Main Characters: Aragorn, Gandalf, Denethor
Rating: G
Pairings: N/A
Genre: General
Length: Short story
Summary: A glimpse at Aragorn's time in Gondor as Thorongil
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2980
The clash of swords ringing through the hallway interrupted the conversation of Ecthelion and his visitor, Lindil of Dol Amroth. The two men were walking leisurely in the direction of the gallery where the swordplay was taking place. As they drew nearer, they heard a shout followed by the sound of clapping.
At the end of the hall was a carved wooden archway opening onto the spacious outdoor gallery. Walking through it, they saw a group of men standing in a circle around two swordsmen. They had apparently finished their duel and were shaking hands. One of them stepped back and, placing his right hand over his breast, gave a slight bow to his opponent. The bystanders drew aside to allow Ecthelion and Lindil through.
“Has Denethor shown you his tricks, Thorongil?” asked Ecthelion proudly.
“Your son is a worthy opponent, lord,” he answered with a broad grin. “I look forward to the day we can wield our swords together in battle.”
“That day may come sooner than you would like,” added Lindil, “for the Corsairs are becoming more bold in their raiding. Something must be done to stop their attacks before they decide to sail all the way up the Anduin.”
The duelists slipped their swords into their scabbards and, along with Ecthelion and his guest, sauntered over to a grouping of stone benches near the railing. Their audience quietly left the four to their privacy.
Denethor sat next to his father and eagerly joined in the talk of an impending fight.
“Father, you should send a company down the river,” he said. “There’s no purpose served in waiting until these Corsairs come knocking at our gates.”
Ecthelion nodded in agreement and looked at Thorongil. “Pick your men. I want you to think of a way to discourage these brigands once and for all.”
“I want to go with you,” Denethor said with excitement.
Thorongil hesitated, glancing pointedly at the Steward. Just then, a woman’s voice broke in.
“Go on, Boromir, there’s father!” she coaxed, and the men turned to see a lovely young woman holding the chubby little hand of a small boy. She was walking slowly, leading him carefully as he took small, uneven steps toward the men.
The little boy had curly dark hair and wide grey eyes, and he laughed in a happy, gurgling way as he took slow steps toward his father. Denethor left the bench and dropped to one knee. Smiling broadly, he held out his arms to encourage his son.
“Come, Boromir, yes, that’s it!” he said. “That’s a good boy. Look how strong he is!”
“And he is the reason you should not go with Thorongil on this campaign against the Corsairs,” said Ecthelion. “Finduilas needs you here right now to help with the boy.”
A deep frown creased Denethor’s brow as he scowled at his father, but he did not immediately reply.
Lindil looked from father to son, sensing the tension between them. He knew Ecthelion and Denethor disagreed on many points. One of those points was the trust the Steward placed in Thorongil, a stranger who had come to Gondor a few years before. It was true he had come with a letter from Thengel of Rohan vouching for his skill and his honor. And the Grey Pilgrim himself had assured Ecthelion the mysterious northern warrior was to be trusted.
Mithrandir was another point of tension. Lindil did not understand exactly why, only that the Steward had faith in the Grey Wizard’s advice while the son trusted Saruman the White.
An awkward silence was broken by Finduilas. Placing her hand on her husband’s, she spoke more boldly than was usual for the shy maid of Dol Amroth.
“Husband, please listen to your father,” she entreated him. “Boromir loves you so. He could not understand if you went away for a long time. There will be other battles to fight.”
Denethor wrenched his hand away abruptly, then stood up and walked over to the railing. Leaning over it, he could see the busy city all around the White Tower. Minas Tirith was the crown jewel of Gondor, last bastion of the west against the eastern Shadow.
Thorongil went to the railing and leaned over next to Denethor. Far over the eastern horizon a dark plume of smoke trailed into the sky. Thorongil pointed towards it and looked at the sullen young man.
“Sir, that is the real threat to Gondor. These southern pirates are like midges compared to the dark power that is growing in Mordor. This city cannot risk the loss of her next Steward over a matter as trifling as Umbar.”
“With one breath, you say you want to fight at my side,” answered Denethor bitterly, “but when an opportunity comes you are quick to back down.”
“I am ready to fight by your side, Denethor, but in a real battle, not in some skirmish with pirates. These Corsairs are not worthy opponents. Listen to your wife. Your son dotes on you, and it would grieve them both to see you go.”
Denethor turned and walked back to where the others were seated, but Thorongil heard him mutter under his breath, “So you will get the glory, as usual.”
Thorongil was grieved at the bitter jealousy he sensed in the Steward’s son. It was true that Ecthelion had clearly shown favor and gratitude, even affection, to his northern captain. At a time when Denethor needed his father’s approval, Ecthelion had often been distracted by trouble at Gondor’s borders, which meant giving time to his trusted Captain Thorongil.
Denethor picked up his son and took Finduilas’s hand. Looking at his father, he said with an air of resignation,”I can see that my family needs me. I will remain behind this time. But I will not always stay home while others go to fight for Gondor.”
Ecthelion sighed with relief. Lindil nodded his head in approval and walked over to him.
“Be patient,” he said, placing his hand upon Denethor’s shoulder. “Thorongil is right about the darkness in the east. I fear it may not be long before your sword will be needed in Ithilien.”
Denethor took Boromir, and, with Finduilas following, left the gallery through the archway. The three waited until they were well out of hearing range, and then they spoke again.
“My friend,” said Lindil gravely, “your son must have a chance to prove himself to you. He is as old as your best fighting men, and you cannot hold him captive in this White Tower.”
“He is one year older than Thorongil here,” sighed Ecthelion. “But he is the only son I have. The Stewardship must pass to him. Gondor cannot be without a leader, and we have long given up on the legends out of the mists. No king will rise up to demand the Steward’s rod.”
“My lord, Denethor will obey your wishes,” said Thorongil, “for above all else his desire is to please you. Perhaps it would ease matters if you spent more time with him. For my part, I will go now to muster a company to bring south. By your leave, I will go.”
Thorongil placed his hand over his heart in salute and bowed to Ecthelion and Lindil. Turning, he strode quickly away.
"There goes a trusted friend," said the Steward. "Mithrandir was right to bring him to Gondor's service. I only wish I could convince my son to accept the wizard’s wisdom. I never have understood why Denethor dislikes him so much."
"I think perhaps he dislikes any man you pay heed to," replied Lindil. "He wants you to give his ideas credit before those of any other."
I will take Thorongil's advice to heart. While he is away, I will try to spend as much time as I can spare with my son," said Ecthelion. "Perhaps he will open his heart to me."
II
A few days later, Thorongil was overseeing the packing of gear for the trip south. He and his men planned to ride to the Crossings at Erui, where they would secure boats to take them down the Anduin to Pelargir. There they would find larger boats as well as able-bodied sailors to join their company.
As he bent to inspect the lashings on a bundle of provisions, he heard a familiar voice behind him.
"Greetings, Eagle of the Star! To what far-flung post are you headed with all this gear?" asked Gandalf the Grey. "I have come just in time to bid you farewell."
Thorongil turned and a smile of delight lit up his usually serious expression. "If you had come a day later you would have missed me," he said. "Hail, Friend! I am more glad to see you than you can imagine."
"I do have a talent for arriving just on time," laughed the wizard. "Can you leave this packing to these worthy fellows and walk with me to the White Tower?"
After giving further instructions to his men, Thorongil proceeded up the street with Gandalf. The two had not seen each other for close to a year, and they had much news to share. When the wizard found out where Thorongil and his company were headed, he expressed relief.
"It is well nigh time Ecthelion takes action there. With Sauron on the rise, the Corsairs could be a serious drain on Gondor's resources."
"I've been suggesting as much to him for some time now, but it took the encouragement of his friend Lindil to move him to act," said Thorongil. "But tell me, Gandalf, what brings you this far south?"
The wizard stopped and drew his friend aside into a small alley where they could speak privately. "You are badly needed in Eriador, Aragorn. There have been many strange creatures lurking near the Old Forest and the Chetwood. The White Wizard keeps a close watch on everything near the Shire. The Rangers need their Chieftain, for they are losing heart in the face of the Enemy's growing strength."
With a troubled look, Thorongil raised his finger to his lips. "Be careful, Gandalf," he warned. "These walls sometimes have ears as well as eyes. Gondor is not the best place for secrets."
They continued their walk in the direction of the White Tower, where Ecthelion held court and conducted the business of the realm. When they were very near the entrance, they came upon the Court of the Fountain, where stood the withered Tree of Numenor, scion of Nimloth. Surrounding the court were thickly planted flowering shrubs and vines, but the dead tree was the center of attention, sad as it was still a reminder of Gondor's past glory.
“How is your little friend Baggins? He still has his ring?” asked Thorongil quietly.
“He is looking remarkably well . . . too well,” answered the wizard. “I am still not sure what power lies behind it, but it is safe with Bilbo.”
“And the White Wizard was very certain the One Ring was lost to us?”
Leaning heavily on his staff, Gandalf shook his head. “The Council is satisfied with his report, but I wonder,” he said. “I wonder why he has kept his eye on western Eriador all these years. Surely his love of the leaf does not explain his interest.”
“Gandalf, you say I am needed at home, but first I must finish this southern business. Ecthelion is counting on my leadership.”
“Yes, of course,” agreed Gandalf, “you cannot leave him suddenly with this important business undone. I will remain in Gondor until you return and then we should head north.”
The two friends walked past the tree and approached the White Tower’s entrance. Two guards on either side of the great doorway saluted Captain Thorongil and his visitor and then stood aside to let them through. Thorongil smartly returned their salute and gestured to the wizard to precede him.
As the door closed behind them, they found themselves in a spacious hall. Several statues serenely gazed down at them as they strode toward the opposite door. Stationed there was another guard, to whom Gandalf announced his wish to see the Steward on important business. The guard asked them to wait and then slipped through the door into the reception hall. A few moments later, he returned and ushered them into the hall.
At the far end of the room was a huge throne at the top of a great stairway, but it was empty. Seated on a stone chair at the foot of the steps was Ecthelion, holding a white rod tipped with a gold knob. Denethor stood next to his father and glared at Mithrandir and Thorongil as they approached.
“Welcome, Mithrandir,” said the Steward. “What brings you this far south at this time of year?”
“Hail, friend,” answered the wizard. “I have traveled this many weeks from Eriador to bring important messages to your Captain from his kinsmen. He tells me you have given him leave to take decisive action against the troublesome pirates of Umbar.”
“He leaves tomorrow with his hand-picked company,” Ecthelion replied.
Denethor restlessly shifted from one foot to another and spoke; he smiled, but his voice had a sarcastic note. “I would have gone with them, but everyone seems to think I am more needed in Minas Tirith. It would seem my family cannot do without me.”
Gandalf sensed the bitterness in the young man’s tone and realized that it was a good thing for the Dunadan to be leaving Gondor soon. “Denethor, I imagine your father is saving you for more important quests,” the wizard said. “Though it grieves me to say it, I fear the Shadow across the Anduin is darkening. Gondor must not be left leaderless in times like these.”
“Why is everyone assuming I will be defeated in battle?” His anger broke through more openly now. “You all assume I will die. Have you no confidence in my abilities whatsoever?”
“If I may speak, Lord,” asked Thorongil, looking at Ecthelion, who nodded sadly.
“Denethor, no one doubts your skill. We have seen you in action often enough to know you have the heart of a great warrior. But this business against the pirates . . . they will not fight with any sense of honor. They will use tactics that must be met by experienced men.”
As he spoke these words, he recalled a time over twenty years before, when he craved experience himself. He knew what his master’s son was feeling and his heart broke for him. It would be worse for Denethor, who was a grown man after all. Ecthelion would be slow to send his only son into battle.
“I will never gain this experience you all talk about if I never get to fight! Forgive me for my seeming rudeness but I have important business elsewhere.”
With these words he turned on his heel and left through a side door.
Ecthelion shook his head and looked at the two who stood before him, whom he loved. There were tears glistening in his eyes, though he did not let them fall.
“I fear he hates me,” he said after a time. “He is quick to anger and easily discouraged.”
“Give him time, friend,” Gandalf said. “He cannot wait to throw himself into the jaws of death, not believing he can fall into them. But back to my reason for coming here. May I stay a while in the city? I would like to be here when Thorongil returns after crushing the Corsairs.”
“Certainly, my old friend. There is much I would like to discuss with you. I am glad you have come at this time. Both of you may join me for dinner.”
“Your pardon, Lord, but I must see to the rest of the preparations for our trip south. Many loose ends need to be tied up,” Thorongil said. “Perhaps I may join you both later this evening?”
“We will meet then, but not here. I will send for you so the three of us can talk before your departure.”
Captain Thorongil saluted his master and bowed gravely to Gandalf, then turned and left the two to private conversation.
III
Later that evening, Denethor walked alone in the small garden between his father’s house and the Tower. He could not easily accept Ecthelion’s refusal to let him go south with Thorongil and his men. He could not get over his belief that his father thought more highly of the strange northern Captain than he did of his own son. Thorongil had, after all, come to Gondor out of nowhere. His father had only Mithrandir’s word that this stranger was to be trusted. It seemed to Denethor that ever since Thorongil’s arrival, his father had forgotten him.
Suddenly he heard low voices approaching the garden. He quickly positioned himself behind a low hedge and listened intently as the voices drew closer. Soon the owners of the voices were revealed by the bright moonlight.
“It will be best if I wait outside the city,” said Gandalf. “When you return, come directly to me, for I will have explained the reason for your sudden departure.”
“Shouldn’t I speak to Ecthelion myself?” asked Thorongil. ”He has been like a father to me these past few years. It seems very ungracious to leave without a word.”
“A sudden break will be better for everyone. And, my friend, it will open a much-needed door for young Denethor,” said Gandalf. “With you gone, he will have his father’s attention again.”
“I have never tried to steal Ecthelion’s affection away from his son,” said Thorongil defensively.
“Of course not, Aragorn. But you came to Gondor just when the Steward needed a strong warrior to stir the hearts of his men. He was drawn to you from the start.”
Denethor was surprised by the name “Aragorn.” It had a familiar sound, but he could not remember when or where he had heard it. So, he thought, this man is not who he claims to be. He has come here under a false name. And he plans to desert my father, who has placed all his trust in him. Well, Father will be getting what he deserves.
“Gandalf, be careful of my name,” warned Thorongil. “It would be unfortunate for anyone here to discover who I am, for Mordor is too near.”
“I’m sorry,” replied the wizard. “Thorongil you have been and so you will remain until we have left Minas Tirith far behind.”
The two continued on to the house of the Steward but Denethor remained in the garden, pondering over the strange things he had overheard.
“Aragorn,” he said softly to himself. “You will defeat the pirates, no doubt, and then you will be gone. I will count the days.”
A look of triumph crossed his face as he continued walking in the light of the moon.