Aragorn—Elessar—had taken up the throne of the King with little delay upon his coronation and reception into the city of Minas Tirith, and little did Haladan wonder at his haste. For despite the bright elation which hung over all the people within its walls and indeed throughout all of Gondor, many judgements must be heard and many other matters of equal importance awaited the King’s decision. Haladan knew that the petition of his own people to return with all speed to the north was of low import in the scheme of all demanding A—Elessar’s attention, yet he did begrudge that his name had been placed so low upon the docket by whatever Gondorian official had drawn up the timetable. Aragorn—Elessar—had held full court for one day only, after which he had restricted the time of judgements to the morning hours. It was wise, as additional non-public matters were no doubt equally as pressing. Haladan would not, however, come before the King for another four days if the judgements continued at the same pace at which they had passed for the last two mornings. The delay irked him, yet if other recourse was to be had he had not yet found it. He poured with the others into the open courtyard at the top of the city, wondering if he should return down through all the levels to their tents for a midday meal or stop first in the Halls of Healing to see his kindred who had not yet been released.
Deciding there was no point in climbing back to the Sixth Circle in the afternoon when he was already so close now, he set his feet toward the Houses of Healing. He had nearly reached its portal when a flurry of footsteps approached from behind and a young boy bolted around him, pulling up and turning his gaze upon Haladan.
“Haladan Dúnadan?” Haladan offered a curt nod, and the young page thrust a folded parchment into his hands. Barely had the child ensured Haladan’s hold upon the document when he was gone again, disappearing into the crowd and noise as if he had never been. Haladan blinked for a moment, taken aback by the swiftness of it all, then shook his head and turned his attention to the missive.
Your presence is required by the King Elessar in his study at one hour after noon. If you have not yet taken your midday meal, a light repast will be provided. Present yourself to the Tower Hall guard, who will direct you.
--Delvagil, scribe
Well. Apparently he was not to wait four days for Ara—Elessar after all. Alone as he was, Haladan made little attempt to hide his relief at the summons, preemptory though it may be. Indeed, Delvagil the scribe likely had far too many such missives waiting for dispatch to worry overmuch about how his notes would be perceived by their recipients. He himself had little time to dwell upon it, even had he been inclined by nature to read aught into hastily-worded notes—the crush leaving the Hall had been slow to disperse, and he would require good speed to reach his destination by the appointed hour. Haladan tucked the parchment into his belt and turned to retrace his steps back to the Hall from which he had so recently come, wondering how the child had managed to track him down in all the manifold chaos of a great city returning to life.
Despite the bustle in the streets, he had little trouble moving against the stream. Haladan was considered tall even for his own people, and even Mardal, the shortest of their company, stood a head above all but the tallest Gondorians. Although the Men of the Southern kingdom could not be called short, the Men of the North had been somewhat startled to find that they loomed over the people of the South. They had also noted a marked tendency of the general populace to move out of their way when they passed. Often this was followed by a stare or some low comment, but more often than not the murmurs were harmless and it did no good to concern themselves with the fascination or gossip of others. It was just as well, really, when one was in haste.
He did halt several steps away from the Tower Guard stationed outside the doors of the great Hall. The Gondorian soldiers always seemed less pleased than most to be staring up at their Northern allies.
Compatriots? Countrymen? Brethren? What were they to Gondor now? The days of the old Kings were so long past that any sense of kinship was difficult to muster, yet they were bound once again in a very real way. It would, he suspected, take time for both North and South to know what to make of the new relationship, to develop any sense of unity or shared purpose beyond a shared tragic history and their hatred for a dark Maia who would not trouble them again.
The guard glanced at the proffered missive, stirred as if he was uncertain whether to salute—no one, including the Northern Dúnedain, was entirely confident how they ranked as compared to Gondor’s warriors—then simply turned and entered the Tower Hall. Haladan followed, noting that the large room was dim. Shades of some light material, embroidered cunningly to match the stone surrounds, had been drawn across the high windows, likely to facilitate cooling during the hot summer months. It seemed a good system—even now, so soon after discharging the packed mass of petitioners, the enormous room was noticeably more comfortable than it had been at his exit. The guard handed the missive to a man seated at a desk in the near corner, hesitated, then settled on a quick nod to Haladan before returning to his post. He did not wait for any manner of reply from the King’s kinsman.
The secretary studied the note, one eyebrow rising slowly, then turned pale blue eyes upon Haladan. Haladan returned the gaze impassively, noting but refusing to acknowledge the doubt writ upon the other man’s face. He could not be responsible for what such a man saw or found lacking in him. The secretary only nodded, however, rose, and offered a curt wave. “This way.”
He led the way around the great throne, behind the dais, and through a low door set behind a solid pillar. A warren of high halls spread from behind that door, some stark, some covered with intricate tapestries and delicate carvings. Haladan made a point not to stare as they wound through the twists and turns, reminded again how little of the larger world he and his kindred truly knew. Even the back hallways of Gondor held splendor such as they had not seen. Men and women hurried about them, a low hum of voices over all, each fixed upon his particular task. Haladan spared a moment for jealousy at that—he deeply desired that he and his kindred might have some occupation other than reading and mending weapons and playing darts upon the back wall of one of the tents. The lack of purpose and activity, first at the Cormallen field and now upon the Pelennor, was wearing upon them. Tempers were beginning to fray. Dorhaur and Arestor had been pointedly avoiding each other since the Hobbits had been presented—he knew not what had occurred, but long tension existed between their families and it did not always require much—and Brendis had rarely been seen since their return.
A task—any task—would have been welcome.
The secretary halted before a massive arched door, carven with the White Tree of Gondor surmounted by crown and seven stars, worked in gold and … mithril, unless Haladan missed his guess. The wealth in this door would have fed a Northern village for a month. He clenched his jaw, reminding himself that once his ancestors, too, had known such prosperity and beauty. They had lost it for themselves—their fall into a fading people scratching a living from the rugged hills was none of Gondor’s doing or responsibility.
It mattered not. They might not have gold and mithril in any quantity, but they had brought the line of the King safely through the centuries. He knew which he would choose, were he offered such an opportunity.
The secretary pulled at a bell near the handle, and an unfamiliar voice called for them to enter. Haladan glanced around the room as they stepped inside, taking little note of his surroundings as he searched for his Chie—his King—but Elessar was not present. Instead, a young man with dark hair, grey eyes, and noble countenance stood at ease before the fireplace, cradling a glass of deep red wine.
Faramir, son of Denethor. The Steward of Gondor. This, of all things, Haladan had not expected. He took a moment to be certain that the other would not see the surprise in his countenance. Faramir set aside his glass and approached, nodding a dismissal to the secretary before holding out an arm to Haladan.
“The lord King stepped out, but only momentarily. He bid me make you welcome if you arrived before his return.”