Chapter 10. The City of Kings

“Push back the settee and the table,” Aragorn said.  “Let us sit and converse in ease.  As Mallor often reminded us, we are not the stuffy lords of Gondor.”  

He cast a knowing glance, and laughter rippled through the large chamber. 

With the settee and table duly moved aside, they sat on the floor, forming a circle before the hearth in the king’s study in the White Tower. 

Days had passed since Aragorn’s crowning.  The Riders of Rohan and the people from various parts of Gondor were preparing to return to their homelands.  The Grey Company, too, were eager to return to their families. 

“But before that, we must speak,” Aragorn had said, and so they gathered that evening. 

“The first task at hand, I believe, is to clear Eriador of the remnants of Orcs,” said Mallor.  “It may take some time, but we will see it through.” 

Aragorn nodded his agreement.  “It may take less time than you reckon, for we will have reinforcements,” he said.  “The men of Dale will join us in the fight; their king has written to me.  And Gondor will send men to succour us.” 

“Ah, it is certainly different to have the King of Gondor as our chieftain!” Mallor remarked. 

Aragorn shook his head.  “I did not request this, let alone command it.  The Council of Gondor offered it.   

“The Council of Gondor...” another ranger spoke with some hesitation.  “Did they offer aid out of pity, as a rich man might give to their poor neighbour?  The weregild they gave us was already extravagant.” 

“They cannot help but look down on us,” a third ranger added.  “Some of them can hardly mask their surprise at our shabby garments under their politeness.” 

Aragorn raised a hand to still the growing murmurs.  “There are obnoxious men in Minas Tirith, as there are in every land.  But the weregild, and the offer of the Council, were given out of respect and kinship. ‘Our kinsmen from the North came in Gondor’s hour of need.  How can we do less than come to them in theirs?’ were the Steward’s words.” 

A pause followed as the men of the North, long accustomed to standing alone against the pressing foe, took a moment to comprehend friendship, alliance, and sundered kinship. 

Their discussion shifted then to the matters of trade and roads. 

Finally, Dirhael voiced what was on everyone’s mind. 

“When will you return to Arnor, my lord?” 

Aragorn met his gaze, then looked upon the expectant faces of his kinsmen. 

“In a year,” he answered.  Aragorn never minced words with them. He was always direct even when the truth was hard to bear, and his people respected him for it.  But this announcement struck them as ill tidings. 

“A year!” came the surprised murmurs. 

“That long?” 

Murmurs grew, followed by an uncomfortable silence. 

For many years, the people in the North had endured their Chieftain’s many absences. Before Aragorn had embarked on the quest to destroy the One Ring, he had been away hunting for Gollum.  And before that, there had been various errands in far lands.   

They had thought that with the Enemy vanquished, no other quests would pull Aragorn away from them.  But they had not reckoned with the fact that their chieftain, their king, was now the King of Gondor and Arnor. 

A lesser man leading a lesser people might have offered soothing words—that Arnor was not of less priority than Gondor, that he would never forget his land of birth.  But this was Aragorn, heir of Elendil, speaking to the proud remnants of Númenor. 

“Minas Tirith may seem glorious, but behind the strong walls, much needs tending,” he began.  “There were too few people in the City even before the last battle, and much of the farmlands were destroyed during the siege.   

“And Gondor is not only this city—each region has its own burdens to bear.  Lossarnach has more widows and orphans than Arnor.  Lebennin’s livestock has been much depleted during the long years of war.  I do not claim that Gondor’s needs are greater; both Arnor and Gondor have pressing needs. 

“I place Gondor first this time,” he said plainly.  “I seek your acceptance, and understanding, if you can give it.” 

The Grey Company—proud, loyal men—regarded their chieftain.  He met their gaze without hesitation, and they saw his pain.  They knew and respected Aragorn too highly to consider, even in jest, that he preferred Gondor for the magnificence and comfort of Minas Tirith. 

Mallor broke the silence.  All his levity gone, he spoke with the wisdom of an old man.   

“I accept your decision, my lord.  And I daresay I understand.  Gondor has just opened its gates to you. If you leave so soon, will the people remember their king?  Whereas in the North, we are all your men through and through.” 

“As I am yours,” Aragorn replied.  “And know that I do not take your love for granted.” 

Dirhael sighed.  They would have to be content with that for now. 

“When I said I will return in a year, I did not mean I would not come to Arnor at all before then,” Aragorn continued.  “In a few weeks, I will go to Rohan for Théoden King’s funeral.  I plan to travel to Arnor and spend some weeks there before returning to Gondor. And I will send men and resources.” 

Some among them were reassured; others remained uneasy.  Dirhael remained silent throughout the rest of the discussion.  His fingers curled and uncurled where they rested on the polished granite floor. 

When at last the council ended, the men dispersed, some leaving the chamber, others lingering to speak in hushed voices.  Dirhael rose swiftly and made for the door, but Aragorn called him. 

“Dirhael.  Walk with me.” 

... 

 

The White City was quiet in the late evening.  The neat row of lamps along the streets burned brightly, illuminating the houses and trees on the Sixth Circle.  Dirhael walked beside Aragorn, his body weary despite having done no heavy tasks for days. 

“You were silent tonight,” Aragorn observed.  “After you asked the single most important question.” 

“I had nothing more to say,” Dirhael replied. 

“I do not believe that.” 

Dirhael exhaled sharply.  “What would you have me say? That I am glad to hear you will return to Arnor in a year, if at all?  That I am content to wait patiently while you build your life here?” 

Aragorn glanced at him.  “Bitterness does not become you, nephew.” 

A hollow laugh escaped Dirhael. “Do you think I do not see how easily you wear the crown, how perfectly you fit here?  Gondor is mighty, wealthy, and full of great men eager to serve you. It has your army, your fleet, your White City.  And what do we have?  Scattered villages, old ruins, and a people who barely remember what a kingdom means.” 

“A king must seek to serve his people, not the other way around,” Aragorn countered. 

“Father loved you greatly,” Dirhael continued.  Now that he had begun unburdening his mind, he saw little point in restraining himself.  “Sometimes I think he loved you more than he did Mother or us, his children.  He came here only to die—and to be forgotten.” 

Aragorn stopped walking.  There was disappointment in his gaze as he turned to face Dirhael. 

“Forgotten?  As long as I live, Dirhael, I will not forget Halbarad.” 

“O, I know you will remember him, as one remembers fondly memories of one’s childhood.  But what will it matter in the days to come?  Others will take his place in your heart, your duties will occupy your mind, and in no time you will look back at your chieftain days as a tale that happened to others and not yourself.” 

“I am still your chieftain, son of Halbarad,” Aragorn said firmly.  Then he paused, and Dirhael lowered his eyes at the gentle chiding. 

“What do you wish, then?” Aragorn continued.  “That I become the King of Arnor, never to return to Gondor?  I thought you understood that our long fight is to preserve the remnants of Númenor.  The Faithful of Númenor established two realms, not only Arnor.” 

“I am not sure what I wish,” Dirhael admitted ruefully.  “Sometimes I wish we can return to the recent past, before you left to hunt for that sad creature.  Only us, the last of the Edain.  Impoverished, unsure of the future, yet proud and glad nonetheless.” 

Aragorn’s expression softened.  He placed his arm on Dirhael’s shoulders and they resumed their walk.   

Picturesque indeed the City seemed to Dirhael in the soft light of the night, and his bitterness felt misplaced amidst such loveliness. 

“I have spoken like a fool,” he said.  “Nobody wishes to return to the days when the Enemy’s shadow loomed and his victory nigh.  But Father is gone, you no longer belong to us—or only to us, I should say.  I wonder what the future holds.” 

“What the future holds depends on our deeds,” said Aragorn.  “For me, I see Annúminas rebuilt, Arnor once again a prosperous land, trades and kinship renewed between North and South.  Do you not see that, son?  You are gifted with rich vision.” 

Dirhael glanced at him.  “Perhaps I am simply daunted by change.  Strange, I know, for one of my years.” 

Aragorn smiled.  “You are not the only one who feel bewildered.  I, too, am sometimes uncertain of my path.” 

Dirhael had never considered the possibility of Aragorn feeling uncertain.  “What do you do when you feel adrift, Uncle?” 

Aragorn shrugged.  “I do the very task before me.  Take the first step, and accept that I am not all-knowing.” 

As they continued their walk, the streets gave way to broader avenues, and the scent of blooming flowers mingled with the night air.  They had entered the part of the Sixth Circle where the noblest of Gondor made their homes.  Soon, a row of grand houses came into view, each surrounded by a well-designed garden.  One of them was particularly beautiful, and Dirhael had a mind to return in the morning and make a sketch of it. 

He sighed and turned his eyes back to Aragorn.  “You are wise, Uncle.” 

Then, deciding to unburden himself even further, he added: “I bet that is what he also does, if he ever feels lost at all.  You and he must understand each other very well.” 

Aragorn threw him a puzzled look.  “He?” 

“Your Steward,” Dirhael muttered. 

“Faramir?  Why do you suddenly bring him up?” 

“You seem well pleased with him and spend so much time with him,”  Dirhael said, a note of accusation creeping into his voice.  “You even made him a prince.  Well, by all accounts he is a man worthy of your favour.” 

Then he flushed, realizing how childish his words had sounded. 

Aragorn raised an eyebrow, his expression betraying his amusement.  “Do not tell me you begrudge the time I spend with my second-in-command.  You have never been overly fond of your old uncle’s company before.” 

“My father was your second-in-command,” Dirhael said quietly. 

The amused look on Aragorn’s face faded, replaced by understanding.  He gestured to a bench in the front garden of the beautiful house, and they sat down. 

“Halbarad was my second-in-command in Arnor, and would have continued to be, had he lived.  Faramir is the Steward of Gondor.” 

Aragorn’s voice grew gentler.  “You yourself must have more than one person you love—each one dear to you in their own fashion.  No one will replace your father, Dirhael.” 

For a moment, Dirhael said nothing.  He let his gaze wander over the tall, proud towers which dotted Minas Tirith. 

“Do you wish to stay here with me?” 

Dirhael was taken aback.  “What would I do here?” 

“We shall need some of our people to remain here as ambassadors of Arnor.  You can write home regularly to our people, informing them the developments in Gondor, and of me, as well.  You may also join any trade guilds should your interest lies there.  You have a gift for drawing.  Now that we are no longer at war, you may pursue it.” 

Dirhael pondered this.  But it did not take long for him to know where his path lay.  He shook his head with resolve.  “I will go home and do my part to rebuild our land.” 

Aragorn patted his back and nodded his approval. 

... 

 

Perhaps it was hearing from Aragorn that Gondor had its own challenges, or perhaps Dirhael had simply had more time to observe; but when he returned to the guest house that night, it no longer seemed as flawless as it once had.  

There were subtle signs of the strain of war: minor cracks in the wood panels, spider webs in the ceiling, worn-out curtains—things which would have been attended to without delay, had not the war absorbed most of Gondor’s resources. 

The following day, as he strolled through the Sixth and the Fifth Circles, he noticed more signs of the war’s toll: chipped paint on otherwise grand buildings, neglected gardens, houses that seemed empty. 

Had not Uncle Aragorn said that the City had too few people? 

The glory of Gondor had made him feel uncertain of his place, but knowing that Gondor had its own problems brought him no joy.  Nay, he would not have this great city diminish as Arnor had.  He would see Minas Tirith remain the tall and proud city she was. 

When he returned to the guest house, he went to his room, took a roll of parchment from beneath the bed, and unrolled it.  It contained an outline of Minas Tirith, the beginning of a drawing. 

On this journey south, Dirhael had encountered many surprises—the Riders of Rohan, valiant and loyal; the men of Gondor, noble and dour, not unlike their Northern counterparts. 

But nothing had compared to his first sight of Minas Tirith.  The City of Kings, his father called her.  Dirhael's first glimpse had been through the haze of battle, when the Shadow of Mordor still hung heavy over the land. Even then, he could not help but marvel at the elegant shape of the seven-walled city. 

The morning after the siege, the Shadow had lifted, and he beheld Minas Tirith in her glory.  He was a son of the North, and would always be.  Yet the sight of the city had moved him deeply.  He stood still for a long moment, drinking in the scene, appreciating the perfect proportion of height and width, the sheen of the white stones under the sunlight, and the majestic mountain that seemed created simply as a backdrop for the City. 

Despite his grief, he had found himself smiling that morning after the battle.  He did not begrudge his father’s death defending a city that belonged to strangers, how could he?  The Southerners might be strangers, he thought then, but the City was not.  She was clearly the city of Elendil, and no man of Númenor would think it vain to lay down his life defending her. 

On the day they set camp in the Pelennor Field, Dirhael started his drawing of Minas Tirith.  He might never visit this city again, and this would serve as a weregild to remember his father and his chieftain. 

After the coronation, he had pushed the drawing aside.  He could not bring himself to work on it, for his wonder had been tainted by the bitterness of losing his chieftain to the city. 

But now, he believed he was ready to continue.  He would unabashedly revere the Citadel of Gondor, yet remain a loyal son of Arnor.  As the Noldoran once said, one may love two ladies, each differently, and without diminishing one love by another.

...