In a Distant Land

A guard led them to a barrack in the Fifth Circle, where they first made their way to the armoury at the rear. 

The guard opened the door and ushered them in.  Dirhael swallowed as his eyes roamed over the arsenal.  Rows upon rows of swords, bows, arrows, spears, shields, hauberks, helmets—more than his people had seen in living memory.  And this was not even the main armoury of Minas Tirith, he learned later. 

The sight of Gondor’s vast resources filled him with awe, but also with a deep sorrow, for all his homeland had long since lost. 

After selecting their bows and arrows, they followed the guard through the barracks and into the open practice yard.  The morning wind swept through the yard, pleasantly cooling.  The sun had just begun her voyage, casting long shadows over the men who stood there waiting. 

The practice yard was already bustling with a small group of soldiers: about fifty guards of Minas Tirith, clad in their sable and silver livery.  The men moved with precision, their swords and shields moved in a disciplined rhythm of strikes and parries.  

To Dirhael’s delight, some Riders of Rohan had also arrived, and a group of Ithilien Rangers had gathered at the archery area. 

The Riders of Rohan—or the Mark, as they called their land—were another wonder Dirhael encountered on his journey to the South.  At first, they had seemed almost mere boys to him: young in appearance, and most were shorter than he.  But boys did not fight as the Rohirrim had at the Pelennor, not even boys who counted Tar-Minyatur among their forefathers.  Dirhael had come to like and respect the people of the Mark: valiant, plainspoken, prone to mirth. 

“Well met, Grey Company!” called Éothain, a rider from the King of Rohan’s own eotheod. 

“And I thought we were early risers,” Mallor said, clapping Éothain on the back. 

“I seldom sleep well in my first night in a new place,” another Rohirrim remarked.  “Might as well rise and do some useful deeds.” 

They exchanged greetings with others and soon joined the drills. 

At one point, Dirhael sparred with Mablung, an exercise which both of them found instructive.  Mablung’s moves were precise, each one measured and sure, while Dirhael was quicker on his feet. 

Dirhael wielded his sword well, but archery was where he excelled.  When his turn came, he stepped forward, his feet light on the ground as he moved to an empty space.  

He placed his arrow carefully upon the string.  He drew the bowstring back, his muscles taut with focus, his eyes bright.   

The moment just before releasing the arrow had always been a source of joy to him.  In that brief instant, everything else dimmed, and all that remained was the arrow, the bowstring, and himself.  In battle, there was of course neither time nor spirit to savour such moments.  That was why he cherished archery practice. 

He drew a breath, almost sorry to end the stillness, and released the arrow.  It flew straight, striking the target dead centre. 

Murmurs of approval rippled through the gathered soldiers.   

“Well done!” some called out. “A fine shot!” 

Dirhael was already preparing another arrow, his eyes narrowing as he took aim once more.  Again he savoured the quiet before releasing the shot.  The arrow once again found its mark.  More soldiers paused their practice to watch Dirhael, forming a small circle around him.   

For the third time, his arrow flew true, striking the centre with a solid thud.  The soldiers around him broke into claps and shouts of praise.  Many patted his back, just as his kinsmen often did, and for a moment Dirhael forgot he was in a distant land. 

Then, he heard a voice from behind, familiar and commanding: 

“You well preserve the honour of the North, Dirhael.” 

Dirhael turned, and to his surprise, he saw Aragorn walking towards them.  The guards parted in awe, making way for the King.  But Aragorn soon put everyone at ease.  He clasped their arms, praising some, listening to others, with the same sincerity that had earned him the loyalty of his men. 

Aragorn did not come alone; the Steward of Gondor was with him.  If the men of Gondor regarded Aragorn with admiration, they welcomed the Steward as soldiers would a beloved captain, their faces alight with respect and affection.  This, Dirhael learned later, was simply the truth: the Steward was a captain of Gondor, and had assumed the duty of Captain General after the passing of his elder brother, the famed Boromir the Bold. 

The Steward was very tall, almost the same height as Aragorn.  He seemed young, around Dirhael’s age, though his grave face spoke of many burdens.  With his raven hair, grey eyes, and stern features, he could easily pass for a Northern Dúnadan.  His slightly darker skin set him apart, as did his graceful bearing and his fine garments, which he wore with ease of one accustomed to the best in everything.  Dirhael also perceived that this man was a stout captain, whom very few would outmatch in battle. 

More than once, Dirhael noticed Aragorn and the Steward speaking in quiet tones, exchanging glances, followed by knowing smiles.  Apparently they had become friends, despite having met only a few times. 

Dirhael felt his chest tighten. His father, Halbarad, had always been the one standing at Aragorn’s side.  Not long ago, it would have been Halbarad laughing—or, more often, arguing—with the King.  But his father was gone, never to return.  And this was Gondor, not the North.  Even if his father had been here, what counsel could he have offered his chieftain on the laws and customs of this foreign land? 

He watched as the Ithilien company flocked to the Steward.  It was a warm exchange: they seemed to tease him about something, which he parried masterfully, judging by the loud guffaws that followed.  While others addressed the Steward by his title, the men of Ithilien called him ‘Captain’. 

A thought struck Dirhael.  During their stay in Cormallen, the Ithilien Rangers had spoken reverently of their Captain, who had led them safely home from perilous ventures; who had guarded their backs as they retreated from Osgiliath, pursued by the Winged Terror; and who would not slay even an Orc needlessly, and never gladly.  So the Steward was that Captain?  He seemed indeed one whom Aragorn would trust and favour. 

... 

 

After the morning exercise, they had nuncheon together at another fair house, the one where the hobbits and the rest of the Nine Walkers stayed.   More than thirty people gathered—the Grey Company, the sons of Elrond, Aragorn, the hobbits, Gimli, Legolas—but the hobbits had cooked for an army and there was plenty of food for everyone. 

To Dirhael’s knowledge, a nuncheon was a light meal.  But the hobbits clearly had a different custom, one that Dirhael judged to be superior.  He appreciated good meals and good company. 

Dirhael and his kinsmen sat around the King at the table, speaking eagerly.  Others formed small circles at the corners of the dining chamber, for there was not enough space at the main table for all to sit. 

It was only when the meal was nearly over that Dirhael realized the Steward was also present.  The man had quietly sat in one of the small circles, far from the king.  He nodded appreciatively as an older Dúnadan spoke to him. 

Why did he not pull rank and claim a place next to the King?  Or bring some of his men to attend to him?  This apparent humility irked Dirhael—the man seemed bent on presenting himself as flawless. 

When the plates have been cleared, they exchanged songs and tales.  The hobbits Merry and Pippin charmed everyone with songs from the Shire, and the tale of their encounter with the Ents.  It heartened the Dúnedain to catch a glimpse of the idyllic life in the Shire, knowing that it was their thankless patrols that had kept Sauron’s long arm from the land.  The hobbits, in turn, listened to their tales with unblinking eyes. 

Everyone moved about, and at one point, Dirhael found himself beside the Steward.  He bowed, and the Steward returned the gesture. 

“I hope you find some comfort during your stay here, Lord Dirhael, as much as can be found in the wake of war and much loss,” the Steward said.  “Even as we look towards brighter days ahead.” 

“Minas Tirith certainly lacks nothing in comfort for its guests,” Dirhael answered.  “I thank you for your hospitality, Lord Steward.”   

He did not know what else to say; for he was not much practiced in exchanging pleasantries, and honestly, he did not wish to speak with this man. 

But the Steward did not seem to expect pleasantries.  He regarded Dirhael, and spoke again: “Guests?  Such esteemed guests we have not had for many years, but kinsmen we are, though sundered.  We men of Gondor will ever remember how our kinsmen from the North came for our defence.  I grieve with you for your father.” 

His words were clear and heartfelt, and he spoke as if Dirhael were a person of great importance.  This was a man accustomed to lead, Dirhael thought with a touch of dismay, most suitable to be the King’s second-in-command. 

“We came to answer our Chieftain’s summons,” he replied, his words sounding harsher than he intended. 

The Steward gazed at him, searching to understand whether he meant the curtness.  Then the man nodded graciously. 

To Dirhael’s relief, Pippin came bouncing, took the Steward’s hand firmly, and asked him to follow. 

They did not speak again for the rest of the afternoon. 

...