Chapter 11.  A Son of Gondor (Part 1)

Dirhael wandered through the First Circle of Minas Tirith, without any particular destination in mind, when the paintings in a shop entrance caught his eye.  Curious to see what manner of artwork was favoured in the City, he stepped inside.  Perhaps he might also purchase some charcoal for his own work. 

Inside, the air carried the faint scent of oil paint and wood.  Canvases lined the walls—some small, others large enough to span an entire wall.  Most of the paintings had softer, more muted colours than what he often saw in the North.  Dirhael was more inclined to sketch buildings and towers than vast landscapes, and he preferred the simplicity of black charcoal on a plain parchment. 

Oil paints in every hue were neatly arranged in their pots, and stacks of canvases in varying sizes leaned against one another.  Beside them, he saw an ample supply of charcoal, from soft greys to deep blacks. 

Upon learning from the friendly shop owner that the upper floor housed a collection of charcoal drawings, Dirhael made his way up a narrow staircase.  There were a few customers in the lower level, but the upper room was quiet, save for a servant stacking provisions in a corner. 

At the rear of the upper room, a small balcony overlooked the Pelennor Fields and the Anduin.  He lingered there, feeling the cool breeze on his face as he surveyed the view.  Repairs were underway on the farms burned during the battle.  Some scorched patches still marred the green fields—a reminder of the battle that had claimed his father’s life. 

Then another scene drew his attention. 

Separated by a building from the painting shop stood a blacksmith’s workshop.  From the balcony, Dirhael had an unobstructed view of the smithy's backyard.  A large forge sat at its centre, surrounded by a grinding wheel, an anvil, and hammers of various shapes and sizes. 

It was just after the eleventh hour, yet the day’s labour seemed to have ended.  No smiths were in sight, only a teenage boy holding a broom.  Perhaps a young apprentice, tasked with clearing the yard. 

What drew Dirhael’s eye, however, was the tall figure standing in front of the boy.  The man was no smith; that much was evident from his attire and bearing.  Dirhael could see the boy’s face, but the man’s back was turned to him.  Though he could not hear their words, he could see an unfriendly exchange unfolding between the unlikely pair.  The boy’s face flushed with anger, and his hand gripped the broom tightly. 

Suddenly, the boy dropped his broom, balled his fist and struck the man’s chest, the highest he could reach.  Another blow followed.  Strangely, the man neither evaded nor blocked the blows.   

The boy raised his fist again, ready for another strike, but then he stopped as abruptly as he had started.  His arm fell limply to his side, and he stamped his foot in frustration. 

For a long moment the two figures on the yard stood unmoving.  Dirhael felt a twinge of discomfort at witnessing such a private moment, yet his curiosity prevailed. 

At length, the boy moved a few paces away.  Then he slumped onto the ground, hugging his knees.  After a pause, the man followed suit, sitting within arm’s reach from the boy. 

It was then that the man’s face became visible to Dirhael.  As he had suspected from the man’s height, he was none other than the Steward.   

What matter could have possibly brought the Steward to a blacksmith’s yard?  And why did he allow such insolence from a servant boy? 

After some time, the boy rose and resumed his work.  The Steward, too, stood and worked quietly alongside the boy: gathering iron bars, hammers, tools, and carrying them into the smithy.  No further words seemed to pass between them.   

When the last of the tools had been stored, they began to sweep the yard.  Dirhael shook his head, though by now, he was not truly surprised.  It seemed exactly the sort of things the Steward would do—performing menial tasks for one who had just struck him.   

When the boy placed his broom and the dustpan in a corner, Dirhael hastily descended the stairs, paid for the charcoals he had chosen, and stepped outside.  He had just reached the street when, as expected, the Steward emerged from the workshop and began to walk down the road. 

Seeing Dirhael startled the Steward.  Less composed than usual, yet still maintaining his characteristic politeness, he bowed his head in greeting.  “Purchasing something, Lord Dirhael?” 

Dirhael returned the bow.  “Aye, some materials for drawing.  And what brings the Lord Steward to the First Circle?” 

The Steward smiled faintly.  “The Steward does not just stay in the Citadel,” he said. 

Then, proving that the scene in the smithy had shaken even the poised Steward, he added: “Pardon my abruptness, Lord Dirhael, but I find myself not inclined to converse at present.  I must take my leave.” 

“No pardon is needed, Lord Steward,” he replied.   

It was not abruptness, he thought, certainly no worse than his own curt manner during the gathering at the hobbits’ place. 

The Steward walked pass Dirhael, a guard following silently behind him.  As Dirhael watched the Steward’s retreating form, he reflected on what he had just witnessed.  The Steward, like any other man, had his own challenges and strains.  This revelation began to dissolve the aversion Dirhael had harboured towards him. 

Glancing at the smithy, Dirhael wondered what had drawn the Steward there.  It was tidy and well-maintained, yet it was not exactly the sort of establishment where nobles would commission new swords or armour.  And even if the Steward had commissioned a piece, it was more likely that the honoured blacksmith would have come to him instead. 

Dirhael turned back towards the main road leading to the upper circles.  To his surprise, the Steward was nowhere to be seen.  He looked to his left and right, scanning the streets.  Where could the Steward have gone so quickly?  The man had been a ranger, he knew, but even a ranger could not vanish into thin air. 

... 

 

Perhaps it was the knowledge that the Steward had his own burdens, or perhaps his mother’s insistence on good manners had taken deeper root than he had thought; after their encounter in the First Circle, Dirhael felt an increasing urge to remedy his previous curtness. 

He briefly wondered what he hoped to achieve by seeking the Steward.  Easing his conscience?  Aye, perhaps.  Befriending the Steward?  He was not sure he wished it.  And it was presumptuous to think the Steward would be interested in his friendship.  

Nor did he know whether the Steward would welcome him.  But what was the worst that could happen?  A curt dismissal? That was no worse than what Dirhael had done. 

So one morning in May he went to the White Tower to request an audience.  A guard was about to go upstairs to inquire, when the Steward himself appeared, accompanied by an attendant.  They appeared to be on their way to leave the Tower. 

The Steward greeted him with his characteristic poise. 

“The King is in the guards’ quarter,” he said.  “A guard can take you there.” 

“I have come to seek the Lord Steward, not the King,” Dirhael replied. 

The Steward tilted his head slightly, his interest piqued.  “Then I must importune you to wait,” he said, “for I am expected at the First Circle.” 

“No matter,” Dirhael replied.  “I will return later in the afternoon.” 

The Steward turned to his attendant.  The Steward spoke no word, not even raising an eyebrow, but the young, intelligent-looking attendant—a scribe, Dirhael bet—readily answered him. 

“I informed the chief mason you would see him at the third hour, my lord.  Then, continuing the round to the families—the plan is to cover four or five before noon.  Nuncheon with the Prince of Dol Amroth.  In the afternoon, a visit to the Lady’s Healing House in the Third Circle, and a meeting with the captains.  You had said you wish to spend an hour in the Archive afterwards, but I fear it may have to be after supper.” 

Dirhael blinked.  He had not imagined the Steward’s days to be consumed by duties.  Or was the Steward subtly declining to meet him?

But the Steward chuckled and raised a hand to his attendant, halting the recitation of the following day’s schedule. 

“If you do not mind speaking while walking, Lord Dirhael,” he said, “shall we walk together?  It would give us ample time to speak.  And you might find something of interest in the lower circles.” 

Dirhael hesitated.  The walk to the First Circle was not a short one.  If the conversation faltered, how would he excuse himself?  And there were the attendant and the guards, must he apologize within their hearing? 

As if sensing the reason for his hesitation, the Steward added, “We can always part ways whenever you wish, if something along the road catches your interest.” 

And at a small nod from the Steward, the attendant stepped back, and with the two guards, followed them at a discreet distance. 

When they reached the Sixth Circle, they crossed paths with an elderly lord, one of the lords of Gondor who could barely conceal their disdain of the Dúnedain, kinsmen of the King or not.  His residence was in the Sixth Circle, not far from the guest house where Dirhael and his kin were lodged.  He often pretended not to see them when they met along the way. 

Now, as they met upon the road, the lord bowed to the Steward and greeted him stiffly.  He looked askance at Dirhael, and said nothing. 

Having been raised to be respectful to the elderly, Dirhael bowed instinctively.  The old lord lowered his head almost imperceptibly. 

“A bright morning, Lord Hador,” the Steward cheerfully returned the perfunctory greeting.  “I seldom see you about this early; I hope no urgent matter presses upon you.” 

Lord Hador grunted something about recurrent pains in his knees and incompetent healers. 

“Ah, you are bound for the Houses of Healing, then?  I shall not delay you.  But you have not greeted Lord Dirhael,” said the Steward.  “Or have you not yet been introduced?  Lord Dirhael is a valiant ranger, and the son of Lord Halbarad, the King’s right-hand in the North.” 

To Dirhael he said, “Lord Hador is a respected elder of Gondor.  His house is known for its pure lineage, thus they may claim the closest kinship to the men of the North.” 

The Steward’s voice carried a note of faint amusement—and did he actually wink? 

Reluctantly, Lord Hador inclined his head to Dirhael.  Dirhael returned the gesture. 

The rangers of the North had keener hearing than most men.  After they parted ways, Dirhael could hear Lord Hador muttering to his servant: “Impudent lad!” 

He chose to ignore the remark, believing no one else had heard it. 

But he was mistaken. 

For the Steward spoke: “In case you are wondering, Lord Dirhael, he meant me, not you.” 

The Steward spoke in a neutral tone, as if he were merely remarking on the weather.  But there was an amused spark in his eyes, and after a moment, they both laughed. 

“So even the Steward of Gondor does not meet his standard?” Dirhael remarked.  “That rather takes the sting out of his haughtiness towards us.” 

The Steward’s grave expression returned, and he said quietly: “I apologize for his haughtiness, Lord Dirhael.” 

Dirhael shook his head.  “You cannot be responsible for everyone in Gondor.  And he has reason to look down on us.  We hardly resemble the people of Elendil, despite the pure lineage we often boast of.” 

“If you mean rugged appearance and simple garments, is that a reason to look down on people?  Those very things gave me hope.” 

“How could shabbiness inspire hope?” 

The Steward smiled faintly.  “I had heard of the rangers of the North, how the descendants of the kings kept watch over the land, despite their reduced circumstances.” 

“You had heard of us?” 

“Gondor has many scouts,” the Steward replied.  “My father was very well-informed, and he imparted some of his knowledge to me.” 

“And did your scouts describe our hopeless patrols, humble dwellings, and meagre weapons?” 

“In great detail,” the Steward said.  “What I heard gave me hope that even if Minas Tirith should fall, and we were reduced to exile, it would not be the end of Gondor.  You endured, and kept doing your duty—if you could do it, so must we.” 

“When I finally met the rangers of the North,” the Steward continued, “I saw that my hope was not misplaced.  I saw the power and honour within you, which hundreds of years of hardships could not erase.” 

From another man, such words might have sounded like flattery or even condescension, but one who listened to the Steward could not doubt his sincerity. 

“That is high praise, coming from the Steward of Gondor,” Dirhael said, his voice trembled slightly. 

He decided to offer his apology before the Steward could disarm him with more graciousness. 

“Do not think I say this because you have spoken so well of us,” Dirhael said, “but I owe you an apology.  That afternoon at the hobbits’ place, you spoke sincerely of my father, yet I cut you short.” 

The Steward regarded him closely; in some ways, his steady gaze reminded Dirhael of his elder brother, who had always understood him well.  At length the Steward nodded. 

“I accept your apology,” he spoke softly. “And it is only natural to feel some resentment towards the City and the people that caused your father’s death, and claimed your chieftain as their lord.” 

As the Steward spoke, Dirhael saw the quiet resignation in his face—not one of defeat, but of acceptance.  This man understood that he owed his life and his City’s deliverance to the sacrifices of many.  Hence, he had chosen to bear the resentment and anger from those who begrudged the sacrifice. 

The scene in the smithy returned to Dirhael’s mind.  Now he had an inkling of what had happened there.  The boy was likely the son of a soldier who has fallen in battle, perhaps under the Steward’s direct command.  The Steward had reached out to the boy with kindness, yet the grieving child had been unable to respond with anything beyond anger. 

And now the Steward extended the same understanding to Dirhael, another son who had lost his father in the same war.  He had recognized Dirhael’s resentment, not only over his father’s death, but also over Aragorn’s residing in Gondor.  And rather than taking offense, he had accepted the resentment as natural, bearing it without judgement. 

“Nay, Lord Steward,” Dirhael countered.  “You have mistaken my childish fancy for a rightful grievance.  As for my father—no man of the West would rue shedding his blood defending this queen among cities.” 

Surprise and delight coloured the Steward’s grave face.  His smile reached his eyes; unlike the guarded, faint smile he often wore. 

“Ah, a kindred spirit,” he said.  “So Minas Tirith has moved your heart, Lord Dirhael?  I am looking forward to the day I might behold the rebuilt Annúminas, and love her.” 

It was very difficult to continue disliking this man, Dirhael thought with resignation. 

They continued to speak as they walked, offering glimpses of themselves, commenting on things they saw along the way.  They discovered some similarities: both were second sons, both enjoyed archery and were skilled at it, and neither of them would mind if they never had to go to battle again. 

In other matters they proved contrasts: Dirhael took no pleasure in reading, while the Steward’s idea of leisure was poring over ancient scrolls in the Archives.  And when, through their conversation, Dirhael chanced to mention he had been his father’s closest confidant, a strange, wistful look crossed the Steward’s face.  But it was quickly replaced by his customary faint smile.

...