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inzilbethDisclaimer: 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 2 “First Day in Minas Tirith”
The guard bowed to the two men and said, “This man has just arrived from Rohan, my lord Steward. He has a letter with him from King Thengel.”
Aragorn bowed in similar fashion and waited to be spoken too. He could tell the two men were looking him up and down just as suspiciously as the guards had done. The older man voiced this quite plainly. “You are not of the Rohirrim,” he said. It was not a question. “What is your name and from where do you hail?”
“My name is Thorongil and I am a traveller from the North, my lord,” Aragorn replied.
“The North you say? That is a long way indeed,” said the Steward, “show me this letter that you carry.”
Aragorn again fished out the letter from his pack and handed it to him. As he stood waiting for the Steward to finish reading it, he became very aware of the gaze of the younger man upon him. This, he surmised, was Denethor, son of Ecthelion. Denethor was indeed gazing hard at the stranger and after he had also read the letter, he gazed even more incredulously. Thengel had written glowingly of his captain. He had been sorry to see him go, but had accepted Thorongil’s reason that he wished to further his military experience in Gondor.
Denethor looked at this bedraggled man standing quietly in front of him. He was very tall, he thought. In fact he did not think there could be any man taller in all Gondor. Curiously, with his dark hair and pale skin, he almost had a look of Numenor about him. He did not know such men existed in the North, which, in the South, was held to be a barren wasteland. In fact, so like was he to the men of Gondor, Denethor would have completely overlooked him had he passed him in the street, expect for one thing: those eyes, those keen, intense grey eyes. They looked directly at him now and Denethor was shocked to find it was he who wanted to look away.
“Thengel does indeed speak highly of you, young man,” said Ecthelion, handing the letter back to Aragorn. “But tell me, why should you wish to leave his service and enter mine?”
“In short, my Lord Steward,” said Aragorn, “I have achieved all I think I can in Rohan. I have been there some eight years and all the while the Shadow in the East deepens. I believe I can be of greater service here.”
“Do you now?” said Ecthelion, “and why is that?”
Aragorn inwardly sighed. He hoped this interview would not take too long. He was desperately trying not to shiver, but his soaked clothes had now chilled him to the marrow.
“I have learned much of war in the service of Thengel King,” he said, “but the fight is not yet on his border as it is yours. I was led to understand that you had need of men such as myself, and that you rewarded them accordingly.”
Aragorn winced to himself as he said that. ‘Let them think me a mercenary if it will earn me my place,’ he thought.
“So you are a fortune seeker,” said Denethor, speaking for the first time.
“I seek an honest crust in return for my skills,” replied Aragorn.
Ecthelion eyed him shrewdly for a moment. “You have a week’s trial,” he said.
Then he spoke to the guard. “Take him away and get him some dry clothes before he freezes to death on the spot.” Turning again to Aragorn he added, not unkindly, “and I daresay a hot meal would not go amiss either, would it?”
Aragorn bowed his head, “Thank you, my lord Steward.”
“Return here when you have eaten, Thorongil,” said Ecthelion. “I would be pleased to hear news of all that passes in Rohan.”
Aragorn nodded his head again and was led away by the guard, back through the hall and out into the Court. He was greatly relieved that that part of his task was successfully accomplished. He was now a soldier of Gondor and in the employ of the Steward. The guard took him down to a guard house on the Sixth Level and entered a large room with several tables and benches, at which sat half a dozen men. They were chattering in a relaxed fashion, but stopped talking when the guard and Aragorn came in. Aragorn felt searching eyes upon him, but then the men almost immediately lost interest and continued their conversations.
“This way,” said the guard, gesturing to Aragorn to follow him through the room. They went through a side door into a small room which contained several huge chests and little else.
“Off with those wet things now,” said the guard. “I’m sure we will have something here to fit you.” He unlocked one of the chests and started rummaging around the contents.
Aragorn peeled off his sodden layers of clothing one by one, wishing he could have a hot bath. He stood there shivering while the guard struggled to find gear to fit him. He at last produced several items of clothing all of an identical shade of brown. It was very plain and basic, the garb of the lowest ranked soldier in Gondor. Aragorn had been a captain in Thengel’s army. He could see he was going to start at the bottom in Ecthelion’s host.
He gratefully accepted the dry clothes and once he was dressed, the guard led the way to the refectory where Aragorn was at last able to sate his hunger which had grown considerably in the last few hours.
“Do you think you can find your way back to the Citadel on your own, lad?” asked the guard.
“I believe so,” said Aragorn.
“Good, for I must be returning to my post. Come back to the guard house when you are done with the Steward and we will find someone to show you around.”
Aragorn thanked him and continued with his meal.
When he had finished, and feeling now more comfortable within himself, he returned to the Citadel and was again admitted to the Great Hall. This time it was empty. The guard led him on to another room where they found the Steward sitting behind an enormous desk in a rather austere study. Aragorn noticed the room had none of the homely, welcoming features of his father’s study at Rivendell. It was dominated by the harsh, grey stone that was everywhere in this city. The Steward looked up from his work as he bade the two men to enter. He dismissed the guard and indicated to Aragorn to be seated.
“I trust you are suitably refreshed, Thorongil,” he said. “You certainly look more the part now.”
“Thank you,” said Aragorn with a smile, “I feel it.”
“That is well,” said Ecthelion. “Now perhaps you will give me news of my old friend Thengel. It is a long time since the days when we rode together.”
Aragorn dutifully obliged. There was much to tell. Since the
Ecthelion allowed him to talk without undue interruptions and when Aragorn had finished, he looked at the young man with a new respect. Aragorn had not played up his part in any of his tales, but Ecthelion was a shrewd man and missed little. It was obvious to him that he could not waste his new recruit in the lower ranks.
First, however, he wanted to watch his sword play. Thengel stated in his letter that there was none better in all of Rohan, but privately Ecthelion did not think that amounted to very much as he did not consider the Rohirrim to be masters of this particular skill.
“King Thengel considers you a talented swordsman, Thorongil,” he said. “I should like to see this for myself if you do not mind.”
“Of course,” said Aragorn. He was not surprised by the request.
“Good, though I must warn you I have set up a formidable opponent for you,” said Ecthelion, a hint of a smile spreading across his face. “Do you feel up to a good workout?”
Aragorn thought he might regret having eaten so well at lunch, but just replied: “Yes, my lord. I hope I shall live up to your expectation.”
“As do I.” The Steward was not smiling now.
Ecthelion rose and gestured for Aragorn to follow him. He led the way to a secluded courtyard, issuing instructions to a waiting servant as he did so. They were soon joined by two men carrying practice blades. They were followed by Denethor. Aragorn assumed he had come to witness the sparring, but, to Aragorn’s amazement, it soon became apparent that he was to be his opponent. This was a complication he could do without. He had been aware of the scrutinising he had received from the Steward’s son earlier, and of the aloofness of his manner towards him. Aragorn felt it might be diplomatic not to beat him and yet he knew if he did not perform well, he could be sweeping the barrack floors for weeks. But then a most unwelcome thought entered his head. For Denethor to put himself forward in this way, he must be an excellent swordsman and supremely confident of his success. A man in his position would not risk the humiliation of a defeat by a new recruit. Aragorn guessed Denethor had every intention of giving him a sound thrashing. This realisation made him suddenly nervous and unsure of his own skill, an insecurity he had not felt since he was about seventeen.
He was handed one of the blades; he quickly tried to assess the weight and feel of it for he noticed Denethor had already taken up his position.
“Gentlemen, when you are ready,” said the Steward.
Immediately Denethor struck, but Aragorn’s reflexes were battle-sharp and he instinctively blocked the blow. But out of nowhere, Denethor’s blade was instantly in front of him again. Once more Aragorn blocked the crushing blow. Over and over, their blades engaged as Denethor maintained a ruthless offensive. Aragorn struggled to repel him as his opponent’s sword swung at him from every conceivable direction. But slowly Aragorn began to get the measure of him; he was strong, very strong, but Aragorn felt he was quicker. Time and time again he parried Denethor’s blows, the Steward’s son pressing him harder and harder. Aragorn could feel sweat trickling down his back in spite of the cold of the day. He had not fought a duel this hard and with such a skilled opponent in many a year. Before long he was giving ground and the wall was closing behind him. Denethor would soon have him beaten. But Aragorn was not ready to concede yet. Whatever thoughts had entered his mind earlier of a political surrender vanished as he forgot the identity of his opponent, forgot the watching Steward and forgot why he was doing this; he just focused all his strength and will on taking his foe. Three decisive, lightning-fast moves was all it took, and Denethor’s sword flew from his hand. In an instant, Aragorn kicked his legs from under him and there he had the heir of the Steward of Gondor on the ground, with his blade at his throat.
“Do you yield?” he asked, breathlessly.
“I yield,” said Denethor coldly, ignoring the proffered hand extended to help him rise. Aragorn suddenly realised what he had done. He had used this technique, taught to him by Elladan, so many times that he had thought nothing of finishing his opponent with it now. Belatedly, he remembered just who that opponent was.
“Well, well, Thorongil,” said Ecthelion, smiling as he walked towards the two men. “I congratulate you. There are not many in the city that can best my son and none, I think, who would dare to throw him like that.” He clapped Aragorn on the back, his light-hearted demeanour a sharp contrast to the dark mood of his son.
“I am sorry, my Lord,” said Aragorn, looking from Ecthelion to Denethor. “I fear I have over stepped the mark in my eagerness to impress. I hope you will forgive me?
Denethor opened his mouth to speak, but his words were cut off by his father.
“Think nothing of it, lad,” said Ecthelion, amiably. “You put on a good show.”
“You did not learn to fight thus among the Rohirrim, did you?” asked Denethor, still dusting himself down, the bitterness of defeat only too apparent in his voice. “Tell me, where did you learn such moves?”
Aragorn had anticipated he might be asked this question and had decided to answer as close to the truth as he could.
“My older brothers, my lord,” he said quietly. “They taught me much.”
Ecthelion laughed. “In that case, I shall very much look forward to discovering your other skills,” he said.
Aragorn bowed his head in acknowledgement.
“Take the rest of the day to settle in,” said Ecthelion, “then report to me in the morning. I think I need a little time to decide how you may best serve me, Thorongil.”
“Thank you, my lord,” said Aragorn, inclining his head again as he turned to leave. As he walked across the courtyard he did not need to turn around to know that the eyes of Denethor followed him as he went.
He found his way back to the guard room and from there he was shown the barracks and allocated a bed. The guard told him a little of the daily routine and what would be expected of him. He also told him the basic passwords which would gain him admittance to most of the levels in the city. When he had finished, Aragorn was then free to spend the rest of the day as he pleased. First he made his way to the stables to check on his horse. Finding him well cared for, he set about exploring the city, as he knew he would have little spare time once he started properly in the service of the Steward.
He aimlessly wandered the narrow streets. The lack of greenery made the city seem very stark in its white beauty, but it was clean and tidy and the people he met acknowledged him courteously. In fact he had never seen so many people in one place before; the market stalls were positively bustling with traders and buyers, all trying to make that good deal. It was all a little overwhelming.
He found himself drawn back to the higher levels which were less crowded and from where he could fully appreciate the wondrous views they afforded. He stopped on a path in the sixth circle and, resting his arms on the surrounding wall, he gazed out across the plain so very far below him. There he could see little homesteads with barns and fields where sheep and cattle grazed. He could see husbandmen going about their daily chores; there was a farmer’s wife taking down her washing and children playing with a dog. Beyond was the
He shuddered. The sight suddenly reminded him all too clearly of why he had come here. What mattered, what really mattered, was that some day, some how, the evil of Mordor was ended. It mattered not who or what he was. Whatever the future held for him was not his concern at this time. He had a job to do here and now. Then he suddenly knew he could play this part. He would guard his secret and dutifully serve the Steward in any way demanded of him.
The sun dipped below the
He came to Ecthelion from Rohan, where he had served the King Thengel, but he was not one of the Rohirrim. He was a great leader of men, by land or by sea, but he departed into the shadows whence he came, before the days of Ecthelion were ended…..
Appendix A The Return of the KIng