragorn. “But not to a lonely death, my lord Steward. I would say to you, ride at the head of your army, your people. If you must die, die as Théoden did, in glory and honour. Leave Faramir here in your stead.” Denethor looked up, his eyes glinting, and Aragorn met the gaze. “It is your choice, my lord. If you will not ride, I will take command of Gondor’s armies. But if you choose to come, I will ride by your side and fight for Gondor’s Steward, as I once did. Think on it.”

“I will,” said Denethor, rising. “Yes, Thorongil, I will think on it.”

“Use that name no longer,” Aragorn said. “Thorongil is long gone.”

“Then, Aragorn, I will think on it,” Denethor repeated. “I bid you good night.”

Aragorn nodded, and bowed. After a brief moment, Denethor returned the bow and disappeared into the darkness.

* * *

It was dawn. The tents had been struck and the Pelennor was filling with silent, ordered rows of soldiers. Close to the Gate the commanders were gathering, mounted, their faces grave. The crest on Éomer’s helmet was blowing gently in the breeze. A short distance away, the standard-bearers waited: the blue of Dol Amroth next to the green of Rohan, the red of Lossarnach by the brown and gold of Morthond. There too was Meneldil, but he carried a furled banner, the silver cords once again binding sable close.

Imrahil, mounted on a fidgety grey stallion, came close to Aragorn.

“If he does not come ...” he murmured.

“He will come,” Aragorn said, and even as he spoke a trumpet rang out from the Tower and the Guards at the Gate stood back. Denethor, in black armour and followed by his standard bearer with the pure white of the Stewards, rode out of Minas Tirith. With him was Faramir, pale but composed and accompanied closely by a Guard. The company paused by Aragorn and the other commanders.

“My lord Steward,” Aragorn said formally. “The army is ready to depart.”

Denethor turned to his son. “Faramir, into your hands I surrender the City. Lead her well whilst I am gone.” He took the rod of the Stewards from a Guard close by and passed it to Faramir.

“I will serve the White City to the best of my power,” said Faramir, his voice firm. He bowed his head, first to his father and then, with a brief glance at Denethor, to Aragorn. Aragorn returned the bow, and then Faramir turned and rode back to the Gate.

Denethor surveyed the field, and the standard bearers waiting at the front of the massed forces.

“There are more than I expected.”

“Seven thousands,” said Imrahil. “Strong men and true.”

“Then let us show the Enemy Gondor’s might,” Denethor said. He looked at Aragorn, and back at the forces, and then seemed to come to a decision. “Bid your bearer unfurl your standard. If this is to be Gondor’s last ride, let her ride with the White Tree at her head.”

For a long minute, Aragorn looked at the Steward; and then he smiled, and gestured to Meneldil. The Ranger reached up and let loose the cords, and next to the silver already flapping in the wind, the black cloth was let loose. High in front of the army, the White Tree shone again, and with a roar and the clashing of swords on shields, the men showed their approval.

“My lords,” said Denethor, “we ride to war.”

Once again the trumpet rang out, and with the Steward, Gandalf proud on Shadowfax, and Aragorn at its head, the army began to move.

The army rode in silence, each man occupied with his own thoughts. From time to time Denethor broke out of his reflections, and glanced around him. Close by the grey figure of Aragorn could be seen, often talking quietly with one of the sons of Elrond or Gandalf; and Denethor frowned and looked the other way. Legolas, with Gimli behind him, rode next to Éomer and every now and again a burst of laughter rang out – the bright sound of Elvish merriment, or a gruff bellow from the Dwarf, or Éomer’s warm guffaw.

Imrahil, his silver armour glittering, rode up beside the Steward.

“My lord,” he said softly, and Denethor started and looked round.

“Imrahil.”

The Prince nodded. “I am glad you chose to ride.”

“I chose to fight,” Denethor corrected, glancing at Aragorn, who seemed to be arguing about something with Elladan or Elrohir.

“For what?” Imrahil asked.

“If you are trying to ask, for whom,” Denethor said, “then for nobody. I fight for Gondor, because that is my duty as Steward.”

Imrahil smiled knowingly, and fell silent.

“If he refuses you will never have Arwen!” Elladan said to Aragorn, their mounts close together so they could talk privately. “All your life you’ve dreamed, Estel, and you would throw that away?”

“I am throwing nothing away!” Aragorn returned. “And it is not for Denethor to refuse to surrender the Stewardship – rather it is for the people to agree that he should do so.”

“I know the old customs as well as you,” Elladan said. “Words, Estel, only words. ‘Shall he be king and enter into the City and dwell there?’ Well, you have already entered, and dwelt there, and so the point is moot. If Denethor stubbornly holds on to his power, you would not fight for it. I know you too well to think that.”

“Peace, Elladan!” Aragorn said, conceding the point. “Please, let us not speak of this any more – and tell your brother the same. Before anything can be decided there are more battles to be fought.” Elladan nodded, a glint in his eye, and Aragorn shook his head. “And of course you at least will never tire of battles.”

The cavalry pressed on once they had passed Osgiliath, by noon on the first day of the march, and leaving the foot soldiers behind reached the great crossroads by Minas Morgul. Denethor sent for the heralds and had them proclaim Gondor’s lordship over the lands, before ordering that camp should be made. The host went about its business quickly and efficiently, whilst the Steward watched. He noticed that the company of northern Rangers had not brought tents with them this time, instead laying out blankets on the ground and lighting a fire. Aragorn moved easily amongst his men, helping with the fire before settling down by it and lighting a pipe.

Denethor turned away and went to find his own tent.

The next morning they waited for the rest of the army. Towards noon Denethor called the commanders together.

“Though we agreed not to destroy Minas Morgul,” he said, “I wish to ride to look upon it, and would ask that Mithrandir and whomsoever chooses to would ride with me.”

“I will come,” Gandalf said, nodding.

“And I too,” Aragorn added. “But it grieves me to see Minas Ithil so marred.”

“It has long grieved me,” Denethor said. “Imrahil? My lord Éomer?”

“The horses need attention,” said Éomer. “And one stone city is much like another to my eyes, my lord Steward. I’ll stay here.”

Imrahil glanced shrewdly at Aragorn and Gandalf, and shook his head. “I also have business with my men, my lord Denethor.”

The Steward nodded curtly. “Then the three of us shall go. Do you need long to prepare?”

“Just enough time to saddle Roheryn,” Aragorn said briefly.

Denethor acknowledged this, and Aragorn slipped away. Gandalf got out his pipe and lit it, settling down contentedly. Denethor called for his horse to be saddled, and stood waiting, his hands folded behind his back.

“What is that weed you smoke?” he asked, sniffing the air.

“The hobbits name it pipe weed,” Gandalf said. “This happens to be Longbottom Leaf, discovered by Masters Took and Brandybuck in the cellars of Orthanc. An excellent crop.”

“It is a habit of the halflings, then?” said Denethor, his voice betraying some curiosity.

“Of the halflings, the Dúnedain, and one wizard.” A smoke ring circled the Steward’s head. “Ah, here comes Aragorn.” Gandalf knocked out the burning embers of his pipe and tucked it into his belt before whistling sharply. Shadowfax, his head held high, came trotting across the grass to his master. The wizard mounted, murmuring something to the great stallion, and once Denethor was also on horseback, the three of them set off east towards the tall pale tower of Minas Morgul.

All around the lands were silent, and no sign of activity could be seen outside of their own camp. Looking around as they rode, Aragorn thought he saw the occasional glint of light off a sword, and knew that the guards they had posted were watching. They rode straight towards the city, and as they drew closer it seemed that darkness was falling again. Speaking softly to Roheryn to comfort and reassure the horse, Aragorn rode on by the side of his companions. In the gloom, Gandalf’s robes shone faintly, and the light was reflected in a sickly way by the defaced marble of the city above them.

As they crossed on to the white bridge, their horses’ hooves thudded hollowly. Shadowfax lifted his head and whinnied, and the noise echoed off the walls of the city and the cliff-face.

Denethor shivered, his face pale and drawn. “This is an evil place.”

“Yet long ago it was fair and lovely,” Aragorn said. “I wonder if it could be made so again.”

“In many years, and with a fair bit of rebuilding, perhaps,” Gandalf observed. He appeared to be less bothered by the oppressive atmosphere than his companions – or maybe it was that the atmosphere did not encroach on him so much. “I imagine that, if we win through, some of Gimli’s folk would be willing to help.”

“Time will tell,” said Denethor hoarsely, as they rode off the bridge and on to the road that led up to the city gates.

The silence was even greater here, and the air stank of some evil that had been wrought there. The Steward pulled his cloak up and wrapped it around his mouth and nose.

“Death,” muttered Gandalf to himself. “And something else ...”

“Nazgûl,” said Aragorn softly. “They are gone, but they were here. Orcs, too, I’d warrant. Whether they are all gone, I do not know.” He drew his sword, and it rang as it left the scabbard. Denethor looked round quickly, but relaxed as he saw the bright metal in Aragorn’s hand.

The road wound upwards into the valley, with the city built between two spurs of the mountains. As they ascended, Denethor turned his head and saw in the distance the topmost spike of the Tower of Ecthelion, gazing still on its twin. The cliffs were black and craggy, trapping the riders between impenetrable rock.

“The kings of old chose well,” Aragorn commented. “I am glad we do not have to assail this fortress.”

Denethor’s face had darkened slightly at the mention of kings, and Gandalf shot Aragorn a piercing look before saying, “I judge we have ridden far enough. Nothing lives here now.”

“Only evil memories,” Denethor said, turning his horse. Aragorn paused, looking still on the pale walls, and briefly raised Andúril in salute, before kicking Roheryn gently with his heels and following the Steward and the wizard back down towards the camp.

Denethor said nothing on the return ride, his eyes introspective, until they were nearly at the camp. Then he unwound his cloak from his face and sat up straighter. “I will order that the bridge be thrown down and burnt,” he said. “Should we return a new one will be built. What think you?”

“It is a good plan,” Aragorn approved.

Denethor nodded, and said nothing more.

By nightfall the infantrymen had caught up with the cavalry, and early on the next morning the whole army set out north. It was a dark and weary journey, and the mood of the forces did not lighten. Ere long, even the laughter of Legolas and the sons of Elrond had fallen silent. They met their first resistance two days from the Crossroads, but scouts ahead had warned of the ambush and the Dúnedain riding on had dealt with the Easterlings before the rest of the army came up.

Before many more days had passed, they had left behind the fair woodlands of Ithilien and the desolation of the Dagorlad was ahead. For a day or so, Legolas had reported seeing dark shapes wheeling above them, and as they broke the march for camp, six marches after leaving Minas Tirith, Éomer and Imrahil approached Aragorn looking concerned.

“Some of my men, and some of the men under the command of Dol Amroth, have been complaining that they cannot go further,” Éomer said. “It is strange – almost as if something has taken their will from them.”

Aragorn squinted into the night sky above them, and nodded. “I can well believe it. The Dúnedain who rode to join me are all experienced men, with many years of battle in the North under their belts, yet even they speak of fear they have never known. It is this place, and the watchers we have overhead. Have you spoken to the lord Denethor?”

Imrahil shook his head. “We were about to, my liege.”

Standing, Aragorn fastened his cloak and together the three of them crossed to Denethor’s tent, from which the flickering glow of a candle came. The Steward was writing orders, his quill scratching over parchment, but he laid down the work as they entered.

“My lords. It is late.”

“And we would not bother you, if we did not have important business,” said Éomer, and told Denethor what he had just told Aragorn. Denethor frowned.

“We cannot have men slowing us down.”

“They cannot help their fear,” Aragorn said. “The Nazgûl’s power, even without their lord, is stronger than aught we can imagine.”

The Steward grunted, and sat back in his chair. “So what do you suggest – my lord Aragorn?” he said, adding the title almost as an afterthought. By him, Aragorn felt Éomer bristle, and spoke before the Rohirrim could answer Denethor.

“There is Cair Andros, my lord. These men could ride to her defence. The castle will be held by the Enemy, but not with such force that we could not take it back. In that way, they will yet be useful, and not hinder us.”

“Very well. Speak with them in the morning. Is that all?”

“Yes,” said Aragorn. “Good night, my lord Steward.” He bowed his head, and left the tent with Imrahil and Éomer close behind him.

Any dialogue you recognise is taken from LOTR: ‘The Black Gate Opens’, and ‘The Field of Cormallen’. Because I can’t write better than Tolkien.

The Black Gate was before them, high and impenetrable, and the host was arrayed on the desolate ground in front of it. During the last hours of the dreadful ride towards Mordor, Denethor had taken counsel with Aragorn and Gandalf. It had been decided to place the banners of the Rohirrim and of Dol Amroth and the other allies of Gondor with the army, but that Meneldil and the standard bearer of Denethor should be behind Denethor and Aragorn at the forefront of the host. As he had proposed the plan, Denethor had been very formal and impersonal – it was clear that in his heart he did not want it, but that he had no choice.

Now they waited, the black and the silver side by side, and raising a gauntleted hand Denethor called the heralds forward. There was a blast of trumpets.

“Come forth!” the heralds cried. “Let the Lord of the Black Land come forth! Justice shall be done upon him. For wrongfully he has made war upon Gondor and wrested his lands. Therefore the Lords of Gondor demand that he should atone for his evils, and depart then forever. Come forth!”

They waited. Behind the captains the men stood still as statues, and silence fell over the host. High above the Nazgûl circled, and the air was dusty. For a long time nothing happened. Denethor seemed to be about to call the retreat, when at last there was a roll of drums that shuddered, making the ground shake, and the Gate opened.

From it rode a small company all in black, with a standard blowing high above emblazoned with the Lidless Eye. At the head of the embassy was a man in sable, mounted upon a horse that seemed more demon than beast. Denethor gripped the reins of his horse, but held fast.

The messenger rode up to the waiting captains and looked at them, his dark eyes glinting from behind his helm. He looked first at those in the second row: Legolas and Gimli, Pippin, quavering but holding his nerve, Elladan and Elrohir, Imrahil of Dol Amroth and Éomer of Rohan. Then his gaze switched to the three in the forefront: Aragorn, Denethor, and Gandalf. Finally he spoke, his voice mocking and cold.

“Is there anyone in this rout with authority to treat with me? Or indeed with wit to understand me?”

“You speak to the Steward of these lands taken unlawfully,” said Denethor. “That is authority enough.”

“Indeed?” laughed the messenger. “Lofty words from a Steward who holds on to the reins of his power with only his fingertips, and who suffers the banner of the traitor kings to be lifted above him.” He looked at Aragorn, and laughed again. “And thou, who wouldst be king, and yet will not seize the kingship, and dares to trespass on the Lord Sauron with such a pathetic rabble as this – what say you?”

Aragorn said nothing, instead holding the messenger’s gaze without moving. Nobody stirred, until the messenger shrank in his seat and his horse stepped back. “I am a herald and an ambassador, and may not be assailed!” he cried.

Gandalf touched Shadowfax with his heel, and the horse moved forward, the light glimmering around rider and mount. “Where such laws hold,” the wizard said, “it is also the custom for ambassadors to use less insolence.”

“So! So thou art the spokesman, old greybeard? That is good, for I have tokens that I was bidden to show to thee in especial, if thou shouldst dare to come.”

One of the guards rode forward and presented a bundle wrapped in black cloths to the messenger. From the cloths, he drew three items that made Pippin exclaim in horror. Glancing sharply at Aragorn, Denethor raised an eyebrow in question, but Aragorn shook his head slightly. Gandalf silenced Pippin with a word.

“So you do not deny these tokens?” the messenger said, glee in his tone.

“I do not wish to deny them,” replied Gandalf. “Indeed I know them and all their history. And you cannot say as much.”

“Dwarf-coat,” said the messenger, holding up a glittering mithril shirt, “elf-cloak,” displaying a grey cloak like to Aragorn’s, “blade of the downfallen West,” showing a short sword, “and spy from the little rat-land of the Shire. The marks of a conspiracy. We will return these to you, when you agree to certain terms that the Lord Sauron has deigned to offer you.”

Gandalf still held the messenger’s eyes, steadily, but age seemed to have descended upon him. “Name the terms,” he said.

In silence they listened as the messenger recited Sauron’s demands, and Denethor’s shoulders sagged. “All hope is gone,” he breathed. “Your quest has failed; it has robbed me not only of my son but also of my lands. What is there left?” His horse shifted, and Denethor made no move to restrain it. Aragorn reached out and caught the reins.

“My lord Steward!” he hissed, watching the messenger out of the corner of his eye. “Hold firm!”

Denethor looked at Aragorn through shadowed eyes. “Hope is gone,” he repeated.

“These are the terms,” said the messenger. “Take them or leave them!”

Gandalf moved, throwing back his cloak. A white light broke free as he rode forward and grasped the tokens. “These we will take, in memory of our friend,” he said. “As for your terms, we reject them utterly. Get you gone, for your embassy is over and death is near to you. We did not come here to waste words in treating with Sauron, faithless and accursed; still less with one of his slaves. Begone!”

The messenger recoiled under his anger, and turned his horse. The embassy from Mordor galloped back inside the Gates, and then a trumpet rang out, loud and harsh.

“Battle is upon us!” cried Aragorn. “My lord Denethor ... will you order your forces?”

Denethor was breathing hard, his face pale as death, and he looked at Aragorn as if he did not see him. Hesitating only a second, Aragorn pulled at the reins of the Steward’s horse and turned it around.

“Elrohir!” he called, and his foster-brother turned and was with him in a moment. “Lead the Steward to that ground over there,” Aragorn said. “And stay with him.” Elrohir nodded. “Éomer! Go to your men, battle formation, ready to charge when something comes out of that gate.”

Éomer nodded, raising his sword in salute, and galloped off towards the Rohirrim. Imrahil was already moving towards his own forces, and Aragorn nodded in thanks as the Prince hurried away.

“Pippin, get back to your company.” The hobbit turned a frightened face up to him, and Aragorn wished he could comfort him. But there was no time. “Go! Elladan, to the Rangers. Legolas, there’s raised ground over there; join the archers and try and pick off as many as you can.”

Now there was only himself and Gandalf left before the Gate, with Meneldil and the sable standard of Arwen close by. Gandalf smiled. “The last battle, my friend.”

“May it be swift,” Aragorn returned, and kicked Roheryn into a canter, crossing to a mound of earth opposite from the one he had sent Legolas to. Meneldil followed and planted the banner firmly.

Aragorn drew his sword, and raised the blade high in the air. “Men of Gondor!” he cried. “Now is the hour of doom! Fight for your freedom, and be not afraid!”

The men around him cheered, even as the Gate opened again and the first assault began to pour out. His heart beating faster as the adrenalin set in, Aragorn swept his sword down in a shining arc and called, “Now!”

From his right, a rain of arrows was set loose as Legolas and a band of archers from Ithilien and Minas Tirith launched their assault. At the same time, the Dúnedain with Elladan in their midst swept forwards, with Imrahil and the knights of Dol Amroth attacking from the other side. Arrows were coming from the ramparts alongside the Gate now, and Orcs and other evil creatures poured from the Gate itself.

Aragorn raised his sword again, and with a cry galloped into the battle.

Around him there was the familiar sound of men’s cries as they fell; the roar of Orcs and the screaming of fell beasts mixing with the clash of blade on blade. Andúril was glowing with the fire of combat, and Aragorn let himself fall into the rhythm – blade sweeping round and down, a stab, a cut, a slash ... Roheryn stumbled and he swung himself off the horse’s back, giving it a hard push to send it away out of danger. On foot now, he moved through the enemy forces cutting a swath before him.

Out of the corner of his eye Aragorn saw a long blade, and he intercepted and turned to face the new opponent. Instead, he saw Denethor’s face, a cut marring the Steward’s cheek. Denethor had lost his helm and was fighting bareheaded, but he looked strong and his eyes were shining. Both men lowered their swords for a moment, and Aragorn smiled before turning and attacking an Orc. Behind him, he felt the Steward do the same, and the two men began to fight back to back, each protecting the other as one Orc after another came at them.

They had been fighting like that for only a short amount of time – though it seemed hours – when Denethor cried out. Swivelling even as he decapitated an Orc, Aragorn took in the troll looming above the Steward. He lunged and stabbed upwards, Andúril parting the beast’s flesh easily; and as the troll fell Aragorn pulled Denethor out of the way and to his feet.

“I thank you,” Denethor panted, and seemed to be about to say something more, when the world stood still. The hosts of Mordor paused, and the hosts of Gondor stayed their blows, and the Nazgûl in the air above shrieked and whirled away towards the East. Louder than all the noise of battle came Gandalf’s voice, crying, “The Eagles are coming!”

Aragorn’s eyes glittered, as full-fledged hope returned to his heart, and with the men around him he echoed the wizard’s voice. “The Eagles are coming!”

And the men of Gondor and of Rohan, of Dol Amroth and of the North, renewed their efforts and struck with fresh vigour at their enemies. Then the earth trembled under their feet, and Gandalf cried again, his arms high in the air and a great light around him, “Stand, Men of the West! Stand and wait! This is the hour of doom.”

The earth shook again, harder, and with a crash the Gate tumbled to the ground, the ramparts crumbling. In the air a flame lit the sky, and noise filled the air.

Then, there was silence.

“The realm of Sauron is ended!” said Gandalf. “The Ring-bearer has fulfilled his Quest.”

Aragorn leant on his sword, and the tears of joy began to roll down his cheek.

Shading his eyes, Aragorn watched the three great eagles whirl away with Gandalf, and turned his attention back to the battlefield. It was chaotic. Half of the forces of Sauron had turned and were running, back towards Mordor, or southwards. The other half – mainly Haradrim, Easterlings and Orcs – were renewing their fights. But the Armies of the West were singing now as they fought, the Rohirrim leading the song. Aragorn looked for Éomer and saw him, his face bright with the fever of battle as his sword cut down all in his path. In the midst of a Haradrim throng there seemed to be a small whirlwind, and a deep voice was carrying as it cried, “Baruk Khâzad!”

Aragorn smiled, and turned his attention to the great Orcs close by him, joining Denethor again in routing them.

At length, it was over. The field was littered with corpses – Men and Orcs and trolls – and a company of the Tower Guard were surrounding a number of Men who had been fighting for Sauron but had given themselves up. The survivors from the Gondorian forces were gathering into companies, their captains and lieutenants counting them, and healers beginning to tend to the more serious wounds.

Next to Aragorn, Denethor was leaning heavily on his sword and looked to be in some pain.

“You should sit, my lord,” Aragorn said. “Rest here and I will find you water.”

Denethor nodded, and allowed Aragorn to take his arm and help him to the ground. Aragorn hurried away to the supply wagons, corralled behind the battlefield, and returned in a short while with a waterskin, some food, bandages and a salve. The Steward did not protest as Aragorn took off his heavy chest-plate and examined the bruising across his torso.

“You were lucky,” he commented, beginning to daub salve on the skin. Denethor grimaced. “Does it hurt?”

“A little,” the Steward said.

“You may have broken a rib, despite the armour,” Aragorn said. “I shall bind it, and you must try not to exert yourself.” Denethor nodded. “The troops need to be removed from this place,” Aragorn continued, wrapping bandage over the bruising.

“Cormallen,” Denethor said, his voice tight with pain. “By Henneth Annûn.”

“I remember.” Aragorn tied off the bandage. “There. Now, my lord, do not move.”

The Steward nodded, and then his eyes went past Aragorn to the sky. Aragorn stood up, and turned, looking the same way.

From the East the three great Eagles were returning, making all haste towards the field. All about men stopped what they were doing to watch. Aragorn glanced at Denethor.

“Go!” the Steward said, and Aragorn went.

He was waiting by the wagons when the Eagles landed, and Legolas and Gimli had appeared to wait by his side. Gandalf, his white robes dirty with soot, jumped off the back of Gwaihir.

“Aragorn!” he cried. “You are needed!”

Aragorn ran to join the wizard. “Are they – Frodo and Sam – are they alive?”

“Barely,” Gandalf said. Above them the air stirred with the gentle flap of giant wings. “Landroval and Meneldor have them safe, and will give them to us.”

The eagles, hearing the wizard’s words, descended and gently deposited the two small bodies into their arms. Looking down at Frodo, Aragorn felt pity and respect well up in his heart. The hobbit was thin, his face drawn and pale, and his right hand was bleeding on to the grey tatters of his Lórien cloak.

“His hand,” Aragorn said, beginning to lead the way to the healer’s tent, “his hand is maimed.”

“More than his hand, I fear,” Gandalf returned. “But let us see what can be done.”

Entering the tent, Aragorn found two empty pallets and they laid the hobbits down gently. One of the healers hurried across to them, and Aragorn looked up from their sides. “Athelas, and water, and bandages. Quickly.”

“Aye, my lord!” the healer said, and disappeared to find the things. Bending over Frodo’s hand, Aragorn probed the injury.

“He has lost a finger. The ring finger. It looks almost as if it has been bitten off.”

Gandalf raised his eyebrows. “That may explain much.”

“He has a fever also,” Aragorn continued, laying a hand on the Ringbearer’s brow. “I fear this was all too much for them both.”

“They did what few could have done,” said Gandalf.

“And I will do in turn what I can for them,” Aragorn said, as the healer returned bearing a bowl of water and a cloth with a few dried leaves of athelas. He bent to his work.

Later, when all that could be done for the hobbits had been done and they lay still in a deep sleep, Aragorn went to find Legolas and Gimli. They were deep in a fierce argument when he reached the pair. “I asked you to watch for him, Gimli!”

“And why me?” the dwarf retorted. “Why not you, Master Elf?”

“Because I was busy with the archers!” Legolas said, wiping a smear of dirt and sweat across his forehead with a tired hand.

“What’s the matter?” Aragorn asked.

“It’s that Took,” Gimli said, despair on his face. “He’s not turned up. The last we saw of him he was fighting a great troll.”

Closing his eyes briefly, Aragorn fought back the sorrow. “Then he was fighting a foe too great for him. One of those things was close to slaying the Steward.”

“He lives?” Legolas asked.

“Yes.” Aragorn clasped Gimli’s shoulder. “Gimli, if you can be spared from other tasks, go and search for Pippin. I would not leave him here, not now.”

“Nor would I,” Gimli agreed. “What of the other hobbits? Frodo and Sam?”

Sighing, Aragorn nodded. “They live. For now, I cannot say more. They’re deeply asleep and I guess will remain so for some days. Go and find Pippin, I beg you.” The Dwarf offered a brief smile and hurried off, and Aragorn turned to Legolas. “I know you are not normally a healer, but the hands of another Elf would be most welcome here. Have you seen my brothers?”

Elladan and Elrohir were found tending to wounds, and Aragorn left Legolas with them. Promising to return soon, he crossed to the corral where the prisoners who had surrendered earlier waited, watching the activity. The captain of the Guardsmen who surrounded the corral was walking around its perimeter, speaking with his men, and Aragorn went straight to him.

“Did these men give themselves up freely, captain?” he asked.

“Aye, my lord,” the captain said, saluting smartly.

“You will not object if I speak to them?” Aragorn said.

“If you can get them to understand you, my lord,” the captain returned. “They don’t seem to speak Westron.”

Aragorn smiled. “That is of no matter. I thank you.” He exchanged bows with the captain and slipped through the ranks of Guardsmen.

The prisoners, all wearing black and red armour and livery with the sigil of the Lidless Eye, looked up warily as Aragorn approached them. They did not rise, but watched him come silently.

Pausing a short distance away from the Men, Aragorn ran over the words of Haradric he knew and spoke. “Who is your captain?”

A man stood up, a nasty gash across his cheek and his long dark hair matted with blood. “I am.”

“I speak on behalf of the Steward of Gondor, to whom you have surrendered,” Aragorn said, speaking slowly. “You are from Harad?”

“Yes.” The Haradric captain nodded. “Almet is my name. I came North with my men five new moons ago.”

“Sauron is cast down,” Aragorn said. “His power is ended, and the old order will be renewed. This you understand?”

Almet assented.

“It is not for me to decide whether you should remain in Gondor, or whether you will be permitted to return to Harad,” said Aragorn. “But for now, those of you who are not injured gravely can help the men of Gondor clear the field, and in return you may say the appropriate words over your dead. For the rest, we move south. Do you need healers?”

“Not healers, but medicines,” Almet said. “We have few supplies.”

“I will send someone to you,” Aragorn offered. “Prepare to move soon. We do not linger here. Those who can work should follow me.”

Almet turned to his men and spoke quickly, and after a moment, maybe fifty of them rose and formed an orderly rank. Headed by Almet, and guided by Aragorn, they marched to the nearest working party of Gondorian soldiers clearing the field and piling corpses into pyres. The Haradrim were swiftly divided up and set to work alongside the men who had shortly before been their enemies. Aragorn watched to see that all was in order, and disappeared again back towards the wagons.

Bending to lift an Orc’s feet, a Gondorian Guard at the head, Almet said in broken Westron, “Who – that man, who is he?”

The Guard looked up in surprise, and then glanced towards Aragorn’s retreating back. “Him? They say he’s the king.”

Almet paused in astonishment, and then bent to his work.

For the rest of the day Aragorn and the Elves rode backwards and forwards, tending the injured and sending them south to Cormallen. Riders had already been despatched to Minas Tirith and Cair Andros with news of the victory.

Denethor had insisted on staying at the battlefield, despite Aragorn’s pleas that the Steward take some rest. He sat by the supply wagons and nodded as successive requests were brought and granted, but Elladan remarked to Elrohir that the Steward did not seem to take in very much; rather that he was deep in thought.

The best news came during the afternoon, when Gimli came running across to where Aragorn was splinting a broken leg, waving his axe. “I’ve found him! Slew his troll, he did!”

“Pippin?” said Aragorn, and was on his feet, murmuring an apology to the soldier he was looking after. He followed Gimli back across the field to the troll, who lay dead surrounded by the bodies of Orcs and Men.

“There!” Gimli said, gesturing at a hairy foot sticking out underneath the creature.

Together they lifted the troll and rolled it aside, finding an unconscious, but alive, hobbit underneath. Mercifully Pippin had fallen into an indentation in the ground, and it was this that had saved him. Aragorn lifted him gently, and with Gimli by his side they went back to the wagons.

Pippin, unconscious and battered, was laid next to his cousin Frodo, and Aragorn gently checked him for broken bones. Astonishingly, aside from some cracked ribs, the hobbit seemed to be in one piece. The Ranger soothed his bruises with the ointment he had used on Denethor, cleaned and wrapped cuts, and said that Pippin would wake soon feeling sore, but otherwise was fine.

As night fell, the men who remained on the field settled down in groups around fires. The air was filled with the smoke from the funeral pyres and lit with a sickly orange colour.

Denethor’s tent had been set up by the remaining wagons, and the Steward was lying on his cot, staring up at the fabric above his head, when Aragorn entered with a cough.

“My lord?”

“Yes?” Denethor sat up with an effort and a grimace.

“How is the pain?” Aragorn asked.

“Bearable.”

“I have come to report before the camp settles for the night,” Aragorn said, not wanting to press Denethor further on the matter of his injury. “Some two-thirds of the injured are moving south to Cormallen as you ordered, and the rest will go tomorrow by wagon. I would recommend that the men who can march also leave the field tomorrow; there is little more that can be done here.”

“How many men did we lose?” Denethor said.

“Fewer than I expected,” Aragorn admitted, “for which I am glad. Had the destruction of the Ring not come when it did, few would be returning to Minas Tirith. As it is, I judge some one and a half thousands have lost their lives. Two hundred of those are Rohirrim, and they have lost also many horses.”

“Such destruction,” said Denethor. “Yet, as you say, better than we had hoped.” He fell silent for a moment. “And what of the halflings?”

“Still in their sleep,” Aragorn replied. “I pray they may yet awaken.”

“Time will tell,” said Denethor. There was another pause, and then he said, “thank you.”

“My lord,” Aragorn said, and bowed before slipping out of the tent. Denethor lay down again, but he stared still above him and did not close his eyes to sleep.

They had ridden alongside the wagons carrying the most grievously wounded, and so had made slow progress south. By the time the last of the men arrived at the Field of Cormallen, they found a camp already set up. As the Steward and his party arrived, Éomer rode up to greet them. The Rohirrim had departed a day earlier, and their horses were grazing peacefully in a sectioned off area of the field.

“My lord Steward,” Éomer said, with a bow from his horse, “welcome to Cormallen.”

“I thank you, King Éomer,” Denethor said, and Éomer smiled a little sadly at the title.

“As you can see, the camp is well in hand,” he said, turning Firefoot and beginning to lead the way across the grass. “Riders have been sent to Minas Tirith and we expect supplies in a few days.”

“Quicker than that,” Gandalf broke in. “Landroval told me he would fly to the City to break the news. Your son, my lord Steward, and your sister, Éomer, will both know now of the victory.”

“That is well,” Denethor acknowledged. “We will remain here a while, until the men recover a little. The sweet air of Ithilien will aid their healing.”

In the tents erected around the field they discovered sleeping quarters for all, and a smaller tent had been made ready for the Ringbearer and his companion. Frodo and Sam were still in their deep sleep, and made no sign of awakening as Aragorn lifted them carefully from the wagon and into the tent. He unwrapped Frodo’s bandage and examined the stump of his finger. It seemed to be clean, but nevertheless Aragorn called for water and herbs and washed it tenderly before wrapping it again. He bathed the hobbits’ brows with more water, in which athelas had been steeped, and spent some time in silence, seeking their thoughts and calling to them. But still they made no movement, and he left them after a while feeling weary.

He found his foster-brothers seated outside a tent with Legolas, Gimli and Gandalf. The wizard was smoking a pipe and looked the epitome of contentment. Aragorn threw himself down on the ground and stretched out.

“Well?” said Elrohir.

Aragorn shook his head. “I begin to fear it is beyond my skill to heal them. I will keep trying, but I know not what they suffered on their long lonely march, save hunger and exhaustion.”

“If anyone can heal them, you can,” Gandalf put in.

“Maybe,” said Aragorn. “But nonetheless I wish Lord Elrond were here, that I might ask his advice.”

“Won’t his sons do?” Elladan asked, and then laughed. “No, I know in this case we will not do.”

“Well, I hope you can help them,” Gimli said gruffly. “These Elves may think it right to laugh, but until I see Frodo’s eyes open I’m not sure I shall find the heart.”

“Sometimes laughter is the best medicine,” Elrohir returned.

They settled into silence, each occupied with his own thoughts. After a time, the brothers excused themselves and disappeared off together to make a round of the hospital tents. Legolas was next to go, saying he was going to wander the woods of Ithilien, “for it is a fair night.” Gimli, his head nodding, went into the tent and a few minutes later Aragorn heard the familiar sound of Dwarvish snoring.

“And so the victory is achieved,” Gandalf said softly, after a while. Aragorn looked up.

“Against all hope.”

“Not against all hope,” the wizard corrected him. “I, at least, always had some hope – as, I think, did you, Estel.”

“By the end, not much,” Aragorn admitted. “Always some, but not much.”

“And what hope do you have now?” Gandalf asked.

Aragorn sat up and wrapped his cloak around his legs. “Truly, Mithrandir, I do not know. I hoped that Gondor would be free, and she is, and what more can I ask than that?”

The wizard stood, tapping his pipe out against his staff. “Gondor still needs a ruler. Well, goodnight.” He smiled at Aragorn and disappeared into the tent.

Aragorn lay down again and gazed up at the stars, searching for the brightness of Eärendil. Finding it, he let himself drift to sleep.

* * *

Denethor sat outside his tent in the spring sun and watched the camp slowly awaken. He had passed yet another sleepless night, his thoughts in turmoil as he relived the events of the previous days in his mind. Now he followed the sons of Elrond with his eyes as they crossed the field to go to the healers’ tents, talking and laughing at something. With the horses, he could see Éomer, who was busy grooming Firefoot whilst other Rohirrim looked after the other steeds. The young king was bareheaded and dressed simply in a tunic and leggings.

The Steward’s mind wandered back to Minas Tirith, and he wondered what Faramir was doing and how his son was faring. Breathing in the sweet fragrance of Ithilien he found it easier to understand why Faramir had so often stayed away from the City, and his mouth broke in a wry smile as he remembered the arguments and the tension, the harsh words and stony silences. On this March day, with victory a reality, Denethor resolved to try and settle things with his youngest son.

He looked up and saw Aragorn, the Elvish scabbard of Andúril at his side, going the same way as his foster brothers.

“Thoro – my lord Aragorn!” he called, and the Ranger looked round and swiftly came over.

“Good morning, my lord Steward.”

“Is there any word yet on the halflings?” Denethor questioned, and Aragorn shook his head.

“When I left them last night there was no change. I am going now to see them. And you, my lord?”

Denethor had an uneasy feeling that Aragorn was asking about more than his bruised body, but pushed the thought down where the keen eyes of the other could not see it. “Well, I thank you. Do not let me detain you.”

“My lord.” Aragorn bowed, and was gone, with the Steward watching him.

Frodo and Sam were still unconscious, but in the next tent Aragorn was greeted by the welcome sight of Pippin, propped up against pillows and being fed soup by one of the healers. The hobbit’s eyes lit up when he saw Aragorn. “Strider!”

“Master Took.” Aragorn took the soup bowl from the healer, who smiled and disappeared elsewhere. “How do you feel?”

Pippin swallowed a mouthful. “Bruised. But is it true, did we win?”

“We won,” Aragorn said. “Frodo and Sam reached Orodruin and the Ring was destroyed.”

“Oh good!” Pippin said. “But – are cousin Frodo and Sam all right?”

“They are alive, but I have not yet been able to awaken them,” Aragorn explained. “I hope that soon they’ll be sitting up like you, but this may not be.”

Pippin’s face fell a little. “Oh. Well, we’ll have to wait, won’t we? What about the others?”

“All fine,” Aragorn said. “Legolas and Gimli had an argument when they discovered you were missing in the battle. You killed a troll, did you know that?”

The hobbit nodded. “I don’t suppose you found my sword, did you, Strider? I was getting rather fond of it, and I didn’t want to lose it.”

“I think Gimli has it,” Aragorn said, laughing. “If you promise to send them away when you get tired, I’ll ask them to come and see you. Indeed, I think it will be hard keeping them away.”

“I should like that,” Pippin said. He regarded Aragorn. “So what happens now, Strider? Do you get to be king?”

Aragorn put the soup bowl on the ground by Pippin’s bed, and rested his elbows on the mattress. “Hobbits really are direct in their questioning.”

“We can’t see the point of skirting the issue,” Pippin returned. “Well?”

“I do not know,” Aragorn said.

“It’s Denethor, isn’t it?” said Pippin. “I remember he said to Gandalf that he thought you were an upstart. Though he wasn’t well at the time.” His face clouded with the memory. “You know, in the Shire we have a Thain and a Master. I wonder if the same could be done in Gondor?”

Throwing back his head, Aragorn laughed aloud. “My dear Pippin! What would the loremasters say if I suggested modelling the ancient realm of Gondor on the forgotten Shire?”

“It works very well,” Pippin defended himself. “My father and Merry’s father get along, and nobody complains. Yet I see, of course, that this is different. Don’t mind me, Strider. My head is probably still muddled from being squashed. Can you go and find Legolas and Gimli, and old Gandalf, if they’re around? I would like to see them.”

Aragorn stood up, and bent to kiss the hobbit’s brow. “Yes, I will find them for you. Now rest, and do not get out of bed, Peregrin, or I shall have words to say to you.”

“All right.” Pippin let his head fall back on his pillow, and Aragorn picked up the soup bowl and left the hobbit’s bedside.

During the afternoon, men began clearing an area by the river, close to the makeshift docks where the boats from Cair Andros had been moored. Using turves, they made a raised platform at one end of a long green strip of grass. And as the afternoon drew on, heralds around the camp announced that the Steward of Gondor would be holding an audience to thank the captains of the host for the victory, at sunset.

Aragorn was examining some stitches as the announcement was made, with Elladan and Elrohir by his side. The sons of Elrond exchanged glances, and then both turned to the Man, but Aragorn was speaking softly to his patient and made no sign of noticing their looks.

Towards sunset, all men who were able began to gather on the field. Some wore slings to cradle broken arms, and others had bandages wrapped around cuts, but their faces were joyful and the mood light-hearted. Imrahil was there, and Éomer, and the captains of Lossarnach and Morthond and Pinnath Gelin, though their lords had fallen on the Pelennor. Silent in grey, the Dúnedain stood by the silver-clad knights of Dol Amroth, Aragorn with them. Legolas and Gimli and Gandalf had left Pippin sleeping and stood next to the Rangers, Gandalf’s robes glimmering in the half-light. As the Sun began to dip below the horizon, Denethor appeared accompanied by his standard bearer. His black armour had been polished up and some of the dents hammered out, and though he wore no helm his sword was at his side.

The throng grew silent as the Steward walked up to the seat which had been placed on the raised area, and he sat down and nodded to a herald who stood nearby.

“Dervorin of Ringló Vale!” the herald called, reading from a list, and Dervorin came forwards. One by one the captains were called and came to stand before Denethor to be thanked, to the cheers from their men. The light grew red and then pale.

“Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth!” the herald called, and Imrahil went to his brother-in-law.

“I thank you for coming to Gondor’s aid, kinsman,” Denethor said gravely, as they exchanged bows.

“Long have Gondor and Dol Amroth been allies,” Imrahil returned, “and long shall we be so.” He clasped hands with the Steward, and returned to his men.

“Éomer King of Rohan!”

“To the Rohirrim I give my thanks,” Denethor said, as Éomer stood before him. “Théoden was a great king and sorely do I mourn his passing, but his heir is worthy and did not forsake his oaths.”

Éomer bowed his head. “And gladly will I renew them, for old friendships,” he answered. But Denethor shook his head.

“Not now.”

Éomer’s eyes narrowed, and then he smiled, bowed, and withdrew. The herald glanced at his list, and read out, “Aragorn, chieftain and captain of the Dúnedain of Arnor!”

The host fell silent, and Aragorn went up to Denethor. The Steward stood, and for a long moment, the two men met each other’s eyes. They were alike enough to be close kin, but the Steward’s face was older and greyer, the weight of years in his eyes and on his shoulders. Nobody spoke, all sensing that something was passing here which would shape the course of Gondor’s future.

Suddenly the stillness and the silence were broken with the ring of steel as Denethor drew his sword. Beside Gandalf, Gimli made a movement, putting his hand to his axe, but the wizard stopped him.

“Nay, Gimli,” he murmured. “Be still.”

The Dwarf turned back to watching the two Men, there in front of the host.

Denethor held his sword for a second, and then, coming to a decision, knelt and turned the hilt towards Aragorn.

“Accept my service,” he said, holding the sword out. “I, Denethor, son of Ecthelion and Steward of Gondor, do surrender my sword to you; Isildur’s Heir and rightful king of both Gondor and Arnor.” He looked up. “Accept my service.”

Aragorn did not move, standing still and tall even as one of the statues lining the great hall of the Citadel. For a long moment he paused; and then he reached out his hand and took Denethor’s sword.

“Steward of Gondor,” he said, and his voice rang out so that all the host could hear, “I gladly accept your service, and do this day reaffirm the oaths I once took to serve Gondor faithfully, until the end of my years.” He turned the sword and offered it back to Denethor.

Denethor grasped the hilt, and Aragorn raised him and they stood face to face once more. Then Denethor smiled, and it was as if the sun had come out after many long years of storm, and he turned to the Armies of the West and cried out, “Here is your king!”

As one, the men of Gondor, and of her allies, knelt, and the last rays of the setting sun shone upon Aragorn’s head and crowned him with a halo of flame.

Early the next morning, the first ship from Minas Tirith docked by the field, bringing fresh supplies and more tents, as well as long tables and trestles to set them on. Stepping off the ship, carrying a small bundle, and dressed in the green livery of Rohan, was a small figure, and he looked about himself as the bustle of unloading went on, a little lost. Finally, he tugged at the sleeve of one of the soldiers who had come to help with the carrying of boxes.

“Excuse me!”

The soldier looked down, and smiled. “Master Perian. How may I help?”

“I’m looking for my friends,” Merry said. “Pippin, that is, Peregrin Took – a Halfling like me, only he’s in Gondor’s service – and Strider, I mean the Lord Aragorn ...”

“The King?” the soldier said. “I know where he is – this way, Master Perian.”

“The what?!” said Merry, astonished, trotting to keep up with the soldier’s long stride.

“Aye, the King,” the soldier returned, glancing down. “Our Steward swore fealty to him, only last evening. You mix with mighty men, Master.”

“Yes, well, I’m not quite sure how that happened,” Merry said. “One minute, you know, we’re setting off to Rivendell to help my cousin, and the next we’re fighting battles in the South. It’s all rather bewildering.”

“Such are the dark times we live in,” said the soldier. “But mayhap now the King has returned they will look brighter. Here we are, this is his encampment. I will leave you here, Master Perian.”

“Merry,” said Merry. “Meriadoc Brandybuck. Thank you very much.”

“Handir son of Aegnor,” the soldier said, and bowed. “The honour was mine, Master Brandybuck.”

Merry returned the bow, and watched as Handir disappeared again in the direction of the docks. He turned back to the tent in front of him, and noticed for the first time that the black standard with the White Tree was standing in front of it. He went up to one of the Dúnedain standing guard outside.

“Er ...” he began, looking up at the tall guard. “Can I, that is ...?”

The Dúnadan said gravely, “Master Brandybuck? The Chieftain left orders that should you appear, you were to be admitted.”

“Oh. Good,” said Merry. The Dúnadan lifted the tent flap. “Thank you,” Merry said, and went in.

Inside he found Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli, the Man and the Dwarf in the middle of breakfast. Aragorn broke off as Merry came in, and stood up with a smile.

“Merry!”

“Strider!” said Merry, and then stopped. “Oh. Should I be calling you something else now?”

“No, my dear hobbit,” Aragorn said, coming over to him and bending to give him a warm hug. “I am very glad to see you.”

“As are we,” Legolas said.

“It’s good to be off the water,” Merry returned. “And to be with people I really know. It smells nice here.” He put his bundle down. “Where’s Pippin?”

“In one of the healers’ tents,” said Aragorn. “But he is no longer in danger, and I believe he will be delighted to see you, Merry.”

Merry had gone pale. “I had no idea he was ever in danger – well, apart from the battle, but I’d hoped he had got through that unharmed. What happened to him?”

“He killed a troll,” Aragorn said, smiling. “A mighty deed for one so small. I rather think he was influenced by the renown of his older cousin.”

“I’m inclined to echo Gandalf,” Merry said, “and call him a fool of a Took. Was he badly hurt?”

“Squashed,” Gimli put in. “Underneath a troll is no place for a hobbit. But he’s filled out remarkably well.”

“And has already regained his appetite,” added Legolas.

“And what about Frodo and Sam?” asked Merry. “The messages said they’d been rescued. Can I see them?”

Aragorn knelt, and placed his hands on Merry’s shoulders. “You may see them, but I must warn you, Merry, they were badly hurt. They have been asleep since they were brought to us.”

Merry reached up and put his own small hand over Aragorn’s rough one. “And you’re worried they might never wake, aren’t you?” He smiled, a little sadly. “I still want to see them.”

“This way, then, Master Brandybuck,” Aragorn said, standing and picking up a piece of bread from the table. He led the way out of the tent.

Frodo and Sam were indeed still asleep. Merry stood silently and looked at them for a long time, before going and gently touching Frodo’s hand.

“Well, Frodo,” he said, “we made it. We all made it. So you hurry up and get better, now – Pippin and I have lots of tales to tell you.” He kissed the hand, and turned to Sam. “Dear old Sam,” he said, looking at Aragorn who stood just inside the tent doorway, watching silently. “I’m so glad Frodo had Sam to look after him. But the Gaffer will have a fit, unless we get some food inside this hobbit.” Merry smiled down at Sam’s sleeping face. “All right!” he said, turning to Aragorn. “Take me to Pip.”

Five minutes later there was a squeal of joy from inside one of the hospital tents, and those working nearby looked up with indulgent smiles.

Aragorn spent the rest of the morning seeing people who had come to speak to him about a myriad of matters. Most of them were awkward, not knowing how to deal with his sudden transition from Ranger captain to acknowledged King. For his part, Aragorn did not want to contradict any orders previously given by Denethor, and towards noon he dismissed one of the captains who had come to find out about work for his men, and crossed the field to Denethor’s tent. The Steward had not yet emerged, but there was a Guard outside who, after hastily bowing, confirmed that Denethor was awake.

Aragorn coughed before lifting the tent flap and looking in.

“My lord Steward?”

Denethor was seated on his cot, staring emptily into space, but he started as Aragorn spoke, looked up and then stood up, suppressing a grimace and putting his hand to his ribs.

“Sit down!” said Aragorn, seeing the grimace. “Your ribs are not healed yet.”

The Steward stood for a moment, his eyes hooded, and then slowly he sat down again.

“I did not get a chance to speak to you last night,” Aragorn began.

“To strip me of my office?” Denethor said, his voice low and harsh.

“No. No!” Aragorn said. “My lord ...” He broke off, and then tried again. “My lord Steward, that office will be yours, and your heirs’, as long as my own line lasts. As the Kings of old ruled with a Steward at their right hand, so shall I.” He paused. “There is too much here for one man to do alone; much to be set right even before we return to the City. I need your help. I came to ask you for that help, my lord.”

Denethor looked up, steel grey eyes meeting sea-grey. “And though you do not ask, you want to know why I suddenly made my decision?”

Aragorn held the other’s gaze, and nodded. “It cannot have been an easy one.”

“Nobody remembers the Kings,” Denethor said, slowly, haltingly. “None save your foster-brothers, that is. All we have are dusty documents that nobody reads.” He shrugged. “But we have tales, told to us by the loremasters, about the glory of the Kings of old. How they founded the City, and made Gondor great, great and feared, before falling. I have never believed that a King could return. When you came to Minas Tirith, all those years ago, my father and I guessed you were of Anárion’s line. That Isildur’s Heir still lived, that the line was unbroken, we did not guess. Or we did not want to believe it,” he amended, after a pause. “And I did not believe that someone who could claim the throne would come and then leave us, and so I concluded the throne was not yours to claim. My father trusted you, loved you, even – and for that, I admit, I was jealous.”

Aragorn sat down, but said nothing. Denethor fiddled with the Steward’s ring on his finger. “Then you returned. You fought for the City whilst I despaired. At the Black Gate, I despaired again. I felt all the long years of care upon my shoulders, the loss of my son – but we won. Because of two small creatures with courage befitting the bravest knight of Gondor. And because when the battle needed to be ordered, you did not lose your nerve. Afterwards, I sat and watched you work tirelessly, and I realised that you did care. Not for Gondor’s glory or your own, but for her people. It was the right thing to do.”

“I thank you,” Aragorn said. “I will endeavour to serve Gondor’s people to the utmost of my ability.” He smiled, and rose. “Now, my lord Steward, tasks call us. Will you come?”

Denethor stopped fiddling with his ring, and looked up at his companion. For a moment, Aragorn was afraid he would not come, and then the Steward stood.

“What needs doing?” he asked.

A table was set up outside Aragorn’s tent and the two banners stood side by side behind it, fluttering in the gentle breeze. Dúnedain and Guardsmen hurried around the field, following the orders of the Steward and the King as they consulted each other and the other commanders on urgent matters.

As the afternoon drew on, one of the Dúnedain came up, bowed, and said: “My lords, the Haradric captain is asking for an audience.”

“Bring him here,” Aragorn said. He turned to Denethor. “They surrendered of their own free will, and aided our men in clearing the battlefield.”

“What would you do with them?” the Steward questioned.

“Let us see what they have to say about that first,” Aragorn said, as Almet arrived, escorted by a Guard.

The Haradrim bowed. “My lords,” he said in Westron.

“I hope your wounded are healing,” Aragorn said, in Haradric, which earned him a startled glance from Denethor.

“Two more have died,” Almet returned, “but the rest fare better. I thank you for the medicines, lord.”

“Have you buried the dead?” asked Aragorn.

“We said the words of departure,” Almet said. Aragorn translated briefly for Denethor.

“And what would he now?” Denethor said, and Aragorn turned to the Haradric captain.

“Where would you go now, Almet?” he asked.

“We would return to Harad,” said the captain. “Many of my men have families, children, wives. But would this be permitted?”

“It is long since Harad was Gondor’s ally,” Aragorn said. “How can I be sure that when you return home, you keep the peace?” He looked hard at Almet, who broke the gaze after a moment. “You would tell me that is not your oath to make, am I right?”

Almet bowed his head.

The Steward tapped his fingers on the table, and Aragorn glanced at him.

“You should send an embassy south,” Denethor suggested. “A force strong enough to show Gondor’s strength, and an ambassador to speak with the leaders of Harad and Umbar. Those Haradrim with family could travel with our men, the rest remain in Gondor.”

“A good plan,” Aragorn agreed. “But they cannot go yet. Six months, maybe, would give us some indication of Harad’s allegiances now Sauron has fallen.”

Denethor approved this with a nod, and made a note on the parchment before him in his careful hand.

“Our judgement is this,” Aragorn said to Almet. “For six months you, your men, and any others of your people who surrender to me, will remain in Gondor as our prisoners. You will work to restore some of the evil you have done under Sauron. After six months an embassy shall ride south, and some of you may return home then. The rest will stay until treaties between Gondor and Harad have been formed. You shall be guarded, but have freedom to observe your customs.”

Almet listened, and when Aragorn had finished speaking he put his hands together and bowed. “The King is merciful, and I thank you.”

Aragorn returned the salute, and the Haradrim left them.

As night fell, Denethor rose and carefully stretched.

“Do your injuries pain you?” Aragorn asked.

The Steward shook his head. “No.” He paused, and nodded. “Aye; somewhat, if I am to be truthful.”

“Then rest!” said Aragorn. “Peace is come, and we can continue our business tomorrow.” Denethor looked like he was going to protest, or refuse, but suddenly he smiled.

“I will do as my king commands.”

Aragorn returned the smile. “I do not want a Steward too fatigued to do his office.” They exchanged bows, and Denethor walked slowly away across the field.

Sitting back in his chair, Aragorn yawned and looked up at the night sky.

“Someone’s been working too hard,” observed a voice from nearby.

“And pretending he is not tired,” added another. Aragorn looked round, and Elladan and Elrohir appeared from behind his tent. “Estel,” said Elrohir.

“Being King does not suit you,” Elladan said, taking Denethor’s empty seat. “Arwen will not like it if you are too tired to perform husbandly duties.”

“I am too tired for brotherly jokes,” Aragorn returned. “The lord Denethor and I have spent all afternoon giving orders and being polite to each other.”

“We saw,” said Elladan. “How goes it?”

Aragorn sat up, and began to organise the parchments on the table into orderly piles. “We are too alike to like each other; and there is too much resentment on his part. But I believe we can come to respect one another, and we have a common aim.”

“Gondor!” Elrohir said. He started helping Aragorn with the parchments. “Well, for Gondor’s sake, we think you should rest. In our official capacities as Court Healers, of course. Sleep!”

Standing, Aragorn smiled at the brethren. “I will. Thank you.” Elrohir passed him the bundle of orders, and taking them Aragorn ducked inside his tent. As he put the parchments down on a small table, and began to take off his boots, he heard the light-hearted bickering fade away. Smiling again to himself, he lay down and fell into a deep sleep.

The Halflings looked absurdly small on the throne, Denethor mused, his chin resting on his hand as he watched them and listened to the minstrel sing. One of the hobbits was listening entranced, a smile on his lips and tears rolling down his cheeks; but the other sat with his head down, rubbing the bandage on his hand.

They had woken that morning, and Aragorn had given immediate orders for the long-awaited celebration to be prepared. The camp had been abuzz with excitement and talk all day long, and all the men remaining at Cormallen were here now, seated on the grass, listening to the song.

Denethor glanced past the halflings at his king, who was smiling sadly as the minstrel told the dark tale. For the feast, Aragorn had put on the new armour brought from Minas Tirith, a sable surcoat over all, and in the new clothes he looked strange and unfamiliar. Despite himself, Denethor had grown used to the shabbily-dressed Ranger who commanded so easily, and he found this new figure – the King – harder to accept.

At length, the song was over, and the host applauded and cheered. Aragorn stood, and went to thank the minstrel, before raising Frodo and Sam and handing them over to a nearby Dúnadan. The halflings disappeared, and the host began to make its way over to the trestle tables laid ready. Denethor rose, and turned himself towards the white pavilion where the lords were to eat.

He felt a presence beside him, and looked round.

“My lord Steward,” said Imrahil, and then the Prince of Dol Amroth smiled. “Is it not a glad day?”

“Indeed,” Denethor said.

“You do not seem glad,” Imrahil returned quickly.

“I was thinking of Boromir,” Denethor said, and it was not altogether a lie. The minstrel had told the entire tale of the Ring’s journey, including the death of the Steward’s son. Imrahil nodded in sympathy.

“At least his sacrifice was not in vain, my lord,” he said gently. “For the Ring is destroyed!” The Prince’s smile broke out again. “I look forward to meeting the Halflings and doing them the honour they deserve.”

Denethor nodded, not feeling inclined to speak, and Imrahil fell silent. Together they made their way to their seats. Éomer was close by, and Legolas and Gimli, the three friends talking together as usual. The Steward caught a snatch of their conversation and realised that the Elf and the Dwarf were telling Rohan’s king about the first part of their journey from Rivendell. He heard something about Sam, and a sword-fighting lesson, and Boromir, and turned away. After a short while, the sons of Elrond joined them with courteous bows, and began a conversation with Legolas about the merits of the minstrel’s song.

As Aragorn arrived, everyone rose and waited for the king to take his seat before sitting again. Aragorn greeted his neighbours. Denethor, two seats away with an empty place between them, said: “Where are the Halflings, my lord?”

“Having their clothes changed,” Aragorn returned. “Mithrandir is with them.”

“Well, I wish they’d hurry up!” said Gimli, from further down the table. “And that you’d let us in to see them earlier.”

“They were too tired to be seen,” Aragorn said firmly. “I only allowed Gandalf in; they would have been easily overwhelmed at first.”

“Must obey the healer,” said Elladan, lightly.

Aragorn smiled wryly, and then quickly pushed his chair back and rose.

The two halflings, dressed now in clean linen with swords at their sides, entered the tent accompanied by Gandalf, and the company applauded them. Denethor saw that the stouter of the pair blushed furiously. Aragorn pulled back the chairs on either side of him, and the wizard brought his charges to the king.

“My lord Steward,” said Aragorn, “allow me to introduce you: Frodo Baggins, and Samwise Gamgee. Frodo, Sam; Denethor, Steward of Gondor.” The three exchanged bows, Sam’s a little awkward.

“I am pleased to see you awake at last,” Denethor said, once the Standing Silence was over and Frodo and Sam had been seated. Frodo was next to him, looking alert but pale, a stunningly beautiful mailcoat shimmering under his cream surcoat.

“Thank you, my lord,” he said. “It feels ... strange.”

“The attention?” Denethor asked.

“No,” Frodo said, “not that.” He fell silent, and Denethor saw him fiddling with the bandage on his hand again.

Servants began to bring the food and wine, and Denethor found a small hand pouring his drink. He glanced around at the same time as Frodo, whose eyes widened.

“Hullo, Frodo!” said Pippin, looking smart in his sable uniform, and quite recovered from his injury.

“Mr Frodo!” exclaimed Sam at the same time, from Aragorn’s other side. “Look, it’s Master Merry – and Master Pippin.”

“Wine, Sam?” asked Merry, in the green of Rohan. “We’ll tell you all about it later, but for the moment Pip and I are busy. We are knights of Rohan and of Gondor, as I hope you’ve noticed.”

“It is good you have not forgotten, Master Took,” Denethor said gravely, to Pippin, who had moved on to Imrahil with his carafe of wine.

“No, my lord,” Pippin said. “Indeed I hope never to forget.”

“He is only being permitted to serve the first part of the meal,” Aragorn said. “He is also just out of bed today – do not forget that, Peregrin!”

“Of course not, Strider,” Pippin replied with a bow, and disappeared around the table.

“Mr Frodo,” said Sam, “do you think they’ve grown?”

“Grown?” said Aragorn, laughing. “You have all grown, Sam.”

“Now, Mr Strider,” Sam said, “you shouldn’t be saying such things. You’re the one that’s grown most. But I meant, don’t you think they’re taller?”

Frodo glanced at Pippin and Merry. “Maybe, Sam. Maybe.”

“Your cousins – they are your cousins, are they not? – have done great deeds also,” Imrahil put in. “We are all in the debt of the Halflings.”

“Thank you, sir,” Frodo said, dropping his gaze again.

“Imrahil, of Dol Amroth,” Imrahil said.

“Kinsman to the Steward,” Aragorn added, knowing how the detail would interest the hobbits. He pointed out the other guests. “There is Éomer of Rohan, Merry’s liege lord – you saw his banner on the field, the green one with the white horse. The Rohirrim are men who live by their horses. You must ask Gandalf to introduce you to Shadowfax, his great horse from Rohan. Over there we have Lossarnach, and you remember Elladan and Elrohir, I warrant?”

“Lord Elrond’s sons,” nodded Frodo. He turned to Denethor. “My lord Steward ... I hope ... I hope that Lord Faramir is well? We met him and I am indebted to him for his help.”

“He told me of your meeting,” Denethor said. “He was hurt in the battle for Minas Tirith, but the lord Aragorn was able to heal him. He stands now in my stead in the City.”

“I’m glad,” Frodo said simply.

“I am too, sir,” Sam said, pausing in his meal. “We were right close to running out of food just then, and the Captain probably saved us.”

“You will be able to thank him yourselves when we return to the City,” Denethor said, but he did not smile.

Frodo nibbled some bread. “Tell me, my lord, of Minas Tirith?”

Denethor readily agreed, and for most of the meal he talked to Frodo, telling the hobbit the City’s history, describing the buildings and the way it was run. From time to time he caught Aragorn’s eye, as the King listened with interest.

At long last, the feast was over, and Aragorn rose.

“This is a joyous day,” he said, “and I am glad to share it with you, my friends. May this celebration of peace be but the first of many. I ask you now to raise your cups with me and drink a toast, to Frodo and Samwise, for their valour has given us this victory.”

The host stood, and lifted their glasses. Denethor saw that Sam was blushing again, and Frodo shifted his weight from foot to foot, though he was smiling too.

The toast drunk, the company began to disperse. Legolas and Gimli came to the hobbits and embraced them both.

“The others wish to smoke a pipe before retiring for the night,” Legolas said. “Will you come, Frodo?”

“I think we’ve both been asleep long enough to be allowed to stay up a short while,” agreed Frodo. He turned to Denethor, and bowed. “It is an honour to make your acquaintance, my lord Steward. I look forward to seeing the City for myself.”

Denethor returned the bow. “And Minas Tirith will welcome you and your companions with open arms, Master Baggins, for the service you have performed.”

Frodo smiled shortly, and excused himself and his servant. The two halflings disappeared, with Legolas and Gimli leading the way out of the pavilion.

“Well?” said Aragorn, who had been speaking to Éomer.

“I marvel,” Denethor said, “that we owe our freedom to those small beings. Master Baggins is very courteous in his speech.”

“There’s more than a little of the Elf-friend in Frodo,” said Aragorn. “His uncle, Bilbo, who found the Ring eighty years ago, is largely responsible. Ask Frodo to tell you Bilbo’s tale, for he knows it best. But hobbits on the whole are remarkable. Will you come and join us, my lord, and learn more?”

“No,” Denethor said. “This is a time for old friends. And besides, I do not smoke. I bid you goodnight, my lord Aragorn.”

They exchanged polite bows and the Steward disappeared, walking slowly towards his own tent.

Aragorn found the Fellowship seated on a patch of grass in the moonlight, streams of smoke already drifting upwards. Gandalf was sending successively smaller smoke-rings into the air, and Pippin was trying to chase them with some of his own, and largely failing. Aragorn sat down with a clank of mail, flicking his cloak out of the way, and pulling his own pipe out of a pouch at his belt.

“I think you impressed Denethor, Frodo.”

“Is that difficult?” Frodo asked.

“It took me nearly fifty years,” Aragorn said lightly. “You did well, my dear hobbit, and I believe he is starting to understand the ways of the halflings a little better.”

“Something more people should think about doing,” said Gandalf, making one of his rings into a bow around one of Pippin’s.

“Hear hear,” said Merry lazily. “But let’s not talk about that just at the moment. I’m sure Frodo and Sam have lots to tell.”

“I’d rather hear, for now,” Frodo said quickly. “Gandalf kept very quiet today, and all we could get out of him was that we were back in Ithilien and in the keeping of the King. I’m afraid that made no sense for a while, Aragorn.”

“It still sounds strange to me, Frodo,” Aragorn returned with a smile.

“It’s amazing,” said Sam, sitting up. “Makes me ashamed to think I ever doubted you, Mr Strider. Why, in Bree there was you, with mud on your boots, and us – normal hobbit size –” here he frowned again in Merry and Pippin’s direction, “and all we had was a broken sword and plain hobbit sense to see us through. Now here we are, and here’s you with an army and all. And Mr Gandalf, all in white, and ...” Sam’s smile faded a little. “And I still reckon I’ll wake up in a bit and find it’s all a dream, and we’re stuck somewhere nasty.”

Aragorn shook his head. “No Sam, you won’t find that. It’s all quite real.”

“I am glad,” Sam said devoutly. “I used to dream a bit on the journey, when we got some sleep, and I kept remembering picnics in the garden at Rivendell. Or tea outside Bag End, with the Gaffer’s strawberries, and cream from the Cottons. And every time I woke up, and there was that nasty Gollum sniffing round and naught to eat, and for all we knew you were all dead.” He puffed thoughtfully at his pipe. “I was having a good dream these past days, about the Shire, but waking up was better. Especially seeing as how we’re all here. Nearly.”

He fell silent, and for a moment they all remembered Boromir.

“So tell us,” Frodo said, breaking into the silence, his voice determinedly cheerful, “what great deeds you’ve all been doing. Starting with you, Gandalf – I can’t tell you how happy I am to see you alive.”

The wizard made a smoke eagle, and began.

Minas Tirith was glorious in the sunlight, her white walls shining and fair despite the ugly breaches and marks from the war. Denethor paused to speak to the Guard at the Gate, before riding in, and upwards.

At the stables, he handed his horse’s reins to a stableboy, and dismissed the Guards who had ridden with him with a few words.

He went first to the Citadel, pausing in his own chamber to shed his riding cloak and gloves and wash his face, before going to the room he used as an study. It was empty, but papers neatly piled showed that it had been used. Denethor flicked through them, frowned, and thought for a moment before going out again and down two levels to the Houses of Healing.

The grounds were peaceful and quiet in the sunshine, windows open to allow fresh air into the patients’ rooms. Coming into the gardens, Denethor saw two figures seated on a bench overlooking the City, and he crossed to them.

“My lord!” Faramir stood up as his father approached, and bowed. “It is good to see you.”

“And you, Faramir,” Denethor said. To his surprise he found he was being utterly honest. His son looked well, and happy.

“Father,” said Faramir, “allow me to introduce you to the Lady Éowyn of Rohan.”

Denethor turned his attention to Faramir’s companion, who had risen quietly as the Steward and his son had greeted each other. She was dressed in simple white with her arm in a sling, and as Denethor quickly examined her he saw her likeness to her brother Éomer. What was handsome and virile in the young king was, in Éowyn, keen beauty.

“My lady,” he said, bowing.

“My lord Steward.” She returned the bow with a brief courtesy.

“Your brother bade me send you his greetings,” Denethor said, thinking he might as well pass on Éomer’s words now. “He missed you at our celebrations and hopes you are well.”

“Thank you,” she said, smiling at the mention of her brother. “I found it suited me better to remain here. But I am well, and I look forward to seeing him again.”

Faramir turned to her. “My lady, I must go to speak with the Steward. I trust I will see you later?”

“I trust so,” she replied, with another smile. “My lords.”

Denethor led Faramir away across the lawn. “I received your messages,” Faramir said. “The loremasters have been reading through the old texts to ascertain the traditions. The women and children are returning, gradually: the wains arrive each day. I have ordered men to the walls to begin repairs, but we need more stonemasons.”

“I believe the Dwarf Gimli has offered his services,” Denethor said. “Continue.”

Faramir nodded. “We buried our dead, and those of Rohan and our other allies, and burned the enemy carcasses. There was an incursion of Southrons, to loot and pillage, but it was swiftly put down. No Southron survivors.”

“How many did we lose?” Denethor asked.

“Ten from the City, seven from the Rohirrim, three from Ringló Vale and Morthond,” said Faramir briskly. “We were lucky.”

They entered the Citadel and Denethor led the way to his study. Here, Faramir stood, leaning by the fireplace, whilst his father sat down and began to read through the papers.

“I hope you are satisfied, Father,” Faramir ventured, after some minutes of silent reading. Denethor looked up, his eyes sharp.

“Why should I not be?” he asked.

“I ... that is ...” Faramir shrugged. “I do not know. I believe I have acted as you would wish.”

Denethor put down the papers and sighed. “Sit down, Faramir.”

Faramir sat, and father and son gazed at each other for a moment. “I missed you,” Denethor said. “Out there, at the Morannon. I wished you and Boromir were fighting by my side.”

“We sat and looked East,” Faramir said softly. “When I had carried out the day’s duties. We longed to be there.”

“We?”

“Myself and the Lady Éowyn,” Faramir said. “We watched together.”

“King Éomer missed her,” Denethor remarked, wondering at his son’s faint smile as he spoke of the Lady of Rohan. “When her letter came, I think he was surprised.”

“You do not know why she did not go?” Faramir asked.

Denethor leaned back in his chair, and shook his head. “Nay, I do not.”

“We heard first from the Eagles,” Faramir said. “The day that Sauron fell, they came to the City and gave the news to all. And then, a week later, one of the messengers arrived with your first letter.”

“About my decision,” said Denethor.

“I was with the Lady Éowyn when that arrived,” Faramir went on, “and I suppose I must have exclaimed aloud as I read it. She asked me what was written, and I told her ... she fell silent.”

“I suppose she loves him,” Denethor said.

Faramir nodded. “Yes. But she loved an ideal, a man who rode out of myth and legend. I know you better, Father – that would not be the man who you gave up the Stewardship for. Was it?”

The Steward looked steadily at his son for a long time, and Faramir met the gaze evenly. Finally, Denethor spoke. “No, it was not.” He looked down at the papers, and began to read through them, putting them aside as he finished with each one. But a thought, something Faramir had said, was nagging at his mind, and soon he laid down the rationing order he was looking at, and back at his son. “Faramir?”

“Yes, my lord?”

“When speaking of the Lady Éowyn, you said she ‘loved’ the lord Aragorn. Does she still love him?”

Faramir blushed, and fiddled with the end of his belt. “I ... I know I loved her from the moment I saw her. I loved her beauty, and her courage. And as we spent time together, I loved her entirely. And I believe she returns my love.”

“She does, does she?”

“She must ask permission from her brother before a betrothal is entered into,” Faramir said, “but would you give me your blessing, Father?”

He looked up, his eyes hopeful. Denethor stood, and crossed the room to the map of Gondor and her neighbours pinned to the wall.

“Rohan,” he said. “A worthy ally.”

“This would not be a political marriage!” exclaimed Faramir. “Especially now. I want to wed Éowyn because I love her.”

“You always were an incurable romantic,” Denethor said, but for once there was little harshness in his tone. “But even now, you cannot ignore who you are. Especially now. You are my heir, Faramir. The King has not abolished the Stewardship. Remember that.” He paused. “I give my blessing, Faramir.”

Smiling broadly, Faramir came to kneel at his father’s feet, and Denethor laid his hand on the younger man’s head.

“Now,” he said, briskly, “to work. What is there to be done?”Faramir rose, and came to stand at Denethor’s shoulder.

After the noon meal, Steward and son went together in silence to Rath Dínen. They walked quickly through the House of the Stewards, neither looking at the bare stone bed, still smelling faintly of oil. Side by side, they reached the bed of King Eärnil, and looked down at the casket of lebethron in the stone hands of the king’s effigy.

Faramir handed his father a delicate key, and Denethor carefully turned it in the lock of the casket. Inside, on a bed of black velvet, lay the winged crown of Gondor, dulled by age.

“One thousand years this has lain here,” Denethor said, softly, the murmurs of his voice echoing off the stone walls of the chamber.

“And now it has a new owner,” said Faramir. There was clear pleasure in his tone. “I found a silversmith capable of restoring the crown, Father; but I wondered whether he should be brought to work in the Citadel.”

“To keep it under closer supervision?” Denethor asked. “Aye, that is a good notion. He has until the end of the month to finish the task. The host returns from Cormallen then.”

He lifted the casket from Eärnil’s hands, and they left the Silent Street.

The silversmith, brought up from his shop to the Citadel, was set to work that very day. He exclaimed for a few minutes over the workmanship of the crown, and then tenderly settled to cleaning the tarnished metal and repairing the few blemishes.

Despite Faramir’s hard work, there were plenty of tasks left to be done, and the next days were busy for both the Steward and his son. Denethor summoned together the City counsellors, and briefly told them of the events at the Black Gate and at Cormallen. Some of the older men remembered Thorongil, and seemed unsurprised at Denethor’s decision regarding the kingship. Denethor left the council feeling surprisingly positive, and decided to go down to the Houses of Healing.

The gardens were being tended by some of the women recently returned to the City, bending over the herb beds weeding. To his surprise, Denethor saw Éowyn of Rohan kneeling on a cushion next to one of the women, listening intently to her. Éowyn had an apron tied around her waist and her thick golden hair was twisted up in a plait to keep it out of the way.

Denethor watched silently for a short while, hands clasped behind his back, as Éowyn carefully pulled up some withered plants and put them in a basket on the grass by her side. The woman next to her said something, and Éowyn laughed quickly, and for an instant Denethor thought he could see what Faramir loved about the woman from Rohan.

He coughed politely, and the women stood, Éowyn brushing the earth from her hands.

“We did not see you there, my lord Steward,” she said, dropping a courtesy.

“I hope I am not interrupting,” Denethor said.

“Oh, no,” Éowyn replied. “I was being instructed in the art of weed-lore, and helping to restore some order to these gardens. Mírwen and the other ladies have been most welcoming.”

“Can they spare you?” Denethor asked.

“I imagine so.” Éowyn untied her apron and folded it by the basket, speaking softly to her companion and then joining Denethor. He set off towards the walls overlooking the City, Éowyn by his side.

“My son spoke to me,” he said, as they reached the walls and looked down at Minas Tirith below them.

“He told me he had, my lord,” Éowyn said. “I am grateful to you. Lord Faramir is a fine man.”

“And you love him?”

“Yes, my lord,” she said, turning surprised eyes up at him. “Indeed I wonder you should ask that question.”

“Forgive me, my lady.” Denethor gripped the stonework and did not look at her. “But Faramir also told me that you had feelings for the lord Aragorn.”

She sighed, and turned her back on the City, looking instead at the Houses of Healing.

“I did. I had been trapped, my lord Steward, in a house that was decaying away. My brother was imprisoned by bars and my uncle by treacherous lies. And then he came, with words of freedom, and power, and hope of victory. Was it any wonder I felt something for him? And yes, I longed for him to return my desire, but he looked at me only with pity. Pity was not what I wanted. Pity has never been what I wanted.”

Denethor glanced at her, back ramrod straight and eyes bright with passion, and saw that indeed the Lady Éowyn was not to be pitied.

“Then your son came, and showed me that there was more than glory to be found. In Faramir I have found a different sort of hope. Yes, my lord Denethor, I love him.”

“That is well,” Denethor said briefly. “You will of course need the permission of your brother, and the blessing of the King – I imagine both will be readily forthcoming.”

She inclined her head. Denethor made to go, but paused before he walked away. “I will be glad to welcome you into my House, my lady.” He bowed, and strode off. Had he turned around, he would have seen Éowyn of Rohan smiling after him.

The atmosphere in the City was cheerful and bright as Faramir rode down to the Pelennor. Garlands of flowers had been hung out of windows, spanning the streets, and there were people chattering brightly outside shops and inns. They called greetings to Faramir as he passed, and Faramir thought he could not remember a time when Minas Tirith was so lively.

On the Pelennor, tents had been erected. The army had returned from Cormallen that day, and had set up camp outside the City. It was the eve of May, and in the morning the King would be crowned.

Faramir dismounted and gave the reins of his horse to a nearby Dúnadan, who bowed silently. Straightening his tunic, the Steward’s son glanced up at the sable banner fluttering in the breeze, and entered the King’s tent.

Aragorn was alone, thoughtfully polishing Andúril, but as Faramir came in he laid the sword down and stood up.

Faramir dropped to his knees. “My liege.”

Aragorn held out his hand, and the younger man took it and kissed it. “Stand up, Faramir,” Aragorn said. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better, my liege,” Faramir said. “I did not thank you for saving me.”

“I am glad I was able to,” Aragorn said. He drew a chair up. “Sit.”

“My lord Steward sends his excuses,” Faramir said, sitting down. “He is busy in the City, and he thought I would be more suited to the task for which I came.”

“Meaning, he would rather not see me,” Aragorn returned.

Faramir smiled wryly, and then dug in a pouch and drew out some papers. “The loremasters have been working through the archives, and have found the traditional words for the coronation.” He passed them to Aragorn. “I did wonder whether the lords Elladan and Elrohir might know them already, but I thought it prudent to find them in any case.”

“If you asked them, my brothers might say they knew the words,” Aragorn said, glancing over the parchments, “but I would guess they have forgotten some of the ceremony.”

“And I hope you received the garments sent down from the City,” Faramir went on.

“I did, thank you. You have not been idle while we have been celebrating at Cormallen.”

“I am not particularly good at being idle,” Faramir confessed lightly. “Unless you give me a book, in which case I am lost to the world.”

Aragorn laughed, and laid the parchments aside. “Then I must introduce you to Lord Elrond at some point. You would get along extremely well, I think. As for now – do you have to hurry back to the City, or can you spare a few moments to greet some friends?”

“I am in no particular hurry,” Faramir said, rising and following Aragorn out of the tent. They crossed the grass to a circle lit by a campfire. There was a group of people of assorted sizes sitting around the fire, laughing at something, and an appetising smell rose into the evening air.

“Sam’s cooking,” Aragorn commented, as they stepped into the light. There was a chorus of greetings, and Faramir hung back a little until the Ranger beckoned him forwards. “I’ve brought a guest – I hope there’s enough food, Sam?”

“Very likely, Mr Strider,” Sam said, and looked up. “Why, it’s Captain Faramir!”

“Master Samwise!” Faramir said, recognising the sturdy hobbit with delight and bending to greet him. “And Frodo – I am very pleased to see you again.”

Frodo, who had stood up to bow, looked down at the ground and said nothing. A wave of concern crossed Faramir’s brow, but passed as he was drawn to sit down by Merry and Pippin. Aragorn introduced Legolas and Gimli, and explained that the Fellowship were congregating for old times’ sake before the events of the morrow.

“In that case, I do not wish to intrude,” Faramir said.

“You do not intrude,” Aragorn returned gently. “Now, sample some of Sam’s excellent stew – hobbit cooking is something not to be sniffed at.”

“This isn’t real hobbit cooking,” Merry said, through a mouthful.

“Real hobbit cooking,” added Pippin, tearing some bread off a loaf, “involves long tables, and many courses, and some pretty hobbit lasses to help serve it all up.”

“Like, say, Diamond of Long Cleeve,” Merry said, with a pointed look at his cousin. Pippin grinned.

“Just like Diamond.”

Faramir listened to their banter, and ate his stew, and wondered whether Boromir had fitted into this strange group. At length he excused himself, and Aragorn got up to accompany him back to his horse.

“Take Denethor my greetings,” he said, as Faramir mounted.

“I will, my lord. Until the morning.”

Aragorn nodded, and raised a hand as Faramir rode off.

The Citadel was quiet and silent as he came through it after leaving his horse in the capable hands of a stable boy. Denethor was not in his rooms, and Faramir went past the great hall on the off chance that his father would be there. Pushing open the doors, he glanced inside, and paused.

At the end of the great chamber, seated in the Steward’s chair, was a figure bent over something in his lap. There were no guards, and no servants. Faramir recognised the broken object in Denethor’s hands, and silently turned, leaving his father alone with his grief.

* * *

Morning dawned, clear and bright and shadowless. Looking up at the Tower of Ecthelion, men saw the silver banner of the Stewards flying high in the breeze; but the City was garlanded with flowers and people put on their best clothes, mended and pressed. For the King was to be crowned.

Aragorn woke in his tent with an unfamiliar feeling of nerves. He lay on his cot, staring up at the tent roof, before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and standing up.

He found someone had slipped into the tent and left a bowl of water, so he washed thoroughly and tried to smooth down hair too used to the ravages of the Wild, before turning to the new clothes he had been sent.

There was a shirt of good linen and good make, though not so fine as that produced by the Elves; and breeches to match. Aragorn was slipping the long, heavy coat of black mail over the shirt when Elladan and Elrohir entered the tent.

“We came to help,” Elrohir said, pulling the bottom of the mail coat down.

“Thank you.” Aragorn accepted the silver sword belt that came with the mail and fastened it around his waist, automatically tucking the loose end around the belt so it would not come loose.

“Did you sleep well?” Elladan passed his twin the edge of the heavy white cloak and together they put it around Aragorn’s shoulders.

“Yes.”

“Liar,” Elrohir said.

They watched as Aragorn reverentially lifted the Elessar from where it lay wrapped in a piece of cloth in his pack, and used the brooch to clasp the mantle. The final touch was a delicate circlet of silver with a star-shaped gem in the centre, but Elrohir said, “wait!” and pulled a comb from a pouch.

“I did try,” Aragorn protested, as his foster-brother pulled the comb through his dark hair.

“We’re just being fussy. Family pride.” Elladan settled the circlet on Aragorn’s head. “There.”

They gazed at their brother for a moment in silence.

“Little Estel,” Elrohir said, eventually.

“I wish Ada, and Arwen, were here,” Elladan said softly.

“So do I.” Aragorn reached out, and clasped their shoulders briefly. “Thank you. You were the best of brothers, and the best teachers I could have hoped for.”

“And you were a good pupil, for a mortal,” Elladan returned, breaking the moment of seriousness.

Aragorn smiled, and picking up Andúril attached the scabbard to his belt. “Is everyone else ready?”

“I think so,” Elrohir said.

They held the tent flaps open, and Aragorn came out into the sunshine. Close by he found a group waiting, all dressed in their finest. They knelt, as he arrived, and straightened again.

“My liege,” Imrahil of Dol Amroth said, “all is prepared, and the City awaits you.”

“Then,” said Aragorn, “we must go.” He glanced around at his friends – Éomer, clad in newly polished armour, a golden circlet on his golden hair; Gandalf, smiling and radiant; the Fellowship, the hobbits looking excited and nervous; the Dúnedain silent in grey.

As a group, they walked out to where the Armies of the West awaited, and a cheer went up as the soldiers saw them appear. Now the host moved, towards the City where the people were gathered before the Gate.

Denethor stood by the wooden barrier that had been set up in front of the shattered Gate of his city. Dressed in his finest mail, a shining white surcoat, and a white cloak over all, he clutched the rod of his Stewardship in gauntleted hands and watched the host approach. Behind him stood Faramir, Húrin of the Keys, and some of the highest-ranking Guards, in uniform, and silent as their lord.

At a short distance from the barrier, the army halted, and from the front of the host came the Dúnedain in grey. They seemed taller than mortal Men, but tallest of all was Aragorn, walking slowly in front of them. He was accompanied by Prince Imrahil, and Éomer of Rohan, and Gandalf glimmering in white, and the hobbits. Denethor took a deep breath and nodded.

From the rampart above the Gate, a single trumpet rang out, and all fell silent. Denethor, the twenty-sixth Steward of Gondor, stepped out and met Aragorn in the space ringed by the people of Minas Tirith and those who had fought for her freedom.

For a moment, the two men met each other’s gaze, and then Denethor dropped to one knee and said: “The last Steward of Gondor begs leave to surrender his office.”

Aragorn took the offered rod, and smiled. “Nay, my lord Denethor, that office is not ended. It shall be thine and thy heirs’ as long as my own line shall last. Do now thy office!”

Denethor stood, and turned to face the people of the City. His voice rang out and echoed off the ancient walls. “Men of Gondor!” he said. “Hear now the Steward of this Realm! Behold! one has come to claim the kingship again at last. Here is Aragorn son of Arathorn, chieftain of the Dúnedain of Arnor, Captain of the Host of the West, bearer of the Star of the North, wielder of the Sword Reforged, Thorongil of the City Guard; victorious in battle, whose hands bring healing, the Elfstone, Elessar of the line of Valandil, Isildur’s son, Elendil’s son of Númenor. Shall he be king and enter into the City and dwell there?”

There was a roar of approval from the assembled host, and Denethor held up his hand for silence.

“The loremasters tell that it was the custom of old that the king should receive the crown from his father ere he died; or if that might not be, that he should go alone and take it from the hands of his father in the tomb where he was laid. But since things must now be done otherwise, using the authority of the Steward, I have brought hither from Rath Dínen the crown of Eärnur the last king, whose days passed in the time of our longfathers of old.”

Faramir and three other men walked forward bearing the casket of lebethron, and Denethor opened it and lifted out the crown. Restored to full beauty, it was like a light on that bright day. He turned to Aragorn and held it out, and Aragorn took it and held it up so that all could see.

“Et Eärello Endorenna utúlien. Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar tenn’ Ambar-metta!” he said, and then, to Denethor’s surprise, he handed the crown back. “By the labour and valour of many I have come into my inheritance,” Aragorn said. “In token of this I would have the Ringbearer bring the crown to me, and let Mithrandir set it upon my head, if he will; for he has been the mover of all that has been accomplished, and this is his victory.”

Silently, Frodo came to Denethor, and the Steward bent to give the crown to the hobbit. Frodo turned and carried it to Gandalf, who came to Aragorn and crowned him.

Watching, Denethor sighed.

Now Aragorn, Elessar of Gondor, stood, and it seemed to the Steward and to all watching that he was revealed for the first time. Denethor remembered all the other man’s guises – Rider of Rohan, Guardsman, a Ranger in a tattered cloak – but now he knew he saw the real Aragorn. A King, and one worthy of the title. His white mantle shone in the sunlight, and reflected the brilliance of the Elessar at his throat and the stones on the crown on his head; and he looked at Denethor and smiled.

Denethor smiled back, and then raised his hands and cried: “Behold the King!”

The people of the City, and the Armies of the West, cheered, and trumpets were blown and music was made. The barrier was pushed aside, and followed by his subjects, Elessar entered the City.

Caught up in the tide of people, Faramir came close to Denethor and the Steward saw the joy in his son’s eyes. “I am glad, father,” he said simply.

Denethor nodded. “As am I, Faramir. As am I.” Faramir laughed aloud for sheer pleasure, and then took his father’s hand and pulled him to catch up with Aragorn and the rest of the captains ahead of them. Denethor let himself be tugged along, and as they went he realised that the cheers of the people were not only for the King, but also for the Steward. Gondor was safe; Gondor was at peace, and the hard work of centuries had at last come to fruition.

“I confirm you, Denethor son of Ecthelion, as Steward of Gondor. This office shall be yours and your heirs’ as long as I and my heirs hold the throne.” Aragorn handed Denethor the white rod of the Stewardship once more, and Denethor rose. “I know you will continue to serve Gondor as you have done all these years.”

“I will endeavour to serve my King and my country to the utmost of my ability,” Denethor said.

Aragorn beckoned Faramir forward from his place at the side of the room. “Faramir, son of Denethor; you have long been a Ranger in Ithilien, and have kept that land safe from harm. For this, I thank you. And I give you Ithilien as your domain, and name you Prince of it. For the Stewards’ Heirs shall now be Princes of Ithilien, until they take up their fathers’ posts in the City.” Faramir, speechless, knelt and Aragorn placed a silver circlet on his hair. “I know you love the woods of Ithilien,” he said softly, raising the younger man up. “Denethor gave me his approval. I trust you will be happy there.”

“Thank you, sire,” Faramir said. He glanced at Denethor, who gave him a nod with raised eyebrows, and the new Prince turned back to the King. “My lord, I must ask you one boon. I have asked the Lady Éowyn of Rohan to be my wife, and she consents. Will you bless our marriage?”“If the Steward and King Éomer have given their approval,” Aragorn said, “then surely you do not need my blessing also?”

“Need, maybe not,” Faramir said, “but we would wish it, my liege.”

“With all my heart,” Aragorn said, sincerely. “I am glad she has found you, and you her, Faramir.”

“My lord.” Faramir bowed, and moved back to stand behind his father. Aragorn glanced at the parchment list on a small table by his side, and looking out into the hall called: “Beregond of the Guard!”

Later that day, when court matters had been dealt with, Faramir accompanied his father back to the Steward’s chambers, where Denethor laid down his rod of office wearily.

“My lord, why did you not tell me about Ithilien?” Faramir asked, taking a seat by the hearth.

Denethor went to the window and opened it, looking out. “I do not know.” He turned, and sat down. “I also do not know if your Lady of Rohan will like the woodlands.”

Frowning, Faramir adjusted the circlet on his head, and then took it off. “I suppose we shall have to restore Emyn Arnen. I cannot ask Éowyn to live in Henneth Annûn.”

The Steward stood up again, and Faramir watched him, wondering why his father was so restless. He knew better than to ask, however, and waited, running the delicate metal of his circlet through his fingers. Denethor paced the room, and went to a chest in the corner. He paused, before lifting out a bundle wrapped in linen.

“Faramir,” he said, crossing back and laying the bundle on the table, “you are my heir now, and by rights, this belongs to you.”

Faramir reached out to unwrap the object, laying the material out to reveal the two halves of a broken horn. “Boromir,” he breathed.

“Aye, Boromir’s horn,” his father said. “I shall grieve for him until the end of my days.”

“As shall I, father.”

“But you are my heir. Bear it well, in memory of your brother.”

Picking up the horn, Faramir fitted the two pieces together, and then slowly took them apart again. “I will never wind it, but it will be forever an heirloom of our house.”

* * *

In the evening, the captains ate together, the conversation mainly revolving around Harad and Umbar and the potential problems of forging peace with them. Aragorn listened to the talk, offering opinions and explaining the occasional point of Southron etiquette, but on the whole he was silent. At the end of the meal, Éomer rose to go, but first came to speak to him.

“You seem preoccupied, my lord Aragorn.”

“You at least will surely appreciate the preoccupation, Éomer,” Aragorn said. “Inheriting a kingdom is tiring business.”

“It is not just that, though,” Éomer returned. He looked hard at his friend, and then shook his head. “If I have learnt one thing about you, my lord, it is that you will say what you want when you want. I shall not press you.”

Aragorn nodded, and smiled briefly. “Thank you.”

Éomer disappeared, striding briskly out of the hall.

Now only Aragorn, Denethor and Faramir were left. The younger man got up to go, bowing, but Aragorn asked him to wait. Faramir sat down again.

“I suppose that Éowyn told you ...” Aragorn began, and uncharacteristically tailed off.

“I know she admired you, my lord,” Faramir said. “That maybe, indeed, she loved you, in a way. But she said that you seemed not to return her feelings.”

“No, I did not,” Aragorn said. “I owe it to you both, to my Steward and his heir, to tell you that tomorrow my brothers leave Minas Tirith. They are riding north, to accompany Lord Elrond and his daughter back here. I am betrothed to the Lady Arwen – she will be my queen, and I hope, in time, the mother of my heirs.” Denethor said nothing. “Elrond told me that we would only ever be wed if I became King,” Aragorn went on. “In marrying me, Arwen will give up her chance to sail West, with her father.”

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. Faramir watched Denethor, and said nothing. The Steward turned his signet ring on his finger.

“I find it interesting that you mention this only now,” Denethor said, eventually. “Were you perhaps afraid that I would not concede if I knew these ... conditions ... existed? How long have you been betrothed?”

“Some forty years,” Aragorn said. “After leaving the City, I travelled to Lothlórien, where Arwen was living at that time. But I have loved her since I was twenty, and first learned of my lineage.” He looked at Denethor. “If you doubt my loyalty to the City and to Gondor, my lord Steward, then you are mistaken. My claim is legitimate, I am Gondor’s rightful king, as well you know.”

“But you did not tell me of this at Cormallen,” Denethor returned, his voice cold.

“I did not expect you to swear fealty at Cormallen,” Aragorn said, and gone was the uncertainty he had shown only moments earlier. “In a matter of weeks, my lord, Arwen and I will be wed. That is all.”

Denethor stood up, and faced his king for a brief second before turning on his heel and striding out of the chamber.

Faramir jumped to his feet, his face horror-stricken, and seemed torn between chasing his father and begging for Aragorn’s forgiveness. He chose the latter, and sank down on one knee before the King.

“My liege,” he said, but Aragorn cut him off.

“Faramir, rise. Your father and I will be arguing about one matter or another until the end of our days. Remember he was my lord before I was ever his.”

Faramir stood, and sat down again. He gulped down some wine and regained his composure.

“Nevertheless, my liege, I am sorry for my father’s behaviour. And I must congratulate you on your forthcoming wedding.”

“It is a day I never dared hope for,” Aragorn admitted. He rose, and stretched. “And there will be much to prepare. These are guests such as the City has not seen for an Age.”

“I will help in any way I can,” Faramir said.

The King nodded, and gripped Faramir’s shoulder quickly. “I know, and I thank you.”

They left the hall together, in companionable silence.

* * *

Aragorn put his hand to the sapling, and pulled gently. To his surprise it came away from the dry slope of the mountain easily, and he brushed soil from the roots and lifted it.

“Let us return to the City,” he said, a light in his face.

Gandalf nodded, and together they set off back down towards Minas Tirith, golden in the dawn.

In the Courtyard of the Fountain, Aragorn laid the sapling carefully down on the flagstones. “Guard it, with your very life, Mithrandir,” he said.

The wizard smiled broadly, and settled down on the edge of the fountain, his staff propped in front of him. “Do you mean to plant it now, Aragorn?”

Aragorn shot back a parting smile and strode away.

Sam was deeply asleep when the King entered his room and bent down to shake his shoulder.

“Sam. Wake up, Sam!”

“‘S’not time to get up, Dad,” Sam murmured. “The cock hasn’t crowed yet.”

“Sam, it’s Strider,” Aragorn said. “Wake up, I need you.”

The hobbit’s eyes came open, and he peered up at Aragorn. “Mr Strider? What time is it?”

“Early,” said Aragorn, “but I have a task for you, Master Gardener. Go and meet Gandalf by the fountain when you are dressed. I promise it will be worth your while.”

Sam nodded, and pushed back the covers.

A Guard, standing by the door of the Citadel, snapped quickly to attention as he saw the King hurrying towards him.

“Sire.”

“Good morning!” Aragorn said. “Can you go and find a shovel, and take it to the Courtyard?”

“Your Majesty?” the Guard said, clearly confused.

“Thank you,” Aragorn said, and disappeared inside the Citadel.

He went to Faramir’s room first, tapping on the door, and as he had hoped the younger man answered quickly. He was pulling a robe on, and looked tired but alert.

“My lord?” he said, on seeing Aragorn. “Is something wrong?”

“Everything is wonderful, Faramir,” Aragorn returned. “Get dressed, and go to Mithrandir in the Courtyard.”

Faramir’s forehead creased, but he bowed his head and turned to get dressed.

Aragorn went on to Denethor’s chambers, and knocked. From inside came an irritated cough, and then: “Enter.”

Pushing open the door, Aragorn saw that the Steward was up, dressed in a tunic and leggings, working. A candle was burning low, and Denethor was writing quickly, his quill scratching across the paper.

“What is it?” he asked, without looking up.

“Good news, my lord Steward,” Aragorn said, and Denethor glanced around and then stood.

“It is early,” he said, and then looked the King up and down. Aragorn was wearing his travel-stained Ranger clothes, his boots still muddy. “Yet I see you have been out already.”

“Will you come?” Aragorn asked, by way of response.

Denethor reached for a cloak, and followed Aragorn out and down to the Courtyard. Faramir and Sam were already there, as was a shovel. Sam was awestruck as he tenderly felt the leaves and bark of the sapling, and he looked up as the King and his Steward arrived.

“It’s beautiful, Mr Strider.”

“With that I concur,” Faramir added, his own eyes bright with unshed tears.

Aragorn lifted the sapling from the ground, and held it up. “My lord Steward – a sapling, of the line of Nimloth.”

Denethor reached out and brushed a leaf with his finger, and then drew his hand back sharply. “How?”

“Mithrandir took me up to Mindolluin, ere daybreak,” Aragorn explained, “and there we found it. I have called you here to witness its planting – and I have called Samwise Gamgee here to plant it, as he is the best gardener I know.”

“A White Tree, in bloom,” Denethor murmured.

Aragorn nodded, and handed the Steward the shovel. “I beg you, Denethor, take out the old tree. We will lay it in honour in Rath Dínen, in memory of the days that are gone.”

Gripping the shovel, Denethor carefully dug around the roots of the dead tree, and with exhortations from Sam to be gentle, they pulled it up. Reverentially the White Tree of Gondor, that had stood in the Courtyard of the Citadel for so long, was taken and laid close to the fountain. Now King Elessar lifted the blooming sapling. Sam made a hole, his hands smoothing the earth aside expertly and tenderly, and the new tree was planted.

Sam scooped some water from the fountain and sprinkled it around the roots before they patted the earth back, making sure the tree was standing straight and tall. In the fresh air of the new day it gave off a sweet scent.

“There,” said Sam, with satisfaction. “Now make sure it’s watered, Mr Strider, but not too much, and it’ll grow strong and tall.”

“Thank you, Sam,” Aragorn said gravely. “I will.”

“May Yavanna watch over you,” said Gandalf, laying a hand on the trunk, and smiling softly. They stood in silence, gazing at the tree, as the sun rose over Gondor.

It was Midsummer’s Eve, and the people of Minas Tirith had gathered at the City’s gates. News had spread early in the evening that a great party, on horseback, was arriving, and that their banners were fair and the riders fairer. Soon the King, accompanied by the Steward and by the Fellowship of the Ring, had hurried down to the Great Gate, there to welcome the guests.

Denethor stood silent by Aragorn’s side and watched the Elves arrive. At the forefront of the party were Elladan and Elrohir, bearing between them a silver banner without device; they halted and dismounted a short distance from the gate, and bowed solemnly to their foster-brother. Aragorn bowed back, and the brothers entered the City without speaking a word.

Next came a pair of tall, imposing Elves, one dark and the other fair. They too dismounted, and came to Aragorn, and bowed.

“Your Majesty,” the dark one said.

“Lord Erestor,” Aragorn returned. “And Lord Glorfindel. Mae govannen. May I present my Steward, Denethor.”

The Elves turned to Denethor, and repeated their bows. He inclined his head, stiffly, and tried to remember where he had heard the name “Glorfindel” before.

Now a stream of Elves, male and female, came past. The King greeted many of them by name, and introduced some of them to Denethor. The Steward maintained his stiff composure, and let his face show nothing of the disquiet he felt at the sight of the Eldar.

There was a pause, and then a pair taller than the rest came forwards. Watching, Denethor saw that the King was the first to bow, and he wondered who these were. The Lord was clad in a dark green cloak, his silver hair spread over his shoulders, and in any other company he would have caught and held a watcher’s attention. But the Lady at his side eclipsed him; her hair golden like the sun and her face as bright.

“My Lady,” Aragorn said, a note of deep respect in his voice. “My Lord Celeborn.”

“Rise, Elessar,” she said, and her tone was like music. She reached out and touched the green brooch that the King was wearing this night, and she smiled. “As was foretold.”

“As was foretold,” he agreed, and turned to Denethor. “My lord Denethor, here are guests such as the City has not seen for an Age. Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel of Lothlórien.”

The name of the dreaded Golden Wood sent a tremor through Denethor, but he bowed formally. As he straightened from the bow, he caught the Lady’s gaze, and it was as if time had frozen. All was bare to her, all his doubts and fears and anger and grief. In vain he tried to wrench his eyes away from hers, but she held him too tight.

“Son of Ecthelion, you are afraid,” she said, though he could not see her lips move. “Do not be. The Shadow has vanished, from Gondor and from you – let it go. Learn trust again. Let your fear pass!”

She smiled, and her grip disappeared. Denethor took one staggering step backwards, and felt Aragorn’s hand on his shoulder. “Denethor!” the King said, softly.

He looked at Aragorn, and saw understanding in the other man’s eyes.

“The Lady Galadriel sees far,” Aragorn said, “but she sees true.”

Denethor did not reply, but he looked to his side and saw the Lord and Lady making their way into the City. He drew himself together.

The Elves had now all entered the gate, save for two. Aragorn had tensed by the Steward’s side and was standing tall and straight, his eyes bright. Denethor moved backwards, allowing the King to be alone in front of his City.

The Elf who came forward now bore in his hands a heavy silver sceptre. On it was mounted a single crystal, surrounded by the wings of the Númenórean Kings. As he reached Aragorn, the King went down on one knee and bowed his head.

“I bring you the Sceptre of Annúminas,” the Elf said, his voice clear.

Aragorn took the sceptre, and rose. “I thank you, Lord Elrond.”

Elrond smiled, a little sadly. “And I also bring you my daughter, as was promised. You are King of Gondor and Arnor, and I consent that you should wed with Arwen Undómiel, and make her your queen.”

A murmur went through the crowd, and Elrond held out his hand.

She had been standing aside, a hood over her hair shadowing her face, but she pushed it back as she came to join her father. Denethor’s breath caught as he saw her, fair as the evening. Gems glittered in her dark hair and her face was radiant as she looked on her betrothed; and in his turn he smiled, his eyes full of love.

Elrond took his daughter’s hand, and laid it in the King’s.

Aragorn looked down at Arwen, and she met his gaze. Then, the King bent and kissed his bride-to-be, and the crowd erupted in cheers. “Welcome to your city, my lady,” he said, in her ear, offering her his arm.

She took it, and smiled back. “I’ve missed you, Estel,” she said.

He brought her to Denethor, who bowed. “My lady,” he said.

“Arwen, this is Denethor, my Steward.”

“I am glad to meet you,” Arwen returned. “I have heard much about you, my lord, from my brothers.”

Denethor privately wondered whether the report from Elladan and Elrohir would have been entirely positive, but said nothing. Now Aragorn led Arwen past the Gate, and they began the climb to the Citadel.

It took a long time. The people of Minas Tirith had turned out in their hundreds to greet their new Queen. Aragorn and Arwen stopped to speak to many of them, and to accept the congratulations from all sides.

The Steward followed, and as the party went through the second gate, he managed to slip past and make his way more quickly up to the Citadel. Once there he found one of his household and made sure that the Elves had all been given quarters and food. They had, and so Denethor went to his own rooms. He closed the door, heavily, and sat down behind his desk.

Opening a drawer, Denethor pulled out a case padded with velvet, and slowly he opened it. Nestling within was an oval portrait, of a woman with a heart-shaped face, dark hair and blue eyes. He touched it gently with one finger, and laid the box down on the table. He sat and gazed, while a tear fell from the corner of his eye.

On Midsummer’s Day, Aragorn and Arwen were wed. The ceremony went without a hitch, and the feast afterwards was joyful and long. There was much laughter, chiefly orchestrated by the hobbits; and ethereal Elvish singing. There were speeches, and toasts, and tears. Aragorn seemed more joyful than any there had known him, and at the same time more kingly, and the laughter of Arwen was like music.

Late in the evening, the royal couple left the festivities, and closed the door of the King’s bedchamber behind them.

Aragorn took off the circlet he had been wearing throughout the day, and threw off his cloak.

“You are not tired, my love?” Arwen asked, her eyes sparkling. He caught her around the waist and kissed her.

“Very.” He held her, and rested his chin on the top of her dark head. “Is this real, Arwen?”

She smiled into his shoulder. “I think so. Accept that it is.”

“All my life,” he said, “all my life I have been waiting for this, for you. And there have been so many moments since we left Imladris, when I thought all our hopes were failed and all my waiting had been in vain.”

“They were not. It was not.” Arwen lifted her face, and met her husband’s eyes. “Kiss me again, Estel.”

* * *

The battlements of the City were quiet; long white stretches of stone broken only by the occasional shadow of a Guardsman on watch. Denethor, a cloak wrapped around him against the evening breeze, walked slowly along the walls to the eastern embrasure. Far below him, the light from campfires burned on the Pelennor, and windows showed the flicker of candles. He had stood here on many previous nights, looking out for the return of his sons, or for a messenger – looking out over his realm.

His realm no longer. The rule of Gondor had passed into new hands. The Steward turned his head, and saw the banner of the White Tree glimmering in the moonlight at the top of the Tower of Ecthelion. He sighed, deeply, and turned back to the view over the Pelennor.

Soft footsteps broke his reverie, and he looked round to see the tall figure of the Lady Galadriel, her hair covered by a white hood.

“I do not disturb you, my lord Steward?” she asked, joining him at the wall.

“Nay, my lady.”

She looked hard at him, but this time he was ready for her intrusion. Galadriel smiled. “Ah.”

There was silence, while the Steward and the Lady of Lórien watched Gondor.

“I have long wished to see this sight,” Galadriel said, eventually, her voice soft. “I have heard tales of the beauty of Minas Anor since she was first built, but never until now have I been able to see her for myself.”

“The Tower of Guard is not the Tower of the Sun,” Denethor replied.

“Their foundations are the same,” the Elf said. “Great cities of Men. And you have prospered, while we have failed.” She did not seem too unhappy about her verdict.

Denethor shifted, wondering how best he could make his excuses and leave.

“You need not fear for Gondor, my lord,” Galadriel pursued, gently. “Aragorn’s heart is true, and he loves this land well.”

“I am not afraid,” Denethor denied.

She laughed. “You are afraid, but only because you do not understand. You have protected Gondor well, but from the inside; Aragorn knows Gondor’s neighbours, enemy and ally. Because of who he is, he understands both Man and Elf, Dwarf and Halfling. And you know Gondor’s people, and Gondor’s ways. Together, you can make Gondor powerful again, as powerful as she was in the days when Anárion stood here and gazed across the vale to Minas Ithil.”

“Together.”

“Together,” she echoed. “We leave Middle-earth in the best of hands.”

He turned, and looked properly at her. Tall and slender she was, her face young and fair, but her eyes showing the depth of ages.

“Leave?” he asked.

“Our time is over,” Galadriel said. “Soon, we will sail West, return home. This is the Age of Men. Look after this world well, son of Ecthelion.” She smiled, and suddenly Denethor knew what it truly was to fear, and to love, and to respect. He bowed low.

“I will, my lady. We will.”

Galadriel reached out, and touched his face. Smiling, she turned and disappeared into the night. Denethor leaned on the parapet, and thought about her words.

Aragorn and Arwen spent the day after their wedding alone together, wandering in the gardens of the City. They spoke softly of the months apart, and of the future. Arwen told her husband of the journey from Rivendell.

“We knew of Sauron’s downfall,” she said, twirling a white flower between her fingers. “An Eagle came, but I think Ada knew before then.” Aragorn put his arm around her waist, and they sat down on a bench. “We journeyed to Lórien, and found that they had suffered incursions.”

“Orcs?” Aragorn asked.

“Yes. They lost many, and the news is that Mirkwood suffered also.”

“I must speak to Legolas,” Aragorn said.

“Not today, Estel. Let today be for us.”

“Not today,” he agreed.

“Elladan and Elrohir joined us in Lothlórien,” Arwen continued. “They told us of the battle at the Morannon, and of Cormallen. They said that Denethor had been resistant, at first.”

Aragorn nodded, looking out at the garden. “I expected that.”

“To be truthful,” Arwen said, with a short laugh, “they were not exactly complimentary. They said the Steward was harsh, and cold, and that he was unreasonable to deny you for so long.”

“Maybe – but that is past,” Aragorn returned. “Now, we must work together.” He stood up, restless. “But not today. Not today. Will you walk with me, my lady?”

She rose, and took his arm, and they strolled off together.

Denethor came to Aragorn’s rooms the next morning, before the hour appointed for official proceedings in the Hall. He seemed more relaxed, somehow; more at ease as he bowed and greeted his King.

“Good morning, my lord Steward,” Aragorn said. “Please, sit – I have some more papers to read through before going to the Tower.”

Denethor pulled a seat up and sat, resting the rod of the Stewards across his knees. He watched Aragorn read quickly through a parchment before signing it and sealing it.

“I met the Lady Galadriel the night before last,” he said, as the King put the order aside. Aragorn glanced up.

“Oh?”

“I was ... I was scared,” Denethor admitted. “When she arrived, she looked into me, it seemed – it was as if my soul was laid bare before her.”

Aragorn put down the parchment he was studying, and gave Denethor his attention. “As I told you then, she sees far and she sees true. But it takes strength to endure her gaze.”

“You endure it,” Denethor said.

“But the first time I saw her, only for a short time,” Aragorn replied. “And for less time than you. What did she say to you?”

The Steward smiled, and to Aragorn it seemed like the years were rolled back. He could not recall seeing such an expression on Denethor’s face since the day of his marriage to Finduilas of Dol Amroth. It was a smile speaking of peace.

“She told me that the Elves were leaving. That this is our Age. She explained how we might work together, you and I, to make Gondor great again. That is what I had hoped, at first, but in recent days and weeks I had begun to doubt again.”

“You wondered whether my allegiances lay with the Eldar,” said Aragorn, “because of Arwen.”

Denethor bowed his head. “I see now I was mistaken, sire. And I am sorry. I was envious of Thorongil, and I envied the captain of the Dúnedain, but I shall not envy my King, and I shall not doubt him. Not again.”

“Thank you,” Aragorn said softly. He stood, and offered Denethor his hand. The Steward looked at it, then rose. The two men clasped hands. “The court calls,” the King said. “Will you come, my lord Steward – Denethor?”

“I will come, Aragorn,” Denethor answered. “There is much to be done.”

“Much to be done, but it can be done,” Aragorn said. “For Gondor.”

“For Gondor,” Denethor agreed. Aragorn smiled, and led the way out of the door.

Aragorn hurried into the Houses of Healing, still in his court clothes. He stopped the first servant he saw. “Where is he?” he demanded.

She dropped a courtesy. “Second room on the left, your Majesty.”

The room was dark and cool. By the bed, a healer was bent over the patient with a bowl of water. He looked up as the King came in, rose, and came over to the door.

“How is he?” Aragorn asked.

“Bad, sire. We have tried to cool him with water, but he is having trouble breathing. I hope you can do something.”

“Let me look,” Aragorn ordered, and the healer moved aside. The King sat down by the bed, and bent over the sick man. The patient’s breathing was harsh and tortuous, but he opened his eyes and clutched Aragorn’s hand.

“Faramir,” he gasped out.

“Hush, Denethor, do not speak.”

“Is he ... is he coming?” the Steward persisted.

“I have sent a rider post-haste to Ithilien,” Aragorn said, “and he should be here by tomorrow evening. Now rest.”

Denethor lay back, and Aragorn went to speak to the healer.

“Should I send for athelas, my lord?” the healer asked, anxiously.

The King shook his head. “Truly, I do not think it can help the Steward now. Bring water, to drink and to bathe his brow, and I will stay with him.”

The healer bowed, and left the room. Aragorn returned to the bed and sat down again, taking his cloak off and putting it over the back of the chair. He leaned over, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his hands, and watched Denethor.

It had been an eventful twenty years. In the first years of the Fourth Age, Gondor had been threatened by Haradric and Umbarian rebels, remnants of Sauron’s forces, and Aragorn had led several attacks against them. But there had been more pleasant tasks too – visits to the North, and to the fiefdoms neighbouring Gondor. At these times, Denethor had ruled the City in the King’s stead.

Eleven years after their marriage, Arwen had announced she was pregnant. A son and heir, Eldarion, was born to the King and Queen of Gondor, and the City rejoiced. But Denethor also had grandchildren – Elboron, and his sister Théodwyn.

Ithilien had prospered, and grown fairer than ever. Faramir’s Rangers patrolled the borders of Mordor together with a band of deadly Silvan archers from Mirkwood. The Elves lived on flets in the forest, the Men close to Emyn Arnen, or at Henneth Annûn. Whenever Faramir visited Minas Tirith, he was anxious to escape again and return to his wife and children in the garden of Gondor.

As the years passed, it seemed to those watching that Denethor was a happier man. He was ever quick to anger, and harsh in recrimination, but at the same time he was more generous, and easier to please. And though the Steward showed constant deference to his King, the two men were often to be found hunched over a game of strategy, or debating a historical point.

In recent months, however, Denethor had withdrawn from court life. He had begun to cough, and his face grew pale and thin. Aragorn had ordered a strict diet and rest, and for a while it had looked as though he would recover. But he had collapsed halfway through dictating a letter to his secretary, and had been rushed to the Houses of Healing.

Now Aragorn sat by his bed, waiting for a change in his Steward’s health.

Evening came, and Denethor’s breathing settled down a little. He was persuaded to swallow some broth, propped up with pillows. Aragorn held the bowl, and watched the slow movement of spoon to mouth in the Steward’s thin fingers. Finally, Denethor let the spoon drop.

“I cannot eat any more,” he said, and Aragorn nodded.

“How are you feeling?”

“Do not hold any hope of my recovery, Aragorn,” Denethor said, his voice hoarse. “I am ready for whatever awaits me.”

“You must not say that!” Aragorn insisted, but the Steward shook his head.

“I am old. Old, and tired. And I have lived long, longer than I once hoped.” He coughed, his body shaking. “In those dark days of despair, when I thought Sauron would take Gondor, I thought I was ready for death, but it was not so. Now – now, I am.” Denethor paused for breath. “My blood is not yours, Aragorn. I have had my time, and I will not linger. When Faramir has come, I shall go.”

Aragorn took the Steward’s hand. “I will grieve, Denethor. And your City will grieve also, for you have served her well.”

Denethor managed a smile, and then his frame was wracked by another cough. Aragorn passed him a glass of water, and the Steward sipped it and lay back.

“Stay with me, my liege.”

“I will. Sleep now.”

Throughout that night, the King kept vigil. Day came, and Denethor slept still, his breaths shallow. He woke briefly towards noon, but would eat nothing, and soon fell asleep again. In the afternoon Arwen came, and she kept her husband company for an hour.

Faramir arrived as night fell. He had ridden from Ithilien as soon as the messenger came, and was still in his riding clothes as he entered his father’s sickroom. He took in the scene in one glance, and looked at Aragorn with stricken eyes.

“He has been waiting for you,” Aragorn said. “I do not believe he is in pain – his fever has settled, and he has slept most of the day.”

“There is nothing you can do, my lord?” Faramir asked, and the King shook his head.

“No; and there is nothing that he wants me to do. It is our Gift, to choose the moment of our passing, and Denethor has chosen. Wake him. I know he would speak to you.” Aragorn rose, and clasped Faramir’s shoulder. “I am just outside the door.”

“Thank you.”

Aragorn nodded, and slipped silently out. Faramir took his father’s hand.

“Father?”

Denethor’s eyes opened, and focused on his son. “You came.”

“Yes.”

“I never doubted you would.” Denethor closed his eyes and took several breaths. “I ... I am proud of you, my son.”

“I know, father,” Faramir said, smiling.

“You will be a good Steward,” Denethor continued, with an effort. “A good ...” He coughed. “I love you, Faramir.”

Faramir turned his face away, for a second, to wipe his eyes with his arm. “And I you, my lord.”

Denethor smiled, and his eyes closed.

“Father?” Faramir squeezed the Steward’s hand. “Father?” A last, rasping breath came from Denethor’s throat, and then silence.

The tears coming freely now, Faramir bent to kiss his father’s brow. Denethor looked old, and weary, but also he looked peaceful. Faramir laid the Steward’s hands across his breast, and went to fetch Aragorn.

They laid Denethor, son of Ecthelion, to rest in Rath Dínen, on the bed that had so nearly been his pyre. King Elessar ordered that the banner of the Stewards be flown at half-mast for thirty days and thirty nights, and the City mourned the passing of the last Ruling Steward of Gondor – a man often troubled, now finally at peace.

THE END