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And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

Chapter 8:  “The Servant of the Steward”

   Ecthelion II, son of Turgon, was a man of wisdom…He encouraged all men of worth from near or far to enter his service, and to those that proved trustworthy he gave rank and reward. In much that he did he had the aid and advice of a great captain whom he loved above all. Thorongil men called him in Gondor, the Eagle of the Star, for he was swift and keen-eyed, and wore a silver star upon his cloak; but no one knew his true name nor in what land he was born.

Appendix A                                                                    The Return of the King

~oo0oo~

   Aragorn yawned sleepily. He had spent the night in a sheltered band of willows not far from the Anduin and had felt secure enough to risk a full night’s sleep. He awoke to a bitterly cold morning, the north wind rolling off the river suggesting snow. Reluctantly he threw back his blanket and got to his feet, pulling his cloak tightly about himself as the chill wind tore through him. He picked up his waterskins and made his way to the edge of the river to fill them in readiness for the day’s ride. He trod carefully as the bank was steep and the river wide and deep. He did not relish a ducking on such a morning as this. The skins filled, he returned to his little camp and sat down to eat the last of the food in his pack which was now no more than a crust of bread and a sliver of dried meat.

   He was unsure of how much further it was to Minas Tirith, but looking up at the deep grey clouds rolling across the sky, he sincerely hoped he would reach the city soon; that were surely a storm heading in his direction. Not for the first time, he wondered what the great Númenorean city would be like, though, in truth, he had little idea of what to expect. He had seen drawings in Imladris of some of the fine houses the Dunedain had dwelt in during the early Third Age but there was nothing remotely that splendid remaining for his people now. Nor did he quite know what sort of reception he himself might expect. Gandalf, when he had last seen him, had advised him that the time had come for him to seek to serve the Steward of Gondor. At first he had been reluctant to leave Rohan, but he had gradually overcome his initial apprehension about moving on and was now looking forward to visiting the ancient realm. He still, though, felt a deep sense of loss at leaving Thengel’s court. He had served the king loyally for eight years and, during that time, he had proved himself as a both a warrior and a leader of men. He had worked hard to earn the respect of the Rohirrim, and had made many friends whom he was going to miss terribly.

   But he knew in his heart that Gandalf was right and it was time to move on. With its long history and deep-rooted traditions, he imagined that court life in Gondor would be quite unlike that of Rohan. The realm was also in the front line of the West’s defences against Mordor and he was quite sure service there would present him with some very different challenges. He carried with him a letter of introduction from Thengel to Ecthelion the Steward of Gondor, who was a close ally and personal friend of Rohan’s king. This had so far ensured his safe passage through Gondor and, he hoped, would secure him a place in Ecthelion’s army.

   His breakfast finished, he packed up his few belongings and saddled his horse, a chestnut gelding and parting gift from Thengel. He was grateful for the company and talked quietly to the animal as he strapped his pack securely behind the saddle. With a final glance around to ensure he had left no trace of his stay, he swung himself up onto the horse’s back and set off steadily southwards, following the course of the Anduin as he went.

   He had not gone many miles when the storm clouds broke and man and horse were lashed by sleeting, driving rain. There was little shelter to be found though mercifully the wind was blowing from behind. Aragorn decided to press on with his journey. He had noted most of the landmarks he had been told to watch out for and so was sure it could not be much further to Minas Tirith. But the next few hours were a misery for horse and rider. Both hunched against the cold, and Aragorn was soon soaked to the skin as the penetrating rain found its way through his leathers and oilskins to his clothes beneath. He was shivering now and could barely hold the reins. He was about to stop and try and light a fire before the cold seeped into his very bones, when the rain suddenly stopped, and the sun came out, lighting the sky with a clear golden blaze.

   Then, as the clouds parted, far ahead, he saw it for the very first time, glimmering and sparkling in the washed clean air, the sun illuminating it like a jewel in the side of the mountain, its tall, white towers rising up to impossible heights, the banners of the Citadel seemingly reaching to the heavens: Minas Tirith, the Tower of the Setting Sun, the City of the Kings, in all its majesty. Aragorn halted his horse and stared in wonder. He could clearly see the seven circles of the city, each one smaller than the one below and all but the last, divided by the great buttress of rock jutting out from the mountain like the keel of a vast ship. Minas Tirith appeared to be carved out of the very mountain itself and Mindolluin’s towering presence dominated the city below. Aragorn had seen nothing to compare with it in all his days. But as he sat and marvelled at the wondrous beauty of the place, he became aware of a knot in his stomach and he suddenly felt afraid.

   He had kept his true identity hidden in Rohan and it had appalled him at times how easily had he lied and maintained that deception, but there was at least a kernel of truth to his story, as he was but a stranger in that land. In Gondor, however, the lie would be meant to deceive, for this was Elendil’s kingdom as much as was Arnor in the North. Gazing upon the legendary city, it hit him fully that, but for the quirks of fate in the tale of his forefathers, he would now be the king of this land which was still the most powerful of the free realms in Middle-earth. Doubt assailed him; he had to appear but a warrior from the North, nothing more. He had come here to fight the enemy, not to claim the crown of Gondor. Yet if, as Elrond believed, it may be his fate to one day do just that, then he knew that what happened in his time here now could have lasting consequences for him far in the future.

    Determinedly, he pushed such matters from his mind and he urged his horse forward. He headed straight for the vast gates in the lowest circle, but he was challenged by guards before he could reach them. Aragorn introduced himself as a man from Rohan, but he could tell the guards were eyeing him suspiciously. He could change his name and his speech, but he would never pass as a blond, blue eyed Rohirric warrior. One guard evidently went to seek a second opinion while the others kept their spears pointed towards him. Eventually the guard returned with one who appeared to be of more senior rank. This time Aragorn produced his letter, which had the seal of Thengel on it, and this gained him admittance to the city.

       He followed the guards through the streets and up the levels. The twisting roads that zig-zagged across the face of the mountain left him utterly bewildered as to where he was heading and, as they progressed ever upwards, Aragorn looked in amazement at the many white houses that lined the streets. The city was far more populous than Edoras and, from the well tended appearance of the dwellings, its people certainly seemed more prosperous. When they reached the Sixth Circle, Aragorn was told to leave his horse at the stables, before continuing on up to the seventh circle and the Citadel of the City. To Aragorn’s consternation, he realized he was being taken to the Steward himself. He had assumed that someone of lower rank would have questioned him. Instead he found himself been led across the Court of the Fountain to the main entrance of the Citadel.

   But suddenly he abruptly stopped in his tracks. There, standing before him, was a dead tree; its bare and lifeless branches, drooping sadly over the water of the fountain. It was being watched over by soldiers wearing the silver and black livery of the Citadel Guards who stood solemnly, performing this ancient duty that had long ceased to hold any meaning for them. But Aragorn, witnessing this for the very first time, found himself fighting his emotions. The significance of this symbol of the lost kingdom did not escape him and he stood for a moment wrapped in his thoughts, oblivious to all else around him.

   The guard walking beside him mistook his hesitancy for bemusement and started to explain.

    “The White Tree of Gondor will never thrive again,” he said, “not unless the king comes back, although, you understand, of course, none of us really believe a king ever will return, not now after all these years.”

   Aragorn knew the tree had been standing thus for over a hundred and fifty years, ever since its death at the end of the rule of Belechor II. It was decayed and rotting; its bark peeling away from its trunk like a giant decomposing corpse. It did not look as if it would bring forth new life ever again.

   It was surely dead.

   Aragorn simply nodded to the guard, not trusting himself to speak, and quickly walked on.

   He was brought at last to the great hall of the Citadel and ushered in by the guards on duty there, but not before they had taken his weapons. The hall was huge and on either side of it stood a row of tall, black marble pillars which met at the top forming two lines of arches. In each archway stood a great statue of a long dead king of the realm. Aragorn was aware of his feet echoing on the polished stone as he followed the guard through the vast chamber, but out of the corner of his eye, he observed with a growing feeling of awe the images of his distant kin that loomed above him as he went.

   At the far end of the hall upon a dais of many steps was a throne, and at the foot of the steps there sat an elderly man. A young man, not much older than Aragorn, stood beside him. Both were immaculately and richly dressed which suddenly made Aragorn acutely aware of his own appearance. He was still soaked from the freezing rain, his wet hair was stuck to his face and he was covered in mud. He felt at a distinct disadvantage and at that moment would have given anything for a change of clothes.

   The guard bowed to the two men and said, “This man has just arrived from Rohan, my lord Steward. He has a letter with him from King Thengel.”

   Aragorn bowed in similar fashion and waited to be spoken too. He could tell the two men were looking him up and down just as suspiciously as the guards had done. The older man voiced this quite plainly. “You are not of the Rohirrim,” he said. It was not a question. “What is your name and from where do you hail?”

   “My name is Thorongil and I am a traveller from the North, my lord,” Aragorn replied.

   “The North you say? That is a long way indeed,” said the Steward, “show me this letter that you carry.”

   Aragorn again fished out the letter from his pack and handed it to him. As he stood waiting for the Steward to finish reading it, he became very aware of the gaze of the younger man upon him. This, he surmised, was Denethor, son of Ecthelion. Denethor was indeed gazing hard at the stranger and after he had also read the letter, he gazed even more incredulously. Thengel had written glowingly of his captain. He had been sorry to see him go, but had accepted Thorongil’s reason that he wished to further his military experience in Gondor.

   Denethor looked at this bedraggled man standing quietly in front of him. His garb was plain and drab; the cloak that was steadily dripping water onto the floor, leaving small puddles around the man’s feet, had definitely seen better days. The strange, rayed brooch though, that clasped the sodden garment around the man’s shoulders, was bright and burnished and glittered in the sunlight streaming through the high windows. He was very tall, Denethor thought. In fact he did not think there could be any man taller in all Gondor. Curiously, with his dark hair and pale skin, he almost had a look of Númenor about him. He did not know such men existed in the North, which, in the South, was held to be a barren wasteland. In fact, so like was he to the men of Gondor, Denethor would have completely overlooked him had he passed him in the street, expect for one thing: those eyes, those keen, intense grey eyes. They looked directly at him now and Denethor was shocked to find it was he who needed to look away.

   “Thengel does indeed speak highly of you, young man,” said Ecthelion, handing the letter back to Aragorn. “But tell me, why should you wish to leave his service and enter mine?”

  “In short, my Lord Steward,” said Aragorn, “I think I have achieved all I can in Rohan. I have been there some eight years and all the while the Shadow in the East deepens. I believe I can be of greater service here.”

   “Do you now?” said Ecthelion, “and why is that?”

   Aragorn inwardly sighed. He hoped this interview would not take too long.  He was desperately trying not to shiver, but his soaked clothes had now chilled him to the marrow. 

   “I have learned much of war in the service of Thengel King,” he said, “but the fight is not yet on his border as it is yours. I was led to understand that you had need of men such as myself and that you rewarded them accordingly.”

    Aragorn winced silently as he said that. ‘Let them think me a mercenary if it will earn me my place,’ he thought.

   “So you are a fortune seeker,” said Denethor, speaking for the first time and with barely concealed distain in his voice.

   “I seek an honest crust in return for my skills,” replied Aragorn, evenly.

   Ecthelion eyed him shrewdly for a moment. He desperately needed good men and if this man was as capable as Thengel claimed, he would be glad to welcome him into his service.

   “You have a week’s trial,” he said.

   Then he spoke to the guard. “Take him away and get him some dry clothes before he freezes to death on the spot.” Turning again to Aragorn he added, not unkindly, “and I daresay a hot meal would not go amiss either, would it?”

   Aragorn bowed his head, “Thank you, my lord Steward, I confess it would not.”

   “Return here when you have eaten then, Thorongil,” said Ecthelion. “I would be pleased to hear news of all that passes in Rohan.”

   Aragorn inclined his head again and was led away by the guard, back through the hall and out into the Court. He was feeling just a little pleased with himself. So, he was now a soldier of Gondor and in the employ of the Steward. The guard took him down to a guard house on the Sixth Level and they entered a large room with several tables and benches, at which sat half a dozen men. They were chattering in a relaxed fashion, but stopped talking immediately as the guard and Aragorn came in. Aragorn felt searching eyes upon him, but the men soon lost interest and turned their attention back to their own matters.

   “This way,” said the guard, gesturing to Aragorn to follow him through the room. They went through a side door into a small room which contained several huge chests and little else.

   “Off with those wet things now,” said the guard. “I’m sure we will have something here to fit you.” He unlocked one of the chests and started rummaging through the contents.

   Aragorn peeled off his sodden layers of clothing one by one, wishing he could have a hot bath. He stood there shivering while the guard struggled to find gear to fit him. At last he produced several items of clothing all of an identical shade of brown. It was very plain and basic, the garb of the lowest ranked soldier in Gondor. Aragorn had been a captain in Thengel’s army. He was clearly going to start at the bottom in Ecthelion’s host.

   He gratefully accepted the dry clothes and once he was dressed, the guard led the way to the refectory where Aragorn was at last able to sate his hunger which had grown considerably in the last few hours.

   “Do you think you can find your way back to the Citadel on your own, lad?” asked the guard.

   “I believe so,” said Aragorn, with more confidence than he felt.

   “Good, for I must be returning to my post. Come back to the guard house when you are done with the Steward and we will find someone to show you around.”

   Aragorn thanked him and, when he had gone, he continued with his meal which really was very good indeed.

   His hunger satisfied, and feeling now more comfortable within himself, he returned to the Citadel and was again admitted to the Great Hall. This time it was empty. The guard led him on to another room where they found the Steward sitting behind an enormous desk in a rather austere study. Aragorn noticed the room had none of the homely, welcoming features of his father’s study at Rivendell. It was dominated by the harsh, grey stone that was everywhere in this city.   The Steward looked up from his work as he bade the two men to enter. He dismissed the guard and indicated to Aragorn to be seated.

   “I trust you are suitably refreshed, Thorongil,” he said. “You certainly look more the part now.”

   “Thank you,” said Aragorn with a smile, “I feel it.”

   “That is well,” said Ecthelion. “Now perhaps you will give me news of my old friend Thengel. It is a long time since the days when we rode together.”

   Aragorn dutifully obliged. There was much to tell. Orc numbers in the Misty Mountains were steadily increasing after being dramatically reduced following the Battle of the Five Armies and raids were not uncommon. The Dunlendings too held occasional forays across the Isen, so there was rarely a time when there was not an éored or two engaged in the pursuit of trouble somewhere within Rohan’s borders.

   Ecthelion allowed him to talk without undue interruptions and when Aragorn had finished, he looked at the young man with a new respect. Aragorn had not played up his part in any of his tales, but Ecthelion was a shrewd man and missed little. It was obvious to him that he could not waste his new recruit in the lower ranks.

   First, however, he wanted to watch his sword play. Thengel stated in his letter that there was none better in all of Rohan, but privately Ecthelion did not think this amounted to very much as he did not consider the Rohirrim to be masters of this particular skill.

   “Thengel says you a talented swordsman, Thorongil,” he said. “I should like to see this for myself if you do not mind.”

   “Of course,” said Aragorn. He was not surprised by the request.

   “Good, though I must warn you I have set up a formidable opponent for you,” said Ecthelion, a hint of a smile spreading across his face. “Do you feel up to a good workout?”

   Aragorn thought he might regret having eaten so well at lunch, but just replied: “Yes, my lord. I hope I shall live up to your expectation.”

   “As do I.” The Steward was not smiling now.

   Ecthelion rose and gestured for Aragorn to follow him. He led the way to a secluded courtyard, issuing instructions to a waiting servant as he did so. They were soon joined by two men carrying practice blades. They were followed by Denethor. Aragorn assumed he had come to witness the sparring, but, to his amazement, it soon became apparent that Denethor was to be his opponent. This was a complication he could well do without. He had been aware of the scrutinising he had received from the Steward’s son earlier, and of the aloofness of his manner towards him. Aragorn felt it might be diplomatic not to beat him and yet he knew if he did not perform well, he could be sweeping the barrack floors for weeks. But then a most unwelcome thought entered his head. For Denethor to put himself forward in this way, he must be an excellent swordsman and supremely confident of his success. A man in his position would not risk the humiliation of a defeat by a new recruit. Aragorn guessed Denethor had every intention of giving him a sound thrashing. This realisation made him suddenly very nervous and unsure of his own skill, an insecurity he had not felt since he was about seventeen.

   He was handed one of the blades; he quickly tried to assess the weight and feel of it for he noticed Denethor had already taken up his position on the other side of the court.

   “Gentlemen, when you are ready,” said the Steward as he backed out of harm’s way.

   Immediately Denethor lunged forward and struck, but Aragorn’s reflexes were battle-sharp and he instinctively blocked the blow. But out of nowhere, Denethor’s blade was instantly in front of him again. Once more Aragorn blocked his crushing attack; and then another; and another. Over and over, their blades engaged as Denethor maintained a ruthless offensive. Aragorn struggled to repel him as his opponent’s sword swung at him from every conceivable direction. But slowly Aragorn began to get the measure of him; he was strong, very strong, but Aragorn felt he was quicker. Time and time again he parried Denethor’s blows, the Steward’s son pressing him harder and harder. Aragorn could feel sweat trickling down his back in spite of the cold of the day. He had not fought a duel this hard and with such a skilled opponent in many a year. Before long he was giving ground and the wall was closing behind him.

   Denethor would soon have him beaten.

   But Aragorn was not ready to concede yet. Whatever thoughts had entered his mind earlier of a political surrender vanished as he forgot the identity of his opponent, forgot the watching Steward and forgot why he was doing this; he just focused all his strength and will on taking his foe. Three decisive, lightning-fast moves was all it took, and Denethor’s sword flew from his hand. In an instant, Aragorn kicked his legs from under him and there he had the heir of the Steward of Gondor on the ground, with his blade at his throat.

   “Do you yield?” he asked with his most commanding air, though his breathlessness betrayed the effort it have taken to claim his victory.

   “I yield,” said Denethor coldly, ignoring the proffered hand extended to help him rise. Aragorn suddenly realised what he had done. He had used this technique, taught to him by Elladan, so many times in the past that he had thought nothing of finishing his opponent with it now. Belatedly, he remembered just who that opponent was.

   “Well, well, Thorongil,” said Ecthelion, smiling as he walked towards the two men. “I congratulate you. There are not many in the city that can best my son and none, I think, who would dare to throw him like that.” He clapped Aragorn on the back, his light-hearted demeanour a sharp contrast to the dark mood of his son.

   “I am sorry, my Lord,” said Aragorn, looking anxiously from Ecthelion to Denethor. “I fear I have over stepped the mark in my eagerness to impress. I hope you will forgive me?

   Denethor opened his mouth to speak, but his words were cut off by his father.

   “Think nothing of it, son,” said Ecthelion, amiably. “You put on a good show.”

   “You did not learn to fight thus among the Rohirrim, did you?” asked Denethor, still dusting himself down, the bitterness of defeat only too apparent in his voice. “Tell me, where did you learn such moves?”

   Aragorn had anticipated he might be asked this question and had decided to answer as close to the truth as he could.

   “My older brothers, my lord,” he said quietly. “They taught me much.”

   Ecthelion laughed. “In that case, I shall very much look forward to discovering your other skills.”

   Aragorn bowed his head in acknowledgement.

   “Take the rest of the day to settle in,” said Ecthelion, “then report to me in the morning. I think I need a little time to decide how you may best serve me, Thorongil.”

   “Thank you, my lord,” said Aragorn, inclining his head again as he turned to leave. As he walked across the courtyard he did not need to turn around to know that the eyes of Denethor followed him as he went.

~oo0oo~

   He found his way back to the guard room and from there he was shown the barracks and allocated a bed. The warden told him a little of the daily routine and what would be expected of him. He also told him the basic passwords which would gain him admittance to most of the levels in the city. When he had finished, Aragorn was then free to spend the rest of the day as he pleased. First he made his way to the stables to check on his horse. Finding him well cared for, he set about exploring the city, as he knew he would have little spare time once he started properly in the service of the Steward.

   He aimlessly wandered the narrow streets. The lack of greenery made the city seem very stark in its white beauty, but it was clean and tidy and the people he met acknowledged him courteously. In fact he had never seen so many people in one place before; the market stalls were positively bustling with traders and buyers, everyone trying to make that good deal. It was all a little overwhelming.

   He found himself drawn back to the higher levels which were less crowded and from where he could fully appreciate the wondrous views they afforded. He stopped on a path in the Sixth Circle and, resting his arms on the surrounding wall, he gazed out across the plain which was so very far below him. There he could see little homesteads with barns and fields where sheep and cattle grazed. He could see husbandmen going about their daily chores; there was a farmer’s wife taking down her washing and children playing with a dog. Beyond was the Great River, slowly winding its way into the distance and beyond his sight. But as Aragorn watched, his eyes strayed to the East and there, far away and yet ominously close, was Mount Doom. He could see the red glow of the fire at its peak and the palls of black smoke which fouled the sky above it.

    He shuddered. The sight suddenly reminded him all too clearly of why he had come to Gondor. What mattered, what really mattered, was that some day, some how, the evil of Mordor was ended. It mattered not who or what he was. Whatever the future held for him was not his concern at this time. He had a job to do here and now. It was that simple. Then he suddenly knew he could play this part. He would guard his secret and dutifully serve the Steward in any way demanded of him.

   As he stood looking out across the Pelennor Fields, the sun dipped below the White Mountains and was gone. Aragorn yawned sleepily. He was ready for his bed; it had been a long day.

~oo0oo~

   He came to Ecthelion from Rohan, where he had served the King Thengel, but he was not one of the Rohirrim.

Appendix A                                                                                        The Return of the King