Chapter 4. A Steward's Place
Aragorn had first heard of the matter of the Steward’s residence while still in Cormallen.
The efficient scribe whom the Steward had installed there—as a sort of polite mediator between the City and the King in that delicate period—had mentioned that the Steward was planning to move out of his residence in the White Tower, “which has been his home since he was but an infant, my lord,” the scribe had said.
Even Lord Erestor of Imladris would have been impressed by how the scribe conveyed his plea as factual reporting, while maintaining a disinterested expression.
During the feast at the Pelennor, the night before the King entering the City, Aragorn had asked Faramir about it. Faramir had confirmed that he would indeed vacate the Steward’s residence, once he had finished moving his belongings.
But you will still be the Steward, Aragorn had almost said at the time. Provided you do not refuse the office.
Yet he had not spoken, for he had seen how solemnly the young Steward took his decision to surrender the rod. Aragorn would not make light of it by carelessly saying, but you will still be the Steward, as though everything would remain unchanged.
For no matter what honour or friendship Aragorn might offer Faramir, this he would take from him: Faramir’s place as the ruler of Gondor—his birth right, a legacy of a long line of Stewards who had steadfastly guarded the realm, after the last king had unwisely left it bereft.
Thus, before they had parted, Aragorn had simply said, “Do not move yet, let us speak of this tomorrow.”
The following day, Aragorn entered Minas Tirith in a grand procession. Faramir declared him king before all gathered by the Great Gate of the White City. In turn, Aragorn declared Faramir and his line the King’s Steward.
When Faramir surrendered the Steward’s rod to him, Aragorn knew that he was content to live without it, and would have continued serving him.
Yet when Aragorn handed him the rod back, Faramir accepted it readily—no reluctance, no surprise, no complacency.
That day, the question of the Steward’s residence did not arise again. Aragorn considered the matter settled. Where else, after all, should the Steward of Gondor reside but in the White Tower?
Other matters occupied his mind, too. Discerning the intentions beneath the smiling faces of the lords and ladies of Gondor, checking that Frodo was well, and reassuring his kinsmen that he was still theirs.
He could sense the Dúnedain’s concern beneath their joy for him. Halbarad’s son voiced it, but others shared the same question: would their Chieftain ever return to them, now that he was King of Gondor, Lord of this great city?
It was from the hobbits that Aragorn first learned Faramir was still proceeding with his plan to move house.
“He’s finally packed all his books—those were the last to go,” Pippin reported. “It took him many days to pack them, since he often couldn’t resist re-reading one before putting it in the box.”
“Bilbo would love him,” Merry commented, while munching on an apple. “Where’s he moving, again?”
“A house in the Sixth Circle,” Pippin replied.
“Why, I wonder? His current house seems fine,” said Frodo, “though I know you think it’s not a proper house, Sam, as it doesn’t open to a garden.”
“He mentioned something about the Lord of the City,” Pippin said.
Four pairs of concerned eyes turned towards Aragorn.
Aragorn frowned. “This is news to me. I thought he had abandoned his plan to move house, now that he remains the Steward.”
The four pairs of eyes continued to look at him.
“I will see what I can do,” Aragorn said.
...
He had heard it said that when two men—particularly two lords—met for the first time, they would instinctively measure and try to best one another, be it in strength, might of arms, or wit and wisdom.
Aragorn had felt this when, as the sellsword Thorongil, he first met Denethor, then the heir to the Steward. Denethor had gradually developed suspicion and dislike of Aragorn, and Aragorn had to admit the dislike was mutual.
He had also felt it when he met Boromir at the Council of Elrond. The valiant prince of Gondor had spoken passionately of his city, his pride in his land and his people.
In response, Aragorn—who had long been content to be regarded as a simple ranger—had found himself compelled to cast the Sword of Elendil on the table, and even to argue with Boromir, on whose defiance against Sauron had been more thankless.
In that moment, he had demanded that Boromir see him not as a simple wanderer, but as one worthy to stand beside him—if not above him—in the defence of Gondor.
But with this present Steward, the other son of Denethor, it had been a different encounter. Their meetings had unfolded like an ancient rite, where each man knew when to step forward boldly and to step aside gracefully.
From their first meeting, Faramir had hailed him as king, and placed himself at Aragorn’s service, disregarding his own glory or power.
In return, whenever Aragorn witnessed the love and reverence the people of Gondor had for Faramir, instead of envy or rivalry, a quiet joy filled him. He did not covet that affection for himself; rather, he earnestly wished for it to remain with Faramir. If the land and its people flourish under his kingship, that was reward enough.
Aragorn had reached the Steward’s residence, and memories surged within him.
How long ago it seemed, when he had come here to dine with Steward Ecthelion and his family.
Yet he remembered it vividly—the rich food and the even richer wine; the Steward, wise and noble; the Steward’s lady, graceful and shrewd; and the Steward’s heir, wise, grave, and more often than not, glaring at him, even when they were in agreement on a matter!
A servant led him into the parlour, her surprise at the King arriving unannounced barely concealed.
Looking around the chamber, Aragorn noted that it was brighter than it had been in Thorongil’s days. Was it the paint colour, or the lack of furniture?
The chamber was empty, save for a settee upon which Aragorn now sat. There were no tables, no adornments, not even a cushion on the settee. They must have been packed up and shifted to the Steward’s other house.
A young man appeared in the doorway, and for a moment Aragorn thought he saw young Denethor, reluctantly welcoming his father’s favoured Captain. Aragorn smiled to himself and pulled his thoughts back to the present.
“Faramir,” Aragorn said warmly. “Have you had your supper? May I join you?”
“Certainly, my lord,” Faramir answered. After a moment’s pause, he smiled and corrected himself: “Certainly, Aragorn.”
“Supper will be a simple affair, though,” he added. “I hope you do not mind. The silverware and most of the kitchen equipment have been shifted to my new place.”
“Do you forget you are speaking to a fellow ranger? Simple meal suits me well.” Yet, despite his smile, Aragorn felt sadness over the emptiness of the Steward’s residence.
“Do you know, I have such good memories of this house?” he said, his gaze drifting around the parlour.
Faramir raised an eyebrow, then nodded. “The revered Captain Thorongil must have been invited to dine with the Steward many times.”
Aragorn nodded. “Your grandsire was a kind lord. The first time he invited me, I was not a captain. It was near Mettarë, when most people had gone to their hometowns to be with their families. The Steward invited me and two other guards whom he knew had no family in the City.”
Faramir seemed intrigued. “I do not know much about him, but my father often spoke of him as a stern father.”
“Lord Ecthelion could be stern at times, and he expected much from his heir,” Aragorn said.
Before Faramir could respond, a servant entered to announce that supper was ready.
As they entered the dining chamber, Aragorn smiled. “Ah,” he said, “this room has not changed at all.”
Faramir looked with bemusement as Aragorn’s gaze surveyed the chamber: the chandelier, the imposing marble table, the ornate glass on the wall.
“People who see you now might think you have come to your grandsire’s house, Aragorn,” Faramir remarked.
Aragorn’s smile deepened. “It does feel that way.”
The food was soon served, and the familiar aroma delighted Aragorn.
“Ah, the special partridge pie, for which the Citadel kitchen was renown,” Aragorn said. “Your father’s favourite.”
Faramir looked at him with an expression of near amazement.
Aragorn returned his gaze. “During my time in Gondor, I never felt I was in disguise. I truly became Thorongil, a young man from the North with nothing but my budding skills and a faint echo of my lineage. And I lived in joy.”
“What reasons for this joy?” Faramir asked, curious.
Aragorn paused to consider. “My days as Thorongil were the first time I lived among people who knew nothing of me,” he said. “First in Rohan, then here. All could see I had Númenórean blood, but nobody knew my father’s name.
“Thus I experienced many things for the first time: to have some people respect me, others dislike me; my superiors praising me when I did well, scolding me when I strayed. I made some friends, too.”
“Did you not feel the urge to declare yourself, my lord?” asked Faramir. “When you saw the throne, the likeness of your fathers in the Hall?”
Aragorn shook his head. “I felt pride when I saw the throne and the line of kings. But it was no different from what you or any son of Gondor might have felt—pride in our noble fathers. As to declaring myself, that never crossed my mind. Perhaps the time was not ripe, thus I did not feel the urge.”
“And did you feel the urge recently, thus you came?”
“I came because I was summoned,” Aragorn said.
At Faramir’s askance look, Aragorn continued, “Seek for the sword that was broken. When your brother spoke that riddle, I knew my time had come.”
Understanding dawned in Faramir’s eyes.
As they enjoyed the food and wine, they shared stories of Aragorn’s time as Thorongil. Briefly, they also spoke of the Northern Dúnedain’s concerns over Aragorn spending most of his time in Gondor.
Then, as the evening came to a close, Aragorn proceeded to do what he came for.
“When I came to this house as Thorongil,” he said, “I was glad and honoured that my lord invited me to share his table. Never once did I think that all the Steward held was mine to reclaim, save perhaps the weight of his duty. I always thought it fitting that the Steward should dwell in the White Tower.
“Now that you know this, Faramir, will you still need to leave this house?”
Faramir was silent for a while. Presently he said, “Steward Mardil took up residence here, after he became the ruling Steward. It was for practical reasons, but there was also a deeper meaning. The Lord of the City, in the heart of the Citadel.”
Aragorn turned the thought over in his mind, treading carefully. He remembered Faramir’s ire when he had thought Aragorn appointed him the Prince of Ithilien out of pity or guilt.
“I felt some sadness when I see this house bare,” Aragorn said. “I, who only had memories of being invited to supper here many years ago. What pain it may cause you, I will not even ask. Pain must be borne when duty requires it. But I ask you, Faramir, what good can be achieved by vacating this house, leaving it to stand empty?”
Faramir lowered his gaze and said nothing.
Aragorn sighed. “Let me offer you three reasons to stay, my good Steward.”
“The name of your office means ‘the King’s servant’ in our tongue. But in the Common Speech, the word is ‘steward’ and it has a different meaning. To be a steward means to protect and care for something which does not belong to you. Some lords of the southern fiefs have stewards to run their estate. You are not the Lord of the City anymore, but you remain its Steward. Stay in the Tower, guard it for me, if you will.”
“The second reason,” Aragorn continued, “is tradition.”
Faramir gave a faint smile. It was rather obvious that Aragorn appealed to things that Faramir valued highly, but Aragon was bent on achieving his aim.
“Tradition holds that the King reside in the King’s House, while the Steward reside in his own house, wherever that may be. Mardil House was not your forefathers’ first residence, as I am sure you know.”
Still smiling, Faramir nodded.
“I do not wish to begin my reign by breaking from tradition. Even if you choose to leave the White Tower, I will not take residence here. The King remains in the King’s House, the Steward in his residence, which for the last nine hundred years happened to be here.”
Again, Faramir nodded, but did not say anything.
“Lastly, now that the King has returned, no one will question who the Lord of the City is, no matter where you or I reside.
“I do not wish you to leave; I do not think it necessary. But the choice is yours. When you are in the City, you have my blessing to stay wherever you wish.”
Faramir regarded him steadily, then he said, “It is a blessed thing to have a lord, my lord.”
It was Aragorn’s turn to be amazed. But then he inclined his head in agreement. For was that not the very thing that had made him content during his service under Steward Ecthelion?
Faramir spoke again. “I am honoured to have you share my table tonight, my lord. I will think on what you have said.”
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