When they reached the Fourth Circle, the Steward suddenly asked: “Have you tried our famous fried dough?” 

“Fried dough?” 

In the North, fried dough was a homely treat enjoyed by young and old alike, but hardly something to be spoken of as a culinary feat or tradition. 

“Follow me,” the Steward said. 

They veered off the main road onto a narrower street, winding their way through alleys and byways.  Before long, Dirhael was certain that he would not be able to find his way back to the main road on his own.  Now he understood how the Steward had disappeared so swiftly the other day.   

The Steward must have noticed his bewilderment.  “Pardon the confusion, but this is the quickest route.” 

They moved through the streets without fanfare, though the Steward paused occasionally to speak with the people they passed.  They greeted him gladly, showing no surprise at his presence. 

At last, they came to a humble shop nestled between two larger buildings.  Despite the small space and obscure location, it was full with customers.  Yet it was no wonder, for the rich aroma wafting from the shop promised delights. 

The woman behind the counter broke into a matronly smile as she saw the Steward. 

“My lord, how good to see you again!” 

The Steward returned her smile.  “Good day, Mistress Gilwen.  I am on my way to the First Circle.  What better way to sweeten the masons’ day than with your sweet dough? Ten with raisins, and ten with apples, please.” 

Mistress Gilwen relayed the order to a young girl standing behind the stove.  Then she turned to look at Dirhael with unconcealed interest.  “I see you bring another Northerner, my lord.  Well met, Lord Dúnadan, I trust you will enjoy our offerings.” 

Dirhael smiled and bowed his head in greeting.  Then he moved further into the bakery, to observe the making of the fried dough.  The girl behind the stove stole a glance at the Steward, flushed, and quickly averted her eyes while smiling to herself. 

Still smiling, she turned her attention to the large bowl of dough on the table, placing the filling onto a layer of dough, deftly shaping a plump ball with the help of two wooden spoons, and plunging the dough ball into a frying pan.   

The aroma of the frying dough filled the air, reminding Dirhael of home.  His mother had often made a similar treat, golden-brown fritters that smelled as good as they tasted.  But his mother had not shaped the dough into neat balls, as the girl did now. 

Dirhael’s attention was momentarily drawn away from the frying dough as a voice rang out, cheerfully calling the Steward. 

“Faramir, what a pleasant surprise!  I did not know you still frequent your old haunts; Erchirion said you toil harder than ants in summer!” 

He watched as a graceful lady hastened towards the Steward, then wrapped her arms around him in a warm embrace.  She wore a simple tunic and breeches, but the fine fabric and embroidery marked her as one of the nobles.  A middle-aged woman followed her, shaking her head in mild exasperation at the lady.  Dirhael recognized the lady as the daughter of the Prince of Dol Amroth; making her the Steward’s cousin. 

The Steward gazed at her fondly.  “This is part of the work,” he said with a wry smile.  “Did you just finish your morning ride?” 

The lady nodded, and proceeded to place her order.  She effortlessly weaved in questions about the health of Mistress Gilwen’s elderly mother, all while continuing her banter with the Steward. 

The Steward placed a hand on her back, guiding her inside. 

“I am here with Lord Dirhael,” he said. 

Dirhael bowed.  “Lady Lothíriel, it is a pleasure to meet you again.”  They had been introduced at the coronation feast. 

Lothíriel curtseyed and flashed a dazzling smile.  “Lord Dirhael, son of Halbarad,” she said, sounding quite pleased with herself for having remembered the name correctly.   

“Is Faramir giving you a tour of the City?  No one does it better than he, though he is too fond of his quick routes and narrow lanes, if you ask me.  Has he shown you the crooked house?  It is quite fascinating.” 

Dirhael blinked, then chuckled.  The lady reminded him of his younger sister. 

“The Lord Steward has kindly allowed me to accompany him to the First Circle,” Dirhael said.  “I am relieved to know I am not the only one bewildered by the quick routes.” 

The Steward chuckled.  “I will show you the crooked house another day.” 

Then he turned to Lothíriel and kissed her cheek.  “I have to go now.  I must uphold my renown against the ants, after all.” 

Lothíriel laughed brightly.  “I will see you at nuncheon.  Aunt Ivriniel will join us; you must thank me for this intelligence.” 

Chuckling again, the Steward turned and approached the counter, where his attendant was already preparing to collect their order. 

“I have added five more, my lord,” said Mistress Gilwen to the Steward.  “Let me do a little part in the repairs.” 

She handed a basket full of fried doughs to the Steward’s attendant. 

Soon they resumed their walk, each with a fried dough in hand.  Dirhael relished the familiar taste: nothing fancy, only homely comfort.  Yet he wondered how the Steward’s refined taste could find satisfaction in such a simple food.  

As they made their way back to the main road, the Steward pointed towards an alley.  “There is a shop selling painting materials there,” he said.  “The one you visited the other day has more items, but rather overpriced.” 

Nothing in the City seemed to escape the Steward’s notice. 

When they reached the Third Circle, they found the main road blocked by a train of carts.  Without being asked, the Steward’s attendant moved ahead to find out the cause of the commotion. 

He soon returned, walking briskly.  “The pulley problem still has not been resolved, my lord,” he reported, “so the goods have been transported by carts for the past two days.  Lord Húrin had issued a schedule to the guilds, but some merchants have failed to follow it.” 

The Steward turned to Dirhael.  “I am afraid we shall have to take the narrow streets again, otherwise I will be late.” 

As they walked, the Steward issued rapid instructions to his attendant. 

“Make sure the chief mason meets Lord Húrin tomorrow, with a plan for a better pulley system.  No ornamentation, only reliability.  Invite Lord Gimli to the meeting.  In the meantime, ask Lord Húrin what concessions—or withdrawal of concessions—he can use to persuade the guilds to discipline their merchants.” 

Some alleys they passed through were cramped with small houses, their walls grimy and peeling—a stark contrast to the gleaming main road.  As they passed an alley that reeked of rotting food and rodents, Dirhael thought that this was certainly no place for the Steward, or a Steward’s son.  But even in the unlikely places, a handful of people greeted the Steward, unconcerned by his presence.   

“How come you to know these paths, Lord Steward?” Dirhael could not restrain his curiosity. 

“I grew up here,” the Steward said, sounding rather puzzled by the question.  “Every city dweller comes to learn the shorter paths in time, unless they are of Lord Hador’s ilk.” 

Dirhael was not of Lord Hador’s ilk, but he was relieved when they returned to the main road, the blocking carts behind them.  Having spent his whole life in the vast plains of the North, the closely-spaced buildings and narrows alleys made him feel confined. 

They reached the First Circle without further interruption. 

The bell in the Citadel tolled, signalling the third hour, just as they arrived at their destination: a row of houses damaged during the siege, where repairs were now underway.  The stone masons and their workers were busy at work. 

The chief mason, a stout man with greying hair, came forward to meet the Steward. 

“My lord, allow me to show you around.  There had been some delay because of the issues with the lime supply last week, but we are catching up now.” 

They led the Steward through each house, briefing him on the progress of their work.  Most of the houses were badly damaged; requiring demolition of the ruins and rebuilding from the ground up. 

The masons had cleared the ruins and completed the new floor slabs for the row of houses.  They were now preparing to build the pillars.  At the position of the pillars, timber planks were arranged neatly, forming a mould for each pillar. 

Dirhael watched with interest as a worker laid layer upon layer of grey, thick mortar inside the mould, pounding each layer to ensure the mortar filled all the spaces.  Slightly away, another worker stood by a trench, stirring the lump of mortar inside to prevent it from hardening before it was laid. 

So this was how Gondor’s renowned cast stone was made.  Dirhael’s uncle, a stone mason, once told him the marvel of Gondor’s cast stone—the secret behind their monuments’ thousand-years endurance.  That unassuming grey, thick mortar was a precise mixture of gravel, sand, and binding paste.  To the craft brought from Númenor, the masons of Gondor had added their own knowledge and skill, honed over generations.  They had found, for instance, that adding lime and ash into the mortar made their cast stone last even longer. 

A few houses did not require a complete rebuilding.  Some of them were propped by metal poles, while the masons installed the necessary strengthening. 

Once the inspection was concluded, and with the Steward’s ears still at their disposal, the masons began to voice their grudge over being excluded from the Great Gate repairs. 

Sensing the wary glances the masons cast his way, Dirhael moved away from them.  Yet with his keen hearing, he could still hear their words from where he stood. 

“It is not my place to question my lord’s decision, Lord Faramir,” said a mason, “but how could the King give such an important task to outsiders?” 

“The Great Gate was a marvel, an ancient work, aye,” said another, “but I believe we could attempt the repair ourselves.” 

The Steward gave the last speaker a hearty clap on the back. 

“Do not think of them as outsiders, my good masters.  A dwarf lord fought valiantly to defend our city, greatly moved by the majesty of the Great Gate, and wept to see it broken.  He offered the craft of his people to repair it.  It is an offer of friendship, not usurpation.” 

“And who says you cannot work alongside the dwarves?” he continued, looking around at them.  “We will see how it can be arranged.  The King knows and appreciates your craftsmanship, do not doubt it.” 

“Well, if you say so, my lord, ...” 

“I hope you will speak to the King on this, Lord Faramir.  He does not know us, you see...” 

The Steward listened to them for a while longer, speaking a few words, then he stirred the conversation towards the pulley system used to transport goods between the circles. 

Seeing the Steward acknowledge the masons’ concerns reminded Dirhael of the many times Aragorn had done the same for the Northern rangers.  The masons did not know Aragorn, not yet, but they knew and trusted the Steward. 

The Steward had been king in all but name, Aragorn once said.  He could have claimed the crown, had he willed it. 

“Lord Dirhael?” 

The attendant’s voice broke his reflections.  Only then did he realize that the Steward had concluded his meeting with the masons and was waiting for him by the door.  The masons had resumed their work. 

Dirhael hastened to the door. 

“I am expected elsewhere,” the Steward said, “and regrettably, I cannot invite you to accompany me.  Saellond here can guide you to the painting shop I mentioned, if you wish.  Or if there is somewhere else you would like to go, he can show you the way.” 

Dirhael bowed.  “This walk had been enlightening, and I have quite enjoyed it.” 

The Steward returned the bow, and said the thought that Dirhael did not speak: “I have enjoyed your company.” 

After a brief hesitation, Dirhael asked, “May I know where you are heading?” 

“Some houses in this circle and the Pelennor.  I am making my rounds to the families of my men.” 

“The families of your men... you mean, those who had fallen?” 

The Steward nodded. 

The scene in the blacksmith’s yard, and the Steward’s gracious response to his resentment, returned to Dirhael’s mind.  Suddenly a wish surged within him—that this man should not bear yet another blow. 

Yet Dirhael realized how impertinent it was for him, a ranger from the ruined North, to offer an unsolicited advice to the Steward of Gondor.

Not a mere ranger, he corrected himself, but one who had been a beacon of hope to the Steward of Gondor. 

Hastily, he spoke, lest he mulled things over and changed his mind.   

“It is not your fault that they died, Lord Steward.  Their families’ anger and frustration are not yours to bear,” he said. 

The Steward became still.  He looked at Dirhael with a grateful yet cautious expression, as if unsure whether he had heard correctly. 

Then he clasped Dirhael’s arm, and thanked him. 

“I am grateful for your thoughtfulness, Lord Dirhael.  Your words bear kindness—more precious because they are unlooked for.” 

The Steward then turned his eyes towards the empty space where the Great Gate had stood, before the Enemy’s malice shattered it.  Again, Dirhael saw quiet acceptance in his expression. 

“Not my fault, you say.  Not my fault, but my responsibility, I say.  The men were under my command: they marched when I ordered, retreated when I commanded.  To whom else should the questions and the grief be directed?  Yet the families I have encountered have been generous.” 

Seeking to subtly broach the subject of the blacksmith’s servant boy, Dirhael said: “The painting shop I visited the other day has a balcony.”  

The Steward raised an eyebrow, then understanding dawned on him.  “Ah, I see now,” he responded.  “Let me assure you, that was a singular occurrence.  It is very kind of you to concern yourself about me.” 

They parted ways at the main road. 

Dirhael decided he had seen enough narrow streets for one day, and kept strictly to the main road, heading towards the upper circles. 

As he walked, Dirhael contemplated what he had seen that morning, or rather, whom he had seen.  Faramir, a son of Gondor, born and bred in the White City, moving through the City with ease, knowing its people and streets as well as the back of his hand.  He had seen the Steward, born and raised to serve and protect Gondor.  A prince in all but name, who continued serving and protecting his land, even when he was no longer its ruler—for it was the only way of life he knew.

How could Dirhael have ever thought that the Steward would vie with the Northern Dúnedain for Aragorn’s favour and love?  It was a marvel that he welcomed Aragorn at all. 

... 

 

Minas Tirith, end of May, 3019 T.A.

As Dirhael entered the Steward’s study, he was met with a familiar sight: Faramir reading at his desk.  Faramir looked up and smiled as he saw Dirhael. 

“I was about to go down to the Hall,” Faramir said.  “We can go together.” 

Some of the Northern Dúnedain were leaving Minas Tirith that morning, and the King and the Steward would meet them at the Tower Hall before sending them off. 

“There is still time,” Dirhael said.  He proffered a rolled parchment to Faramir. 

“I bring you something,” he continued.  “I would be honoured if you would accept it.” 

Faramir unrolled the parchment, and Dirhael had the pleasure of seeing his delight and surprise as he beheld Dirhael’s painstaking drawing of Minas Tirith. 

“You have a knack for surprising me,” Faramir said.  “What a thoughtful gift. One can see how you have poured your heart into this drawing.” 

“I had thought to bring it home to show my mother,” Dirhael shared, “but I changed my mind.” 

Faramir regarded him warmly.  “I thank you, Dirhael.” 

Then he turned, searching for something from the tall shelves behind him.  Books and scrolls lined the shelves—most of them stacked neatly, but a few were wedged into gaps, perhaps recently consulted and hastily returned.  Loose parchments filled the space—some rested in piles, some stood on end, leaning at odd angles. Among these, somehow there was still room for small tokens and relics: a carved wooden horse here, a seashell there, an old inkpot in yet another corner. 

Faramir took some scrolls from between a leather-bound book and the wooden horse. 

“Perhaps you can show these to your mother instead,” Faramir said, handing them to Dirhael. 

The first scroll turned out to be an oil painting of a great city by the shore of a blue-silver lake, with lush hills rising in the background.  It was formed by many buildings—houses, shops, halls, tall towers—and on the lake, ships sailed towards the city. 

The second contained a sketch of the harbour where the ships docked, and a bustling market adjoining it. 

The last scroll was a sketch of a grand palace, its front garden adorned with many fountains. 

“Unfortunately, there is not enough time to complete the two paintings,” Faramir said. 

Then he added, “Or perhaps it is fortunate—you can complete them yourself.” 

Dirhael smiled, his fingers gently tracing the fountains on the parchment. 

“Great loremaster though you are, I do not think sketches of Annúminas simply lie about your bookshelf,” Dirhael mused.   

“Let me guess how this came about: you commissioned a painter to produce paintings of Annúminas, based on lays that you have known by heart since childhood.” 

Faramir laughed. 

“You ascribe more learning to me than I possess,” he said.  “I found some descriptions of Annúminas and the King’s House in the old Annals, and the older versions of Akallabêth. 

“Some were written in the archaic form of the High Elven tongue, thus there are letters I did not understand, but Mithrandir helped me.  And you are right about the painter: I had an artist create the paintings based on the descriptions.” 

Poring over old scrolls to find glimpses of Annúminas must have been a task Faramir enjoyed, but Dirhael knew how little spare time Faramir had.  Most likely he had done it at night, at the end of his busy days.  It warmed Dirhael’s heart to imagine his friend—for that was how he now regarded Faramir—performing such a task for him. 

Dirhael shook his head.  “Is there anything that your Archives do not have a record of?”  Is there anything you would not do? 

Faramir chuckled. 

“The past need not dictate the future, of course,” he said. “Yet it may serve as a guide as you and your kin plan the rebuilding.” 

Dirhael nodded.  “It may take some time, but we will rebuild Arnor.  You will be among the first we invite to Annúminas, Faramir,” he said. 

“It would be an honour and a great pleasure,” Faramir replied. 

In the past few weeks, they had had chance to know each other more closely.  True to his words that the North and South must work to overcome their sundering, Faramir had subtly introduced the Grey Company, a small group at a time, to the important figures in Gondor.  Morning riding with the Prince of Dol Amroth and his family; touring the best taverns with the captains of the guards; a supper with the Lord Treasurer; a visit to the iron mines with the guild leaders.   

Dirhael liked to think that Faramir—virtue personified as he was—had also learned a thing or two from him.  There were times that Faramir regarded him with quiet wonder, though he neither did nor said anything remarkable.  After some time, Dirhael began to understand.  Faramir, it seemed, had never learned that one might seek—and even ask for—understanding from others; that one might voice discomfort, instead of always making oneself content.   

Dirhael, raised without heavy expectations and with a measure of freedom, who asked for help when needed, complained from time to time, accepted kindness and praise with ease, must have appeared to Faramir as instructive as Faramir had been to him.  

A knock at the door pulled Dirhael back to the present.  Without waiting for a response, the knocker entered.  It was Aragorn. 

“Faramir, do you have a moment?  Ah, you are here, Dirhael?” 

He glanced at them, and the scrolls in their hands.  “I seem to have interrupted something momentous.  I will return later.” 

Smiling, Dirhael placed a hand on Aragorn’s arm.  “Nay, stay, Uncle.  I was taking my leave from Faramir.  There is nothing I cannot say in your presence.” 

Aragorn beamed.  That a mutual respect had formed between the Northern Dúnedain and the lords of Gondor pleased him; that a friendship had blossomed was beyond his expectation. 

Dirhael noticed Aragorn’s pleased look. 

“In fact, there is something I should say to him in your presence,” he said. 

Turning to Faramir, he continued: “May I request that you leave some work for the King, Lord Steward?  If you continue as you do, he might grow accustomed to ease and praise, and expect the same in the North.” 

Aragorn grinned, but Dirhael knew Aragorn was wise enough to see beneath the playful remark. 

Aragorn regarded Faramir closely, as if reminding himself how easy it was to take his Steward for granted. 

Faramir was ready to reply with a witty retort to match Dirhael’s remark, but being wise, he did not miss Dirhael’s concerns or the weight of Aragorn’s gaze.  

He chose not to offer a witty reply.  Instead, he smiled and said, “A bright, new age awaits us.  We all have duties to fulfil; no one shall lie idle.” 

Aragorn kept his gaze on Faramir for another moment, then he nodded. 

“Let us go down to the Hall,” he said. 

He left the study, and Faramir and Dirhael followed. 

Dirhael left Minas Tirith that day, no longer a stranger in the White City, but a friend and kin of Gondor who would be glad to return from time to time. 

In their parting, holding the Steward’s rod, Faramir thanked the Dúnedain for coming to Minas Tirith’s defence.  He spoke as the Steward, yet the words were no less heartfelt for their formality. 

This time, Dirhael replied as he should have done when Faramir first thanked him. 

“It is only right that we did,” he answered, “for we are kin.” 

Faramir nodded.  “Aye, and even more so now that we serve the same lord.” 

...