Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

To Cairistiona and Estelcontar: my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

And thanks to Cairistiona for the beta.

A/N  The idea of Denethor’s inquisitiveness about Thorongil’s lack of a lady-love only came to me after reading Raksha the Demon’s brilliant ‘The Eagles’s Gift’ which can be found at this site.

Chapter 9: The Rival

   Denethor was a proud man, tall, valiant, and more kingly than any man that had appeared in Gondor for many lives of men; and he was wise also and far-sighted, and learned in lore. Indeed he was as like to Thorongil as to one of nearest kin, and yet was ever placed second to the stranger in the hearts of men and the esteem of his father.

Appendix A                                                                                        The Return of the King

   Denethor strode the length of the Great Hall, casting a critical eye to his left as he went. When he reached the far end, he turned on his heel and retraced his steps, this time keeping his eyes firmly to his right. Three times he did this. Every now and then his eye would alight upon some item not quite as it should be and he would stop to straighten a fork or reposition a goblet.

   “These flowers will not do,” he barked suddenly, pointing to a particularly garish basket on the opposite side of the hall. A serving boy immediately ran to remove them.

   Satisfied at last that all was at it should be, Denethor surveyed the scene and smiled. He did not think the Merethrond had ever looked so magnificent. The tables were decorated with the finest silks and embroideries that could be found in all of Gondor. The flowers had been shipped in from the Ethir especially for tonight and the banquet awaiting his guests would be the finest consumed in this hall for many a long year. Indeed he could not remember there ever being a feast such as the one anticipated tonight. But then, never had there been an occasion to celebrate quite like there was now. Not even when he married his dear Finduilas had he been this consumed with joy.

  Today nobility from the whole of Gondor were gathering to celebrate the birth of his first son. Little Boromir was a month old, and immediately upon his birth, invitations had been sent to every corner of the realm for tonight’s banquet.

   And Denethor was going to enjoy it, for this was his day; the day when all the Lords of Gondor were coming to congratulate him. And he felt he would deserve their praise.

   ‘HaveI not secured the Steward’s line of succession for the next generation?’ he thought. If he was a little smug, he did not care. He had waited a long time for this.

   So often he had feared that Finduilas’s frailty would make bearing a child impossible, but now he could proudly show that this was not so. Boromir was as bonny a child as any and tonight he was going to make his first public appearance.

   There was only one blight on the day for Denethor. Captain Thorongil had returned to the city that very afternoon. He still could not quite believe the timing of this ill fortune.  Two months Thorongil had been away and yet he chose today, of all days, to return. Denethor could almost convince himself the captain had timed his arrival specifically for this purpose, though he knew Thorongil’s Company had, in truth, been due back at least a week ago. But with each day that passed and with still no sign of the captain, Denethor had begun to hope Thorongil would miss the banquet altogether. But earlier today, he heard the silver trumpets of the Citadel heralding the Company’s return, and that hope had been dashed. Apparently, the esteemed captain had completed yet another successful military campaign and now Denethor would have to endure the humiliation of publicly congratulating his rival at tonight’s feast.  

   Resignedly, he realised there was nothing to be done about it; he could hardly bar the man from attending. Instead, he reminded himself that he was the son of the Steward, and the captain nothing more than a hired blade of his father’s. He was quite determined not to allow the situation to spoil his evening.

   He cast one more critical look around the hall before leaving to return to his family and prepare for the night’s celebrations.

~oo0oo~

   Denethor took Finduilas’s arm and, smiling down at her and the babe nestled against her bosom, he led his wife and son into the Merethrond. Applause and cheers greeted their arrival and Denethor beamed with pride as he slowly walked the length of the hall to the top table. All bowed before him, and Denethor felt like a king as he swept his wife up to the high seat that raised them above so many great lords standing below them. He took his place beside his father, Ecthelion, and regally acknowledged the cheers from the assembled throng.

  At last the applause subsided and the Steward rose to his feet to deliver a speech of welcome to his guests.

   “Lords and ladies of the realm of Gondor,” he began in a booming voice that brought absolute silence to the hall. “It is with the greatest joy that I welcome you all to the Citadel to celebrate the safe arrival into the world of Boromir, my first grandson.”  Cheers erupted from the floor and several minutes passed before Ecthelion had a hope of making himself heard again. As the lords and ladies eventually quietened down, the Steward continued his speech in much the same vein but, all too quickly, the important matter of welcoming baby Boromir was completed and the Ecthelion turned his attention to other matters of State. Denethor soon realised he was only half listening to his father who could be very long-winded at times. To amuse himself, he surveyed the formal rows of gathered nobility, noting anything of interest in the demeanour of his guests that might tell a tale or two. It was not often that so many of Gondor’s lords were gathered together in one place and it intrigued him to observe the unspoken language of those present. If he learned nothing more than which of his guests appeared out of sorts with their wives, it might be worth the effort.

   The lord of Lossarnach, he noted, appeared particularly relaxed and pleased with himself; prosperous too if the increase in his girth since the last time he saw him was anything to judge by. The lord of the Anfalas, similarly, seemed to be expanding by the same proportion. But to Denethor’s disappointment, there was nothing particularly interesting to record about any of his guests. One or two of the younger sons seemed more intent on admiring the ladies than listening to their Steward, but that was only as things ever were.

    Denethor was about to abandon this one-sided parlour game, when his eye alighted upon Thorongil, arriving late, and discreetly taking a seat at the back of the hall. His eyes narrowed; he had still nurtured a hope that the captain might have missed the feast, but he should have known the people's favourite would not snub the Steward in that way. The man looked tired, exhausted even. Denethor had not had much opportunity today to hear all the details of Thorongil’s adventures, but he did not doubt that the captain’s victory had been hard won. He felt a tiny prick of guilt. Denethor himself should have taken that command, but with Finduilas’s confinement fast approaching, he had been only too relieved when his father had suggested he remain at home and permit another to handle the troublesome Easterlings. Unfortunately the replacement captain had been Thorongil who immediately volunteered for the posting, in spite of only having returned from the south three days earlier. It did not please Denethor in the least that he now had a double reason to extend his gratitude to him.

     As he watched Thorongil struggling to keep his eyes open, Denethor told himself not to be so belligerent. The man had after all worked miracles with Gondor’s defences and the morale of the troops had never been so high. To give him his due, nobody had shown more commitment to maintaining the security of Gondor’s borders than Thorongil. His dedication to his duty was becoming legendary.

   He was less than impressed though that Thorongil had not seen fit to shave for such a formal occasion and the state of his attire certainly left something to be desired. As he surreptitiously observed his rival, he noticed with amusement that the less than comely young daughter of the Lord of Lamedon, was quietly positioning herself opposite the captain and clearly could not take her eyes of him. What was even more amusing was that Thorongil seemed completely oblivious to the attention he was commanding. Denethor smiled to himself as he wondered if there might be some fun to be had with this later at the captain’s expense.

    At last Ecthelion finished his long monologue and, as he took his seat again, there was an almost audible sigh of relief from his guests before they broke into the customary round of applause. Finally, the minstrels began to play and first course of the banquet was served.

~oo0oo~

   Seven courses later, and the formalities over with, the guests slowly began to take to the floor, although all first made their way to the Steward and his son to offer their congratulations. Denethor found he was enjoying himself more than he had hoped, when he suddenly caught site of Thorongil making his way towards him. The man’s progress was slow for he was stopped at every turn by those eager to remark upon his latest victory. He was appalled when his own father embraced and kissed him.

   ‘By the Valar, am I the only man in this entire realm not bewitched by him?’ he thought as his hackles rose ridiculously at this public display of affection on the part of the Steward.

   But Denethor sighed in resignation and reined in his ire. He would not have it be said that the Steward’s heir was so petty as to be irked by the almost tangible love that he could not deny was felt throughout the city for the great captain.

   Thorongil eventually broke free of his admirers and stepped up to greet Denethor and his lady.

  “My lord, my lady,” he said, with a slight bow of his head. “May I extend my congratulations to you both on this most joyous of occasions.”

  “Thank you, captain,” said Denethor, forcing his face into what he hoped was a smile. “And I believe I must congratulate you upon another successful mission. We shall all be grateful for your efforts, I am sure.” There, he had said it.

  Thorongil merely inclined his head before turning back to Finduilas. He smiled warmly at her and then took her hand and kissed it.

   “You look truly beautiful tonight, if I might be permitted to say so,” he said. “Motherhood becomes you. May I greet your infant, my lady?”

   Finduilas smiled back at him. Denethor knew she was as much under Thorongil’s spell as anyone, although he appreciated that she did at least make an effort to remain cool towards the captain when in the presence of her husband. She held up her child and offered him to Thorongil. Denethor was about to protest, but stopped himself in time; it was not as if the captain would harm the infant after all.  

   Taking the child carefully in his arms, Thorongil went very quiet and thoughtful. Then, to Denethor’s amazement, he heard him say something barely audible in Elvish. It sounded like a chant of some sort, but he could not catch the words. His anger flared.

   ‘Is that a curse he is putting on my child?’

   But before Denethor could say anything in protest, Thorongil solemnly handed the child back to his mother and said to her: “May he be blessed with long life and great happiness.”

  “Thank you Thorongil,” said Finduilas as she settled her child safely in her arms again.

   Turning to Denethor, Thorongil said: “You are very fortunate, my lord.”

   The sentiment was sincere and Denethor was sure he detected a hint of sadness in the captain’s voice. He suddenly wondered if the man yearned for the joys of a family himself. Perhaps the devotion of the Steward, the army and an entire city was not enough for the great captain.

   “Thank you, I know very well how fortunate I am,” Denethor replied. “But tell me Thorongil, do you have no desire for a son of your own? You have been in this city, what is it now; over twelve years; I am surprised you have not taken a wife yourself. Come now, there must be a lady somewhere eagerly awaiting your return tonight. Who is she?”

   Denethor had never dared ask the question before, and he noticed with amusement the sudden set of the man’s jaw and the twitching of a muscle in his cheek. Could he possibly have hit a raw nerve, he wondered.  

   “No my lord, there is no one,” Thorongil said tightly.

    “Surely you are not going to tell me that none of our fair ladies has met with your approval? What about the delightful young daughter of the Lord of Lamedon? Did she not please you with her company tonight?”   Thorongil’s annoyance at this intrusion into his private life was now only too evident.

    “I have met many charming ladies in my time here.” Thorongil said; his voice indicating a measured calm and control, which was sharply at odds with the fire in his grey eyes. “I count the young lady of whom you speak, among them.”

    But to Denethor’s ears he now seemed hesitant, as if he was suddenly unsure how to reply.

    “But my heart is already given elsewhere,” he said at last.

     Denethor was surprised and not entirely sure he believed this.  He had certainly seen no evidence of any attachment with his own eyes, in spite of the matrons of the city thrusting their daughters in Thorongil’s direction at every opportunity. And he had sufficient people in his employ gathering details of this nature that he was sure he would have heard if Thorongil had been courting. But there had never even been any word of any indiscretions on the captain’s part. His behaviour, if anything, was always impeccable.

   “Is that so?” Denethor asked, keeping his tone light and conservational. “Might she be a lady with whom I am acquainted?”

    He was uncertain how far he could push the captain; he had never seen him so unsure of himself before, but he was too intrigued to let the matter drop now. He might not get such an opportunity again and he really was enjoying this far too much.

   “No, my lord, she is a lady of my acquaintance from the North.”

   If this was true, Denethor could not resist the thought that the sooner he went back to her the better.

  “Why then, captain, do you allow us to detain you in the South? Surely you have been away from the good lady long enough?”

   Again the captain hesitated as if searching for a plausible answer.

   “It is not that simple,” he finally mumbled, and Denethor noticed with satisfaction the mounting flush on his face.

   But then, to Denethor’s annoyance, the captain was spared further questioning by the arrival of Adrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth and father of Finduilas.

   “Captain Thorongil, I have been enjoying hearing of your latest adventures,” said Adrahil amiably, stepping up to join the gathering at the high table. “I so look forward to hearing the full account from your own lips. But first, tell me; what do you think of my grandson? Is he not the bonniest lad?”

   Thorongil smiled gratefully at his rescuer. “He is indeed, my lord. And Boromir is a noble name.”

   Adrahil admired his grandson a little longer before whisking Thorongil away. The campaign in the East was after all far more interesting.

   Denethor watched them disappear into the crowd. It frustrated him enormously that he could not get under the skin of Thorongil. Whenever he decided he had finally solved the riddle of him, the man would suddenly reveal something extraordinary about himself that made him defy categorising. There were too many mysteries surrounding him for Denethor’s peace of mind. His close friendship with Mithrandir he found particularly disturbing, especially as he had now persuaded his father to listen to Mithrandir’s council in preference to that of Saruman. No other, in the whole of the city, attracted the wizard’s attention the way Thorongil did.

   ‘Why does he take such an interest in him?’ he wondered.

   And yet Denethor knew he had no real grounds to be suspicious of Thorongil other than that his family background was rather vague. He had never been exactly forthcoming with any personal details. He had mentioned his older brothers, but he could not recall him ever speaking of any other kin. In fact he rarely talked of his life before he came to Gondor at all. There were certainly aspects of him that suggested high birth, such as his impeccable manners and his unrivalled knowledge of lore. Even the man’s fighting skills had a finesse to them that had not been learned in battle alone. Denethor had once been amazed when he discovered, quite by accident, that the captain could read Quenya. Few in Minas Tirith had such a skill.

   He had to admit to himself that Thorongil’s service to both his father and Gondor could not be faulted and the captain had never, to his knowledge, tried to reach above his station. But Denethor knew he felt threatened by the man, no matter how much he told himself it was ridiculous to be so.

   The nagging doubt remained and the higher Thorongil rose through the ranks, the more Denethor became suspicious of him. He was loathed to admit it, but it was not only his military success he envied. He knew the captain had found a special place in the hearts of the people of Gondor; they would never love him the way they did Thorongil. But the source of his most keenly felt jealousy, if he would but acknowledge it, was his own father’s regard for the man. He sought the captain’s council now in every matter of State, even those where once he would have only asked the advice of his son.

   But now there was this question of his woman. Denethor was intrigued that he had become so defensive and guarded at her mention. He had never before seen him so uncomfortable talking about himself as he had been tonight. Denethor considered the possible explanations with the same care as he would some military strategy.

   ‘Could it be the lady is wed to another? Maybe her father does not approve of him. Perhaps she does not approve of him!’

   He smiled at the thought.

   ‘Would that not be amusing? Here it seems he can have his pick of the ladies, but perhaps there is one elsewhere who spurns him.’

   He might never know the answer, though it would not be for a lack of trying on his part. All the same, he could not help feeling a little satisfied at having found some shortcoming in his rival’s life. It made him not quite the image of perfection he was so widely held to be and that was a very comforting thought indeed.

   Denethor turned his attention back to his beloved lady sitting beside him and the beautiful child in her arms. He felt the warm glow of happy contentment flow through him as he smiled at them both.

   ‘Yes, Thorongil, this is one joy you do not know.’

   He almost felt sorry for the good captain.

… indeed Thorongil had never himself vied with Denethor, nor held himself higher than the servant of his father.

Appendix A                                                                                    The Return of the King