Aspects of Aragorn Chapter 8 part 1 "First Day in Minas Tirith"

[inzilbeth]

Aragorn has now reached Gondor so here is the first of four Thorongil stories.

I'm sure the tension between Denethor and Aragorn grew slowly over a period of time, but it was rather fun to have them get off on the wrong foot from day one!

Disclaimer: No profit will be made from these stories. All quotes from the works of J.R.R.Tolkien are reproduced here without the permission of The Tolkien Estate or New Line Cinema. No copyright infringement is intended.

 

To Cairstiona and Estelcontar I offer my most grateful thanks for their ongoing encouragement and support.

 

And thanks to Cairstiona for the beta.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 8   part 1                 “First Day in Minas Tirith”

 

 

   Ecthelion II, son of Turgon, was a man of wisdom…He encouraged all men of worth from near or far to enter his service, and to those that proved trustworthy he gave rank and reward. In much that he did he had the aid and advice of a great captain whom he loved above all. Thorongil men called him in Gondor, the Eagle of the Star, for he was swift and keen-eyed, and wore a silver star upon his cloak; but no one knew his true name nor in what land he was born.

 

Appendix A                                                                    The Return of the King

 

 

   Aragorn yawned sleepily. He had spent the night in a sheltered band of willows not far from the Anduin and had felt secure enough to risk a full night’s sleep. He awoke to a bitterly cold morning, the north wind rolling off the river suggesting snow. As he got to his feet, he pulled his cloak tightly around himself and made his way to the edge of the river to fill his waterskins, in readiness for the day’s ride. Returning to his little camp, he ate the last of the food in his pack though this was now little more than a crust of bread and a slither of dried meat. He was not at all sure how much further it was to Minas Tirith, but looking up at the deep grey sky of early morning, he sincerely hoped he would reach the city that day as there looked to be a great storm heading in his direction.

 

   He had left the court of King Thengel in Rohan only a fortnight ago, but already his time there was beginning to feel as if it belonged in his distant past. He had served the king loyally for eight years and, during that time, he had earned the respect of the Rohirrim and proved himself as a warrior and a leader of men. He had made many friends there, though he sadly very much doubted he would ever see any of them again.  But he knew he had learnt all he could in the land of the Horsemen. It was time to move on. Gandalf, when he had last seen him, had said as much and advised him that the time had come for him to seek to serve the Steward of Gondor. With its long history and ancient traditions, he knew he would find court life in Gondor quite unlike that of Rohan. The realm was also in the front line of the West’s defences against Mordor and service there would present some very different challenges for him. He carried a letter of introduction with him from King Thengel to Ecthelion the Steward of Gondor, a close ally and personal friend of Thengel’s. This had so far ensured his safe passage through Gondor and, he hoped, would secure him a place in Ecthelion’s army

 

   He packed up his few belongings and finished saddling his horse, a chestnut gelding and parting gift from Thengel. He talked quietly to the animal, glad of the company, as he strapped his pack securely behind the saddle. With a final glance around to ensure he had left no trace of his stay, he swung himself up onto his horse’s back and set off steadily southwards, following the course of the Anduin as he went.

 

   He had not gone many miles when the storm clouds broke and man and horse were lashed by sleeting, driving rain. Aragorn decided to press on with his journey. There was little shelter to be found and the wind was mercifully blowing from behind him, but the next few hours were a misery for horse and rider. Both hunched against the weather, and Aragorn was soon soaked through as the penetrating rain found its way through his leathers and oilskins to his clothes beneath. He was beginning to freeze and about to stop and try and light a fire before the cold seeped into his very bones, when the rain suddenly stopped, and the sun came out, lighting the sky with a clear golden blaze.

 

   Then, as the clouds parted, far ahead, he saw it for the very first time, glimmering and sparkling in the washed clean air, the sun illuminating it like a jewel in the side of the mountain, its tall, white towers rising up to impossible heights, the banners of the Citadel seemingly reaching to the heavens: Minas Tirith, the Tower of the Setting Sun, the City of the Kings, in all its majesty. Aragorn halted his horse and stared in wonder. He could clearly see the seven circles of the city, each one smaller than the one below and all but the last, divided by the great buttress of rock jutting out from the mountain like the keel of a vast ship. Minas Tirith appeared to be carved out of the very mountain itself and Mindolluin’s towering presence dominated the city below. Aragorn had seen nothing to compare with it in all his days. But as he sat and marvelled at the wondrous beauty of the place, he became aware of a knot in his stomach and he suddenly felt afraid.

 

   He had kept his true identity hidden in Rohan and it had appalled him at times how easily had he lied and maintained that deception, but there was at least a kernel of truth to his story, as he was but a stranger in that land. In Gondor, however, the lie would be meant to deceive, for this was Elendil’s kingdom as much as was Arnor in the North. Gazing upon the legendary city, it hit him fully that, but for the quirks of fate in the tale of his ancestors, he would now be the king of this land which was still the most powerful of the free realms in Middle-earth. Doubt assailed him; he had to appear but a warrior from the North, nothing more. He had come here to fight the enemy, not to claim the crown of Gondor. Yet if, as Elrond believed, it may be his fate to one day do just that, then he knew that what happened in his time here could have lasting consequences for him far in the future.

 

    Pushing such matters from his mind for now, he urged his horse forward. He headed straight for the vast gates in the lowest circle, but he was challenged by guards before he could reach them. Aragorn introduced himself as a messenger from Rohan, but he could see the guards eyeing him suspiciously. He could change his name and his speech, but he would never pass as a blond, blue eyed Rohirric warrior. One guard evidently went to get a second opinion while the others kept their spears pointed towards him. Eventually the guard returned with one who appeared to be of more senior rank. This time Aragorn produced his letter, which had the seal of Thengel on it, and this gained him admittance.

 

       He followed the guards through the streets and up the levels. The twisting roads that zig-zagged across the face of the mountain left him utterly bewildered as to where he was heading and, as they progressed through the city, Aragorn looked in amazement at the many white houses that lined the streets. The city was far more populous than Edoras and, from the well tended look of the dwellings, its people certainly appeared more prosperous. When they reached the Sixth Circle, Aragorn was told to leave his horse at the stables, before continuing on up to the seventh circle and the Citadel of the City. To Aragorn’s consternation, he realized he was being taken to the Steward himself. He had assumed that someone of lower rank would have questioned him. Instead he found himself been led across the Court of the Fountain to the main entrance of the Citadel.

 

   But suddenly he abruptly stopped in his tracks. Standing before him was a dead tree; its bare and lifeless branches, drooping sadly over the water of the fountain. It was being watched over by soldiers wearing the silver and black livery of the Citadel Guards who stood solemnly, performing this ancient duty that had long ceased to hold any meaning for them. But Aragorn, witnessing this for the very first time, found himself fighting his emotions. The significance of this symbol of the lost kingdom did not escape him and he stood for a moment wrapped in his thoughts, oblivious to all around him.

 

   The guard walking beside him mistook his hesitancy for bemusement and started to explain.

 

    “The White Tree of Gondor will never thrive again,” he said, “not unless the king comes back, although, you understand, of course, none of us really believe a king ever will return, not now after all this time.”

 

   Aragorn knew the tree had been standing thus for over a hundred and fifty years, ever since its death at the end of the rule of Belechor II. It was decayed and rotting; its bark peeling away from its trunk like a giant decomposing corpse. It did not look as if it would ever bring forth new life again. It was surely dead.

 

   Aragorn simply nodded to the guard, not trusting himself to speak, and quickly walked on.

 

   He was brought at last to the great hall of the Citadel and ushered in by the guards on duty there, but not before they had taken his weapons. The hall was huge and on either side of it was a row of tall, black marble pillars which met at the top forming two lines of arches. In each archway stood a great statue of a long dead king of the realm. Aragorn was aware of his feet echoing on the polished stone as he followed the guard through the vast chamber, but out of the corner of his eye, he observed with a growing feeling of awe the images of his distant kin that loomed above him as he went.

 

   At the far end of the hall upon a dais of many steps was a throne, but at the foot of the steps there sat an elderly man. A young man, not much older than Aragorn, stood beside him. Both were immaculately and richly dressed which suddenly made Aragorn acutely aware of his own appearance. He was still soaked from the freezing rain, his wet hair was stuck to his face and he was covered in mud. He felt at a distinct disadvantage and at that moment would have given anything for a change of clothes.

 

 

Comments

[inzilbeth-liz.livejournal.com]

I've really bad at slotting in those little phrases that make that sort of difference so I'm glad that worked for you.

And I'm really hoping you are going to write that scene of an irritated Elessar being followed where ever he goes by some hapless sculptor desperately trying to study his subject!

[cairistiona7.livejournal.com]

It's definitely one that I'm going to pursue as soon as the muse kicks in fully on it. Right now it's still too much in the "just a glimmer of an idea" stage. ;)