Conversations

Minas Tirith, April 2972 T.A.

"As you wish, my lord." The man bowed to the Steward, turned on his heel and left. Denethor watched his back for a moment, and then, content the man was out of earshot, he spoke.

"Why do you send Thorongil away, my lord? Surely there are other men . . . " Denethor let his voice trail off.

Ecthelion raised an eyebrow and gave Denethor a wry half-smile. "Why? Did you wish to go in his stead?"

"I cannot say, because I do not know the where or the why of it." Denethor paused, unsure he could press the matter much more without upsetting Ecthelion. "But I am Captain-General, and when you send one of my best soldiers into peril needlessly, I should think you would at least tell me why."

Ecthelion steepled his fingers in front of his face, and gave Denethor a long and pointed look. "I see. Do you not think the Steward of Gondor has the right to send a man where he wishes?"

"Of course. But . . ."

Ecthelion slapped his hand loudly on the table before him. "Then the matter is at an end. I had a task for Thorongil, and I have sent him abroad to do it. The rest is of no matter to you."

Denethor bit back the rest of his words, and nodded curtly to Ecthelion. "Very well, my lord. I take your leave."

--000--

Denethor had not thought to follow him, at least not at first. But then, when one of his men had alerted him to Thorongil leaving the City, and that at midnight, it had aroused Denethor's curiosity. He had not been able to keep from setting out after him. He was a good soldier and an even better Ranger and he followed Thorongil quite a way without being noticed. In this, Denethor was aided by a dank fog that lay over the City and the Pelennor. So through the back streets of Minas Tirith, and through the small roads that ran near the Pelennor's many farmhouses, he had been able to stalk his prey with fair stealth.

But that was four hours ago, and now, as dawn broke, Denethor found himself hiding under one of the arches of the last great bridge over the Anduin, just in the shadow of the garrison at Osgiliath.

He was not certain why Thorongil had come to the garrison, but considered the man might be dropping off dispatches from the City. In that case, his presence would be neither unexpected nor especially remarkable. The time of day, though, was odd. There was no reason for Thorongil to have left so early unless he planned on a longer journey. Ah, of course. He is set out on the 'task' appointed to him by the Steward! For not the first time, Denethor was glad his curiosity had defeated his dignity, and allowed him to follow the other man on this mysterious errand.

The fog had lifted, but there was a driving rain in its place now, making it difficult to see very far. This was just as well, because Denethor wanted to stay out of the eyesight of the guards posted at the bridge. There was nothing to be gained by having them see their Captain-General skulking around Gondor. He decided to bide his time. Thorongil would have to leave the garrison eventually, and from the direction he took, Denethor would be able to surmise where he was headed. From that, he imagined he could deduce the Steward's plan.

As he waited, Denethor took the time to study the bridge. His new vantage point allowed to him examine the structure closely, and Denethor marveled at its construction. Here, near the western end of the bridge, some of the original stonework had survived. In its calculated use for the arch and the intricate decorations on its surface, Denethor could see the touch of Númenor of old. As always, the ancient glory of the Faithful filled him with great awe, but the thought left in its wake a lingering sadness, a lament for all that was lost and could now never be had again. Denethor sighed heavily, and then, putting Númenor out of his mind, continued his vigil.

An hour passed, and Denethor heard random sounds from above the bridge, voices and footsteps. From his hiding place, he could not quite make out what was being said, and he certainly could not see who was on the bridge. He was tempted to just walk out into the open and take a good look. But even with the rain, Denethor was not certain he could remain unseen. He had few options and he took the one that came to him immediately. The stone here was old enough that Denethor could spot large crevices in the masonry that could serve as hand- and footholds. Somehow, he managed to clamber into the arch and from there, with great effort, he pulled himself to a position just on the outside of the arch where he was safely outside the sight of the guards on the bridge. Although his position made it impossible to see anything except more of the stone bridge, he could at least hear the voices on the bridge.

Presently, the voices resolved themselves into words and Denethor could hear snatches of conversation on the bridge. The sentries posted to the bridge were being changed, and the men exchanged meaningless banter as they made their way off. He had now been hanging on to the stonework for several minutes, and was in severe discomfort. He contemplated letting go and dropping into the river, but just then, he heard the one voice he recognized immediately. Thorongil!

"You are provisioned for your journey, Captain?" The soldiers at Osgiliath were always very solicitous of Thorongil, which only served to increase Denethor's irritation with the man.

"Indeed I am, Beleg, although perhaps not for the entire journey." Thorongil said something else which Denethor did not catch, but it made the guards on the bridge laugh. They bid the man farewell, and Thorongil was apparently on his way.

Satisfied that he now knew where Thorongil was headed, Denethor gently climbed down over the inside of the arch and lowered himself carefully into the river. He made quickly for the river bank, knowing that Thorongil would head back west on his journey. He pulled himself onto the bank and cast a glance at the bridge to see how long he had before the other man would reach the shore.

What in Varda's name . . . ? Thorongil was not headed towards Denethor at all. Indeed the man was crossing the bridge in the opposite direction, going east and towards Ithilien. Ithilien? What business did Thorongil have in Ithilien? For that matter, why on Arda would the Steward send him there? Denethor shook his head, pushing the questions aside. Whatever it was Thorongil was up to, there was only one way to find out.

--000--

It had taken Denethor almost an hour to cross the river, alternately scaling the bridge supports and swimming under the bridge to avoid being noticed by anyone from the garrison. He had pulled himself, exhausted, onto the eastern bank of the Anduin, only to discover that Thorongil had long since given him the slip.

But this did not faze Denethor. He was nothing if not determined, and he was a Ranger. What better task for a Ranger than to track his quarry through the woods? Besides, if Denethor had to be honest, he knew he was too far gone on this journey to turn back now. He had to find and follow Thorongil somehow.

The rain had finally stopped falling, and for this, Denethor was glad because it would be impossible to track a man in the rain. Denethor knelt and took a close look at the blades of grass on the river bank. They were depressed just so in a few places, footprints of a man who had walked here recently. He followed the prints in a southeasterly direction until they disappeared into the dark cover of the woods.

Here, things became more difficult for Denethor. For one, although it was only midday, the thick foliage of the woods in Ithilien made the woods dark and foreboding. For another, what rain had come through the tree cover had turned the forest floor into mud, and Denethor found his boots squelched noisily as he walked, making silent tracking virtually impossible.

Soon, however, he began to see signs that another had passed that way. There were small telltale signs everywhere, snapped twigs, underbrush that had been stepped on by a booted foot, branches where leaves had been stripped off by the careless motion of a man's arm. At first, Denethor was delighted. The ease of tracking Thorongil was the first piece of good fortune he had yet on this adventure.

But as he bent down to take a closer look at the print left by the other man's boot, he frowned. Thorongil was not the sort to clatter about in a forest, like an orc let loose in the Archives. The man was perfectly capable of traveling unseen, if he so wished it . So that's the thing. He wants me to find him.

Denethor's heart sank at this sudden realization. The thrill of the hunt was dampened by knowing that his prey was expecting him, and Denethor half considered giving it all up and making his way back to Minas Tirith. But he had not come this far to return without at least confronting Thorongil about his mysterious errand. And if Thorongil wanted to be found, that only served to make Denethor's task easier.

He started off determinedly in the direction he thought Thorongil had gone, and an hour or two later, his efforts were rewarded. In the distance, Denethor could see the embers glowing in the bowl of Thorongil's pipe. Denethor could just make out the shape of Thorongil leaning against a tree, and he knew his quest would soon be at an end.

Abandoning his usual caution, Denethor rushed forward, meaning to accost Thorongil quickly. But the rain and the mud on the forest floor made him misjudge his footing. He slipped, and in trying to right himself, his boot became caught under a fallen tree branch, and he fell hard. The last thing Denethor remembered was the ground rushing up to meet his face, and then, only darkness.

--000--

Denethor . . . Denethor! The voice was coming from very far away, and he could barely hear it. But he could recognize the voice instantly. He knew it was his mother, calling him inside before the weather turned. Only it was not his mother's voice at all, but the voice of some strange man, insistent and edged with fear.

"Denethor, wake up."

Denethor opened his eyes slowly, one eye at a time. Fortunately, dusk had fallen and the dim light that filtered down to where he sat, on the forest floor, did not smart as he had expected. Blurry shapes gave way to clear form. His head throbbed, and he could feel a stinging sensation in his leg.

"What . . ."

He had not quite finished the thought when the other man began to speak. "You fell. Tripped over a tree branch actually." Thorongil smiled genially at Denethor, but this only annoyed him. It was bad enough that he, once a Ranger, had taken a bad fall in the forest, but the indignity of this was greatly increased by Thorongil witnessing it . . . and then rescuing him. Denethor sighed heavily.

"You were in rather a big hurry, Denethor. I would have thought you were chasing after a pretty lady." Thorongil's smile turned to a smirk.

Denethor fixed Thorongil with a stern gaze. "You give yourself far too much credit, Thorongil. You would hardly fit my vision of pretty . . . even if you were a lady."

At this, Thorongil laughed. "Well, I gather you have not taken too much of a hurt, my lord. Your tongue is yet uninjured."

Denethor decided to ignore the man. He concentrated instead on his injuries. The pain in his head made it clear which part of his body had taken the brunt of his fall. Apparently, he also had large cuts or gashes on his forearm and his leg, for these had been dressed with something green that Denethor was not familiar with. The dressings had an odd, but strangely familiar smell.

He raised an eyebrow at Thorongil.

"It's a poultice, my lord. Made of some leaves I found here in the forest. It may sting a little, but it will keep the wounds clean at least."

Denethor grumbled. "It smells vile."

But then, not wanting to appear ungrateful, he gave Thorongil a polite nod. "It is well done. I thank you." He paused, waiting for the other man to acknowledge the compliment, but Thorongil had turned away, and was now whittling something out of a small piece of wood.

"Where did you learn . . . all this healing business?"

Thorongil met Denethor's gaze and held it for a moment, but did not answer immediately. After a moment, he shrugged. "All soldiers in Gondor can treat small wounds, my lord."

"No. Soldiers can wrap bandages and set a leg, but they know no herb lore."

Thorongil said nothing. Instead, he picked up his travel pack and began to rummage around in it. After a while, he pulled out a few pieces of dried meat, and tossed a piece to Denethor. They ate in silence, and several minutes passed in this manner. But then Thorongil spoke.

"My father died when I was very young, and I was fostered in the house of . . . a distant kinsman." Thorongil hesitated a little, and then added, "He knew something of a healer's art, and I learned a little from him."

Denethor started a little at the Thorongil's words. A distant kinsman? In the north? Who could that possibly be? I wonder how many of our northern brethren still flourish.

"Who else lives there, Thorongil? Of your kin?"

Thorongil gave Denethor a sharp look, and returned to whittling wood, giving Denethor no answer at all. Denethor's curiosity had been aroused by this small clue into Thorongil's childhood. He was determined to learn more about him, and for that, he was glad that he was stuck in the dark forest with the man . . . where there was naught to do but talk and learn.

There was a great deal about Thorongil that Denethor found strange. For one, his bearing spoke clearly of noble birth. For another, his Sindarin was slightly off, of an arcane and formal fashion, as if he were a man from a different time rather than a different place. He dressed simply, as a soldier should, but his clothes were well worn and showed their age in places. He did not hold himself out as a man of great birth or great wealth, which only made Denethor certain he was hiding both his birth and his wealth.

Denethor let his thoughts wander for a while, and soon found his eyelids growing heavy. He drifted off to sleep, only to be rudely awakened by Thorongil shaking him by the shoulder.

"My lord . . . it would be better if you did not sleep just yet. My lord . . ."

Denethor shoved Thorongil away. "I was not asleep . . . only resting my eyes."

Thorongil nodded. "Very well, my lord."

"My lord? Am I your lord? No? Then do not use that appellation." Thorongil nodded in response, and then shrugged, as if to suggest it was of no matter to him.

"Besides, there is no one here to chide you for being too familiar, Thorongil."

"You are here, Denethor. Is that not enough?"

Denethor muttered an oath under his breath, and then shook off Thorongil's apparent mockery. "If I am to stay awake, then you must do your part. Talk to me."

Thorongil laughed. "All right. What would you like to talk about?"

"Tell me of the north . . . of your life there."

"You are . . . persistent, Denethor."

"Though I am a man of Gondor, I am interested in things beyond this realm. I would like to know of the places from whence my friends come."

Thorongil sighed. "There is not much worth telling. Indeed, there is not much of anything in the north anymore." Thorongil's voice was sad, but as he spoke of the north, there was a glimmer in his eye that gave lie to his words. It made Denethor wonder what was still left for Thorongil in his northern home.

"Tell me. Are you married?"

Thorongil seemed surprised at the question. "Married? No."

"Have you ever been married?"

"No."

"Have you ever been close to it?"

Thorongil laughed. "Close to it? Yes, I suppose you could say that."

"It must be very lonely for you here then."

Thorongil gave Denethor a smile that was more smirk than anything else. "No lonelier than it is for you."

"I have no need of your mockery, Thorongil. I would thank you not to give it."

"And I have no need of your pity, thank you." Thorongil gave Denethor a mock bow and then left, muttering something about finding food.

Now quite alone in the forest, Denethor tried to stand. But long hours of sitting and his injuries made him suddenly dizzy, so he stumbled forward and then sat heavily. The moon was up now, casting light over the nearby hills. In the pale glimmer, he could make out a few stone structures in the distance, probably the ruins of some old Ithilien home, long since abandoned to darkness and shadow. In fact, if he had judged their location, it might be . . .

Just then, Thorongil returned, carrying what looked like a rabbit, or perhaps a squirrel. "You should not have gotten up, Denethor. You need to rest."

Denethor nodded absently, still looking into the distance. He pointed at the hills and at the shadowy ruins he could see. "Thorongil, do you know what that is?"

Thorongil looked out in the same direction, and then shook his head. "Some ruins . . . an old home, perhaps?"

"Indeed. I think it might be my old home. Or rather, the home of my long-fathers."

At this, Thorongil's eyes brightened. "Have you seen it before?"

"I had looked for it many times." Denethor let his voice trail off.

"I should like very much to see it myself."

Denethor did not answer. When he was younger, a Ranger foraging through Ithilien, he had passed that way many times. But when he had finally seen the old buildings, they had been only empty shells, reminders of a glorious past that was no longer.

Thorongil seemed to guess the direction of Denethor's thoughts. "Indeed, perhaps one day it will be restored to its former glory."

"No." Denethor said it simply, not wishing to prolong the discussion. "I will help you start a fire . . . it will be cold soon."

They passed the next few hours in almost companionable silence, Thorongil nudging Denethor awake whenever he was about to doze off.

A few hours before dawn, Denethor grew weary of his current state, and stood up to stretch his legs. This time, he was able to keep a steady footing. A few yards away, Thorongil was sitting against a tree, with his eyes closed as if asleep. But his hand was curled around the hilt of his sword, and Denethor could tell the man was still alert.

The fire he had built had died down, and he poked idly at the dying embers with a stick. He was no closer to knowing what errand the Steward had sent Thorongil on, but he was certainly much closer to knowing the truth about the man. His father died when he was young, but he did not mention his mother's death, so she must still live. He fostered in the home of a kinsman, which meant his mother must have been an heiress of sorts. As far as Denethor could tell, kinsmen rarely took in widows and their children without hope of some wealth. If he could find out who this kinsman was . . . .

And why had Thorongil left the north to come to Rohan and then Gondor anyhow? Was he hunted for his wealth? Did he have enemies there who had chased him away? Perhaps he had broken their laws, and been banished, although that hardly seemed likely. He said he had once been close to getting married. Perhaps his lover had jilted him. Denethor shook his head. Thorongil did not seem much like a lovelorn fool either. Of course, there was the possibility that the man was completely false . . .

As Denethor worked through the puzzle of Thorongil, his head began to throb and he put his hands to his forehead to still the feeling. Soon, he became aware that the other man was watching him with some concern. "Do not fear, Thorongil. I am not about to go into a swoon. In fact, I feel quite well." The other man smiled, and then shrugged and fell silent. Denethor watched him carefully for a few moments longer.

"Thorongil. Is that really your name?"

Thorongil seemed nonplussed. "Why? Is it not a good name?"

"It's a fine . . . that does not answer my question." Denethor said, with some exasperation. "Is Thorongil your real name?"

The other man shrugged. "Some people call me Thorongil, yes."

"But others do not then? What do they call you?"

Thorongil gave Denethor a look of annoyance. "What does it matter, Denethor? You call me Thorongil, and I answer to it. Is that not all there is to a person's name?"

"No. A man who lives his life under a name that is not his is not to be trusted."

"Oh? So I'm not to be trusted then?"

Denethor shrugged. "I know nothing of you. You could be a thief, a common cutpurse even."

Thorongil laughed. "You think I'm a cutpurse?"

Denethor scowled in response, although he had to admit that nothing about Thorongil made him think of thieves and cutpurses. "No, not a cutpurse. For one thing, a thief would surely dress better than you do."

Thorongil smirked at this, but then turned away, and said nothing more.

Denethor did not want to let the matter go though. Not now, when he was so close to getting Thorongil to at least admit to a falsehood, if nothing more. "So you admit then that you are living your life under a name not your own?"

It was Thorongil's turn to scowl. "It is my own name . . . I just want to know why you think I am not to be trusted." The man seemed hurt, as if he'd been accused of a grave and terrible crime.

"I say it again. I know nothing of you . . . nothing save art . . . and foolish hope."

"Foolish hope?" At this, Thorongil laughed out loud, but there was something else in his voice that Denethor had not heard before. "There is no art. I am whatever you see before you. What you do not know is not worth knowing."

"If it was not worth knowing, you would not hide it so resolutely."

Thorongil said nothing, and got up and walked away. He returned a moment later. "It will be daybreak soon. If you are well enough to walk, we will make for Osgiliath. We can ride back to the City from there."

"Why do you return to the City? Are you not here on an errand for the Steward?"

"An errand? No. Why would the Steward send me to Ithilien?" Thorongil looked at Denethor with a look of mock confusion, and then laughed.

"I am far less amused than you are, Thorongil. Why don't you tell me of the errand?"

Thorongil shook his head. "If you were meant to know, you would know already. And as for Ithilien, that was not part of the errand."

"Then why are you here?"

Thorongil laughed. "I will tell you later. But first tell me, what is on the underside of the bridge?"

Denethor grumbled. "Let us go now. I grow weary of the present company, such as it is."

Thorongil seemed about to say something else, but instead, he simply nodded and stood, beckoning Denethor to follow.

An hour later, they found themselves at the garrison in Osgiliath. The men were undoubtedly curious about what Denethor was doing there, and how he had become injured, but they said nothing. A man brought Denethor a horse from the stables. He had told Thorongil not to return to the City, because it would be better for him to continue on his errand. The other man had hesitated at first, but at length, had agreed to let Denethor ride back to the City by himself.

Thorongil handed Denethor the horse's reins. "You will see a healer when you return? It would be good to at least have your dressings changed."

"I am not so badly hurt, Thorongil. Do not minister to me like a nursemaid!"

Thorongil laughed. "Very well, Denethor. On your way then."

Denethor mounted the horse, and trotted slowly to the garrison gate, Thorongil following closely.

"It's Estel."

Denethor looked at Thorongil in confusion. "What? What is Estel?"

"My name. I'm called Estel."

"Oh." Denethor was surprised at this. "And is this your true name, or another falsehood you live by?"

"It is the name my mother gave me, Denethor."

Denethor nodded. "I thank you then . . . for finally telling me something that is true." He turned and rode away, not waiting for Thorongil's response.

Estel . . . hope. His own words from before came to him. Nothing save art, and foolish hope. Is that what this stranger from the north had brought to Gondor? A fool's hope? Only time would tell.

--000--

A/N: This was originally written for volume 5 of the Noble Steward Chronicles, a Denethor-centric fanzine produced by all of the fans at Brothers of Gondor. This story was inspired in part by a scene from the 1967 movie "In the Heat of the Night." Many thanks to my friend and betareader-par-excellence, Cressida1.