1. A Mission Abroad.  

Minas Tirith, Spring 2979.

“The Steward sent for me.”

“No word reached me.”

“Ask.”

“I cannot see why I would.”

It was no use arguing. Those wearing the black and silver of the Tower were not allowed to leave their post without the lord’s permission. The guard would not budge and it was clear that he was drawing a special pleasure from hindering his passage.

Stomping on the cold flagstones for warmth and wrapping his cloak tighter around his tall frame, the annoyed officer seeking entrance in the Citadel tried a different course. “I was having a great time at the common mess when that fat sergeant bellowed me into this unforgiving cold wind. Do you think I would be here were it not on orders?”

“Your doings are not my concern…”

“Then I might give you something to worry over…”

“What is this racket about?”

The guard bowed briefly to the newcomer. “Lord Galdor…” he said stiffly. “He tried to break into the Tower, claiming that the Steward had sent for him.”

“So he did. Follow me, Captain Thorongil. That foolish sergeant surely forgot to warn the guards…”

With a mocking bow to the vexed guard, the man known as Thorongil followed the Warden of the Keys into the dark passages of the Citadel.

“My lord is overtaxing himself these days,” the Warden commented lightly over his shoulder. “Even for one of his vigour and Westernesse blood I fear he is overestimating his strength. He should let go…” The light of the torch he carried on his raised arm played strange shadows on his unusually tense, worried face.

Lord Galdor was leading him to Ecthelion’s private office, Aragorn noticed with mild surprise as they crossed empty corridors and climbed flights of stairs away from the Great Hall. Stranger than the fact that the haughty Warden of the Keys was actually leading him anywhere - rather than deferring to a squire or a simple errand-runner-  were his weak attempts at small conversation with someone he would usually ignore openly. Something must be very wrong indeed, he told himself warily as they entered the Steward’s family quarters. With a sweeping glance he took stock of the squire standing before a door he guessed led to Denethor’s chambers and the two guards posted at the other end of the large hall, before what had to be the Steward’s office.

“The Steward will see Captain Thorongil now,” Lord Galdor said. Aragorn flinched. It was the second time the Warden addressed him using a rank beloved by his troops and carefully avoided by most of the high ranking officers and nobility.

“This way,” one of the guards said curtly. He rapped firmly, then opened the heavy door and stood aside. With a last glance at Lord Galdor’s unusually strained face, Aragorn stepped into the torch lit office.

“Thorongil! I did not drag you from your bed, I expect? Raise, man, there is no need for that now,” the old man sitting by the fireplace waved him impatiently from his bow and towards another chair. “White, from Belfalas,” he added, pointing at the glass decanter set on a side table.

“You know me well, my lord,” Aragorn smiled, pouring himself a glass and refilling the Steward’s. “What can I do for you?”

“Ah, the enthusiasm of youth,” the Steward chuckled, savouring the wine. “Let’s enjoy our company for a while, my friend…”

Aragorn studied the Steward as he too sipped his wine. Ecthelion looked tired. Worse, he looked drawn, as one whose life was being sucked out of him. His face was deeply lined and his beard was snowy white. But he still carried himself with the air of authority and nobility that befitted the Steward of Gondor, even if the shoulders sagged a bit and the hands shook around the cup. But then, the man was close to his nineties, Aragorn reminded himself, and his life had not been an easy one.

“I insist that it tastes of apples, and Adrahil names me an ignorant,” the old Steward interrupted his musings at long last, swirling the amber wine in the shapely glass. “What do you think?”

“I could not say…”

“Since they do not grow apples down there I tell Adrahil that he must be using apple-flavoured barrels to season his wine and then poke at him and ask him where he gets them…The Bay of Belfalas is such a dangerous place for cargo and we have lost so many ships lately…”

At this, Aragorn tensed. The Steward let escape a deep breath and shifted on his chair.

“One day long ago I saw a couple of orchard hands hacking wildly at my apple trees. I called the Tower Guard and almost had them flogged, you know how I love my cider…” The words were innocent enough, but the Steward cast him a shrewd, meaningful look that told otherwise.

Aragorn only nodded and watched the play of flames in the hearth.

“Since they claimed that they were only following instructions, I requested the presence of the orchard master and asked him why he had ordered my apple trees to be cut down,” the Steward continued in a thoughtful tone. “And what did he say? “You must trim down the weak, and the rotten, and at times also the good branches, almost to the point of breaking the tree yet not enough, so it will grow even stronger and yield better fruit next year, your lordship. I call that pruning,” he told me. And he wasn’t in the least afraid or sad…because it was necessary. Can you believe that?”

“It is a well-known fact, my lord,” Aragorn smiled, allowing himself a brief memory of Elrond’s apple orchard in Imladris and the joys he had found there in his childhood.

“Oh, is it? I did not know back then. But it really struck me how similar to apple trees men are, Thorongil, don’t you think? Also apple tree wood burns with an exquisite fragrance…”

Aragorn nodded guardedly, then shivered as a sudden wave of cold ran down his back. Ecthelion studied the glass at the firelight.

“Pruning” the Steward mused. “So that the new yield is stronger and more plentiful. It is an interesting concept, I find. But I have not dragged you from your rest to discuss orchard lore, my friend. I have finally decided to heed your wise advice and tackle the matter of Umbar…”

“My lord?”

“The council was not the greatest impediment, though. Of course you will be in command, and the best of Gondor will be at your disposal: ship and men. I expect you will find no cause to complain…”

“I am yours to command...”

“I know, my friend, and rest assured that I really appreciate your loyalty for all it’s worth. Picking out bad fruit from the good is a tiring, depressing task. And there was also the delicate matter of finding the right people with the needed knowledge of the lands and the peoples, and the timing and routes of the corsair fleet…A most annoying task, but Morlum outdid himself, pursuing every hint and thread of information or suspicion to its source...I believe that the group we have put together for you will prove useful in the attack…see,” the Steward said in a sarcastic, bitter voice, handing him a rolled parchment. “Most of them have strong ties down there…of the kind that matters. What do you think?”

Aragorn scanned a list and gasped. He handed back the parchment with a worried look on his face. “My… my lord, but these names…are you… are you…sure?”

“About the first six, absolutely. Confessed traitors. The following… seem just likely. The last one… there is just a slim chance…” he grimaced, leaning forth to lit the parchment on the fireplace and watching as it twirled into ashes. “But at times you must trim down the good branches together with the bad…and smoke the hole so the rats disband…I am old, Thorongil,” the Steward said in a sad, tired voice. “I was a child during the Fell Winter, but I have seen the Shadow grow and gain strength before my very eyes. I was there when Mount Doom burst in flames and Sauron declared himself, and when we had to abandon even our last outposts in Ithilien… I do not deceive myself. The shadow grows stronger each day all around us while our power declines. Soon there will be no free men left to whom we can call for help, and only Rohan stands by our side… What kind of Steward would I be if I did not make sure that I pruned the right branches properly so the city grows stronger as well?” he left the question lingering between them, pain ringing clearly beneath ruthless determination in Aragorn’s ears.

“Fear and despair weaken us,” the Steward continued after a deep sigh, “and lead us to unwise decisions. The Enemy is not only in the East: it looms from the South, as you well signalled long ago, and lies also within us…it might be that it hides even within our walls…” He cast a quick glance around and Aragorn understood that he feared their conversation might be overhead. “It is my duty to shake the tree, and smash the rotten fruit pitilessly and clip weak branches short so they grow stronger next year, and make a fire that is seen from a distance, no matter the price, or whether I take some healthy ones along. Will you help me, Thorongil? Will you be my shears?”

“I…” Aragorn hesitated briefly, weighing each word carefully. “I will lead your troops to Umbar and destroy the Corsair fleet if you so command, my lord,” he said slowly.

The Steward grinned shrewdly. “How cautious,” he chuckled. “These are your orders,” he added, handing him a folded, sealed bundle of parchment. “You are expected to depart at dawn. The boats will lead you to Pelargir, where you will take command of the fleet and then follow my instructions. Those six…lords and noblemen of the realm,” he forced himself to say, referring to the first names in the list, “will go with you. They have all graciously “volunteered” to sacrifice their lives for the good of Gondor. Make sure that their promise is not in vain…”

Aragorn bristled at that. “My lord, I am not..”

“You are not a murderer, I know. And I would not ask that of you, Thorongil. I expected that you knew me better than that,” the Steward snapped dryly. “I am sending Morlum with you instead, with clear orders as well. You just have to make sure they do not shy from the heat of battle. There is no nobler death than that, and that is more than what they deserve,” he finished angrily.

“How am I to deal with them? Am I to keep them under watch?”

“No one knows of their crime, although some might suspect. But I cannot afford a long trial that would weaken us now and show how disunited we are. To all effects they are noblemen volunteering to serve the White City in a dangerous mission. Leave the matter to Morlum. I just wanted to inform you. The job is not easy, and it is made even more difficult by this circumstance, but I can see no other choice. Meanwhile, I will sit here and watch the remaining mice as they flee the smoke…Times are darkening indeed when Gondor has to prune her most gallant houses…” he finished in a sad murmur.

Silence stretched for longer than was comfortable as the Steward watched the fire, lost in glum thoughts. When Aragorn thought that he had fallen asleep and made as if to raise, though, Ecthelion jerked his head and fixed him in a sharp, alert gaze.

“I did not dismiss you yet…Did you think I had fallen asleep, a dotard who can no longer keep his attention focused?” But there was an amused gleam on his blue-grey eyes.

“It would be no wonder, my lord. I am almost asleep on my feet,” Aragorn chuckled, raising respectfully as the Steward did. With great effort Ecthelion hauled himself from his chair and dragged his feet to his desk, waving Aragorn’s strong arm away.

“You will go with the blessings of the Valar, Thorongil, for this is not an easy mission, nor one that will earn you the love of certain noble houses.” He shuffled parchments on his desk while he spoke until he found what he was looking for, then looked up with a knowing smile. “At least you will have my everlasting gratitude on behalf of the King whose kingdom I am sworn to preserve. Honours and rewards I will bestow upon you on your return, but for now let it suffice with this…”

This time Aragorn received two hastily scratched parchments. He scanned them quickly and then looked up to his chosen lord in awe and gratitude.

“You have served me faithfully for more than ten years, if my memory serves me well, Thorongil,” the Steward whispered in a tired voice. “Yet I have the feeling that you will one day slip away unnoticed, much as you came to us. So you are either free from my service as it suits you, or else a highest ranking officer of Gondor, answerable only to me, while you choose to remain…it is all in there,” said he, pointing at the two parchments.

“It’s an honour serving you, Ecthelion son of Turgon,” Aragorn replied in a grave voice, folding the parchments with great care and putting them away with the rest of his orders. “The White City is safe in your care. I will go and wipe away the Corsairs in your name, so no enemy threatens you from the south. And may we drink to our success on my return!”

“I will be looking forward to the white sails. Now go to your rest. Preparations have been undertaken, so all you need to care about is your own pack. May the Valar keep your path safe, Thorongil, wherever it leads you.”

“May they keep you too, my lord.” And with that, and a heartfelt quick embrace, Aragorn took leave from Ecthelion.

Lost in deep pondering he crossed the wide anteroom and walked past the door to Denethor’s quarters distractedly, barely noting that the squire was not in his post.

“Thorongil.”

“Lord Denethor…” Startled by the sudden way in which the door opened at his passage, he bowed courteously, studying the other carefully. Denethor cast nervous glances around and looked strangely hesitant, another unsettling piece of news in that night full of surprises.

“A word with you, Thorongil,” the heir finally said, standing aside and waving for Aragorn to follow him into his chambers. “You are leaving at dawn,” he stated without preamble even as he closed the large wooden door, fixing Aragorn in his hawk-like gaze.

Aragorn only nodded.

“To Pelargir?”

“I am not allowed to discuss my orders, lord,” Aragorn whispered. Warily, he wondered whether Denethor knew of that list…or suspected that his name might be on it and was trying to dig out the truth. He steeled himself and looked the other in the eye, waiting.

“Of course…” Denethor raked a hand over his unusually dishevelled hair and let escape a deep sigh, his eyes straying to the rolled parchment that Aragorn still held in his hand. With plain effort he tore his gaze away and waved around with strained warmth. “A seat? Some wine?”

Aragorn looked around. They were in a wide entrance-hall, most probably used to deal with servants, squires and errand-runners, since the only seats visible were long wooden benches lining one of the walls. A heavily draped curtain hid the arch that surely led to the family quarters. He shook his head. “Thank you for your hospitality, but I must be on my way soon…if you would have nothing else of me.”

As if forcing himself to keep his calm, Denethor grimaced and took a deep breathe, then held Aragorn’s arm and pushed him against the wall. “Darkness clouds all minds, Thorongil, and danger and despair are the enemies of even the stoutest man...to the point that he will doubt and distrust even those closest to him, mistaking friend and foe,” the heir whispered sombrely in his ear. Aragorn only nodded and waited. “Let not your legendary eagle-keen sight be confounded by other feelings,” Denethor added in an overtly menacing whisper. “The Steward is old and wise, but he may be misguided –innocently or otherwise…”

“I take my orders from the Steward, Lord Denethor…”

“That you do. But make sure others do not overreach, while claiming that they also obey our lord…”

Aragorn met the deep eyes that blazed under the torches and shivered at the knowledge that sparkled in them and illuminated the thinly carved features of that shrewd face. “Speak plainly,” he demanded harshly.

“Says who?” the heir chuckled mirthlessly. “But let me give you some useful piece of advice, mysterious Thorongil.  Húrin is a loyal officer, and should anything happen to him you will feel…”

“Denethor? Oh, is it you, Thorongil? See, Boromir, the Captain is here…”

“Lady Finduilas…Master Boromir!” With a swift move Aragorn freed his arm from Denethor’s bruising grip and bowed courteously to the beautiful lady and the sleepy-looking baby in her arms. The boy greeted him with a drowsy smile.

“Shouldn’t he be in bed?” Denethor asked, and his voice sounded so impossibly affectionate all of a sudden that Aragorn cast him a quick, surprised glance. “You will fall asleep tomorrow while the Steward presents you to the court, my big boy,” the heir added in a loving whisper, extending his arms to his son, a tender smile softening his usually set, stern countenance. With an excited gurgle the child wriggled and struggled in her mother’s hold, eager to jump into his father’s welcoming embrace.

“Wait, my Boromir,” Finduilas protested, smiling indulgently as she did. “He is as impatient as his father,” she informed Thorongil with a bright smile that lightened up her sweet face, half-hidden by her son’s twisting body. “Just a moment, child...careful!” A glass flask she was holding slipped from her closed fist as she delivered the child into his father’s care, and it hit the flagstones with a clear clank. “Oh, no!”

“Allow me, my lady…” Swift as lightning, Aragorn crouched and fingered the fragments of a swan-like glass bottle, while its contents spread on the floor. The sweet scent of southern flowers hit him full as he knelt there. It was jasmine and cinnamon and sweet desert roses, a mix no longer available in Gondor, not since commerce with Harad was banned a few years ago.

“How unfortunate!” the lady complained, kneeling by his side. “My uncle had it sent to me last year, after Boromir’s birth… it used to be my mother’s favourite fragrance and Boromir loved to play with the bottle…”

Aragorn felt the weight of Denethor’s gaze boring into him even without looking up. Composing a neutral expression, he helped Finduilas pick up the pieces and then raised her to her feet, still carefully avoiding Denethor.

“See what happened, Boromir? You must learn patience, my son! Now it is broken,” the lady chided. Seeing the broken flask, the toddler pouted and threw himself at his mother’s arms again. “Easy, easy! You are not a bird, my son, you will fall one of these days…Will you send for a maid, Denethor?” she asked, laughing at the child’s antics as he burrowed back into her embrace. “I fear the scent will cling to the hall for ever!” Aragorn finally met Denethor’s eyes and was shocked to find alarm and then fear in them.

“Presently, my love. But who did you say that sent you that fragrance?” Denethor asked with forced calm.

“Uncle Iôrhil sent it with the coral brooch and that beautiful small dagger for Boromir…I had not yet used that perfume because for some reason I now find the scent too strong, but Boromir loved the flask…” she mourned, then shrugged. “Will you be with us tomorrow, Thorongil?”

“I fear not, my lady. I wish you all the best, Master Boromir, on your naming day,” he answered stiffly, still shocked by what had just happened.

“My father is sending him south,” Denethor suddenly chimed in, and a swift, knowing glance that Aragorn could not understand passed between husband and wife. “Perhaps he will be able to replace that perfume…”

“Oh, I doubt it!” She shook her head, but a wide, hopeful smile had now settled on her sweet face. “I am told that it is most difficult to obtain. But if you go to Dol Amroth on the Steward’s businesses perhaps you could send greeting to my father… We will miss you, Thorongil, may the Valar protect you. Say good night, Boromir! Tarry not, husband!” she chirped, taking Boromir’s small chubby hand in her white, slender one and waving goodbye to Thorongil.

“I am retiring with you, my lady,” Denethor replied warmly, encircling her waist as she stretched to kiss his cheek and dragging her to him. “Tread carefully, Thorongil,” he warned in a voice that managed to convey admonition and threat at the same time. “You are dismissed. Come, lady, let us put this little warrior to sleep…”

Instead of insulted, as he always felt whenever Denethor pulled rank and station on him rudely with the only aim of reminding him of his lower place in the order of the world, Aragorn stood there bowed as one stricken by a sudden grief, while the echoes of the woman’s clear laughter and the man’s soft endearments faded all around him. The wave of longing and tiredness that suddenly washed over him was so abrupt and unexpected that left him breathless.

Bitter will my days be and I will walk in the wild alone. Unbidden, his own words spoken in youthful determination came to him. And his mother’s dry retort followed, hurting in a way it had not back then.

Alone in that torch-lit hall he would have given away heritage, duty and fate –exchanged them for a brief scrap of the joy and peace Denethor obviously had in his family. Suddenly all the toils and long leagues of his wandering life, fuelled by a vain hope that might as well be unattainable, seemed futile to him. With a great effort of will he wiped away sad thoughts and looked for strength in the memory of the Evenstar and her beautiful, serene face. Wearily, he made for the door and walked away, barely noticing that the squire had not yet returned and that Ecthelion’s guards acknowledged him with respectful nods.

He was not so deep in glum thoughts as to miss the sound of rushed footsteps straining to be unheard, though. With easy casualness he hurried round a corner and then pressed against the wall in the pool of darkness between two torches, waiting. Then faster than a viper bites, he grabbed the stalker as it stepped cautiously into the corridor and placed a dagger on his thick neck.

“What can I do for you?”

“Leave me be!” the squeak came undoubtedly from Lord Galdor’s terrified plump form, as Aragorn already knew. Pretending surprise, he let go of the outraged Warden.

“Lord Galdor! What are you doing wandering the corridors this late?” He almost chuckled as the man scurried along the wall until he reached the comforting safety of the torch light.

“I was waiting to escort you outside!” Galdor claimed in a shrill voice that failed to sound stern and dignified. His face looked drawn and frightened in the trembling light. “Who do you think you are, unsheathing your weapons inside the citadel? I could have you put in chains…”

“The Steward would not like it, I have to be on my way tomorrow at dawn –as you no doubt know...But I appreciate the gesture, Lord Warden, and I apologize for so frightening you. Now, by your leave, I can find my way…” with a mocking bow he sheathed his dagger and turned his back on the man. His mood was black enough without being forced to share the burden that he now knew weighed the Warden down.

“Thorongil…” the voice was a strangled whisper, but he did not stop. “Thorongil!” the Warden insisted more loudly, almost running behind him. “My son…”

“I will give him fond regards from his father,” he called over his shoulder, fleeing the anguish and fear that seeped from Galdor’s strained voice.

“You don’t understand!” with a last effort, the older man caught up with him and clung to his arm. “Denethor said… I… Listen to me!” he pleaded.

“I follow orders, Lord Galdor, there is nothing I can do,” he said softly, disentangling himself from the other’s convulse hold and pushing him away almost gently. He did not want to hear anymore.

“But he knew not!” the Warden almost sobbed after him. “Húrin is a good lad! His mother’s kin… he did not know, Thorongil, nor did I, the Valar help me! What have I done!”

Aragorn took another turn through echoing passages and almost ran from the desperate Warden. What a night! he thought as he hurried past the sullen guard out into the cold night wind. The full moon pooled on the wide yard and lined the ghastly skeleton of the White Tree. Pruning, indeed! he told himself, patting the rolled parchment containing his orders. He crossed the arch at a more composed pace and walked down steep stone stairs to the barracks of his company, still shaken by the night’s revelations and the discovery of the dense, tight net that had been woven under his almost oblivious eyes.

“What else can happen tonight?” he wondered tiredly, holding the lamp up to better study the door to his chamber once he reached the officers’ quarters. The splinter he always thrust between the door and the frame was not in place, meaning that someone had sneaked in while he was away…and might still be hiding in. Carefully, he put the lamp forward to blind a possible assailant and unsheathed his dagger, then pushed the door open.

TBC.

 A/N

Adrahil was Imrahil and Finduilas’ father, and the current Prince of Dol Amroth at the time this story takes place.  

Bitter will my days be and I will walk in the wild alone. From the Tale of Aragorn and Arwen, in the Appendixes. That will indeed be your fate was Gilraen’s answer.

Húrin the Tall was the Warden of the Keys at the time of the War of the Ring, so I am assuming that Húrin's father would have been the warden in Ecthelion’s time.

The story is not yet finished, but I will try to work on it during the summer vacation.