Author's note: This was originally intended to be a short flashback scene in another piece, but it grew into a story in its own right. It also turned out to be approximately three times as long as I had expected, and it ended in a way I hadn't planned. This just goes to show that sometimes stories have minds of their own! Special thanks to Astara and Lilan for your help and support during the writing process!

Nárië, 2939

Denethor drummed his heels furiously against the legs of the chair. His father would no doubt have disapproved of such a childish action in a boy already nine years old, but fortunately, his father was not present to witness it.

Gelmir was talking to that girl from the kitchens again.

Gelmir was Denethor's tutor. He had come to them the previous autumn, when old Master Orodil went to live with his daughter in Lebennin. Denethor had liked Orodil, who called him "little lord" and was fond of reminding him that everything he learned might one day be vital to Gondor's future. When the old man left, Denethor had taken it almost as a personal affront. He had pleaded with his father not to let Master Orodil leave, and when that proved unsuccessful, said his farewell rather coldly.

The new tutor was quite young. He had been a soldier; a wound sustained in fighting against the Haradrim had left him permanently lame. He was very learned, however, and he had come to Ecthelion's attention just at the time when a tutor for his son was needed.

Gelmir's Sindarin was impeccable. He had even started Denethor on Quenya. He knew a great deal of lore, and had a knack for making the tales of ancient battles come alive in a way that drew Denethor in despite himself. Still, most of the time Denethor remembered to make it clear that he was only tolerating Gelmir's presence, and within a few weeks he had the satisfaction of seeing his tutor's initial enthusiasm fade into frustration.

For several months they had plodded along together unhappily. But in the past several weeks, Gelmir had developed a most annoying habit: whenever Emmeril from the kitchens appeared, he would immediately forget about his young charge and give all his attention to her instead. Today, seeing her pass by the open door of the schoolroom, Gelmir had hastily set Denethor to copy and translate a passage of Quenya, then hobbled over to the door to call after her before she disappeared. Denethor had finished this assignment a good quarter of an hour ago, but Gelmir was still in the hallway talking. He and Emmeril seemed to be trading memories of growing up in the country.

"And then in the autumn we press the apples for spiced cider," she was saying.

"I love spiced cider," Gelmir answered earnestly.

Denethor rolled his eyes. I am sure I will never behave so foolishly over a girl, he fumed silently. How dare he waste my time like this? The more he thought about it, the more indignant he became. Does he not realize that the education of the Steward's heir is far more important than spiced cider? He was on the verge of calling out to remind Gelmir of his responsibilities when another idea struck him—a better and, he thought, more effective plan.

From the schoolroom window, Denethor could see a strip of the Fountain Court and one corner of the White Tower of Ecthelion, gleaming in the spring sunshine. He had long planned to climb to the top of the Tower one day when he could slip away from his watchers—and it would do Master Gelmir good to be reminded that the Steward's heir is not to be kept waiting, he told himself.

The fact that Gelmir and Emmeril were standing just outside the schoolroom's only exit deterred him for barely a moment. Leaving his completed translation on the table as a mute reproach to the tutor, Denethor scrambled through the window and dropped lightly onto the soft grass a few feet below.

He nodded to the guards as he strode confidently through the Court of the Fountain, his back straight as a spear, trying to look as if he had merely been sent to the Tower on an errand for his father. Once inside, he did not go to his grandfather's office. Instead, he walked to the foot of the broad white staircase which led up to the top of the tower and looked upward. He had never been allowed to climb past the observation room, or to go beyond calling distance of the Steward's office. Without further hesitation, he started up the stairs.

The first few bends were familiar. He passed windows with intricately-carved stone borders, including the one where his grandfather had once shown him the carved face of the sculptor who had created it. A few turns above that was a door leading to the observation room. The door stood invitingly half-open; but although the view from that room was a fine one, Denethor had larger ambitions today. He passed it by and continued upward.

Beyond this point, the windows were not so richly decorated. Each was merely crowned by a simple star chiseled into the wall. Denethor continued upward, turn after turn, until he began to grow warm with the exercise. He stopped at a landing and looked out the window.

From this height, he could see the rock spur of Mindolluin jutting out over the fields far below like the prow of a great ship. The circles of the city were like foam falling away before it, splashing down to the green sea of the Pelennor. And the Tower…the Tower is like the mast of the ship! I might be a great mariner—Elendil himself—steering away from the downfall of Númenor. The guards in the courtyard would be my sailors…. Denethor looked down at his faithful crew standing dutifully at attention.

As he watched, another figure entered the courtyard—Gelmir, judging by the halting gait. The tutor limped over to one of the guards and conferred with him for a moment. The guard pointed toward the Tower; it was not hard to guess that he was saying he had seen Denethor going in. Gelmir paused briefly, then walked up to the Tower entrance. There was a trace of nervousness in his step now, and Denethor could guess why.

He thinks I am with Grandfather. At least, he will have to go to Grandfather's office to see if I am there. And then he will have to explain how I was able to slip away from him when we were supposed to be having lessons…. A slow grin spread over Denethor's face. Gelmir would certainly be punished, perhaps even dismissed, for allowing the Steward's heir to wander off. It was even better than he had planned. He cheerfully began to climb again.

The air grew warm and rather stale as he marched up stair after stair, turn after turn. Each time he reached another window, he seemed to have made but little progress. As he drew closer to the top of the tower, the windows ceased altogether. Denethor wondered how many stairs he had passed. I should have counted from the start, he thought. Well, I can count on the way down. I am sure it must be hundreds and hundreds.

At long last, the stairs ended at a wide landing with a closed wooden door. Denethor's heart beat faster as he approached: what if, after all his trouble, it were locked? But the door opened readily, and he stepped into the room at the top of the tower. Semicircular in shape, it was surprisingly luxurious after the austerity of the upper hallway. Tall windows set with diamond-shaped panes looked out to the east, south, and west. The room was paneled with dark lebethron wood, which also made up the broad window seats skirting the curved walls. Beside the door, an exquisitely-carved relief of the White Tree in flower covered the northern wall. Denethor took a moment to examine it before he knelt on the southern window seat and looked out.

This was even better than the mast of a ship. This was…like seeing the city from the back of an eagle, he thought. The sky was an intense, cloudless blue. Green fields stretched away into the misty grey distance, cut neatly by the glinting silver Anduin. The people walking about the Citadel seemed as small as ants. Denethor moved from window to window, comparing the view from each. To the east, the reflection of the sun off the river was almost blinding. To the west, the snowy peaks of the Ered Nimrais marched off as far as he could see.

When he had admired the view to his heart's content, Denethor finally hopped off the window seat. The reward had been well worth the climb: he had found this room and now it would be his secret place. He could come here as often as he liked, and no one would know where he was. He grinned to himself as he shut the door behind him.

Remembering to count as he went, he started down the stairs. They were steep, but that gave him momentum; he kept his eyes on his feet and trailed one hand along the wall for balance. He counted a hundred steps, then two hundred, before he came to a window which he thought was the one where he had watched Gelmir entering the Tower. He craned his neck, trying to look out again as he hurried past.

Afterward, he was never quite certain how it had happened. His inattention to his feet, the slight imbalance caused by leaning toward the window, and the mental distraction of counting all conspired to make him miss a step. The next thing he knew, he was pitching forward. He flailed wildly for balance, but it was too late: the best he could manage was to twist himself so that he landed on his side instead of his face. Then his view whirled as he tumbled helplessly for what seemed an age, hard edges of stone striking his back and knees, until finally he rolled to a stop on the broad landing outside the observation chamber.

For a few seconds he lay flat on his back, staring up at the white ceiling and trying to catch his breath. Then, as realization caught up with him and he became aware of his various aches and bruises, hot tears came to his eyes. Though he would normally consider it babyish to cry at a little pain, there was no one to hear him just now. Without shame, he let out a loud wail.

The tears did not last long. Hiccupping slightly, he pulled himself into a sitting position. His shoulder ached where it had struck the first stair, and one ankle throbbed dully. He struggled to stand. The sore ankle felt curiously soft, but it supported his weight. Clinging to the wall for support, he started slowly down the stairs once more.

"Lord Denethor!"

Denethor froze as Gelmir's voice echoed through the stairwell. His initial reaction was resentment: Gelmir was supposed to be in the Steward's office frantically apologizing, not climbing the Tower looking for him! Denethor looked around quickly, but here was nowhere to hide. He would never reach the observation room in time. He held his breath, hoping Gelmir would turn back before finding him.

However, in a matter of moments, Gelmir limped around the bend below, looking very hot and perturbed. At the sight of Denethor, his frown broke into a look of pure relief. "There you are! Thank the Valar you are safe!" he cried, hurrying forward. Then his relief changed to anger. "I am shocked at you, sneaking off like that!"

Denethor straightened his back proudly and glared back at his tutor. "Why should I have stayed? I finished the translation!"

"My lord, you know quite well that the lesson was not over—"

"You had no interest in continuing my lesson, so why should I?" Gelmir looked stung. Denethor pressed his advantage. "I did not wish to be a burden to your courtship!"

"And I do not wish to teach a reluctant pupil who sighs loudly whenever I speak to him!" Gelmir retorted. "But we must all do things at times that we do not wish to do. You better than anyone should know the importance of duty."

"I cannot see how it is my duty to sit idle while you talk about spiced cider with a kitchenmaid!"

They glared at each other for several seconds, during which Gelmir seemed to struggle with himself. At last he admitted, "You are right. I should not have allowed that to interfere with our lessons. I am sorry." He inclined his head in a stiff, military bow.

Denethor was astonished. An apology was the last thing he had expected. But he had an excellent sense for when someone was being less than truthful, and he knew that Gelmir's words were genuine.

"Still, you should not have run away," Gelmir continued reproachfully. "It was not only rude, but dangerous. What if you had been hurt?"

Denethor said nothing.

Gelmir gave a small sigh. "Come along now. Let us finish our lesson, and this evening I will speak to your father." He started down the stairs, but Denethor remained where he was.

"I cannot," he admitted through clenched teeth.

Gelmir looked back. "I will not punish you—that is for your father to do, if he wishes. Come."

"I cannot," Denethor repeated, "because my ankle is hurt."

"Let me see." Gelmir came back up the stairs and knelt to examine Denethor's ankle. Denethor was shocked to see that it was swollen to what seemed like twice its normal size. Not wanting to look at it, he watched Gelmir's face instead as he gently probed the injured joint. "Sprained, I believe," was Gelmir's verdict. He stood awkwardly, walked down a step, and then spoke over his shoulder: "Climb on my back. I will carry you."

Denethor hesitated, then followed Gelmir's bidding. They jolted and swayed all the way down the stairs, but he clung tightly to Gelmir's neck and never felt in danger of falling.

The healer confirmed that Denethor's ankle was indeed sprained; he bandaged it securely and recommended rest. Seeing her son injured, Denethor's mother was unable to scold him too severely. After chiding him briefly for his thoughtless behavior, she installed him in a comfortable chair by a window, brought him a book to read, and sent to the kitchens for a cherry tart. Then she kissed his forehead and left him alone. He sat thoughtfully, turning over the pages of his book without seeing them.

Gelmir must be talking to Father now, he thought. From listening to the adults, he had learned that his father and grandfather were both in the First Circle on business that afternoon. Gelmir had found the Steward's office empty and had been searching the other rooms nearby in case Denethor was hiding in one of them when he had heard a sound from the stairwell and gone to investigate. After seeing Denethor safely in the hands of the healers, he had left, saying he was going to make his report to Lord Ecthelion.

A movement in the doorway caught Denethor's attention. Emmeril entered, bearing the cherry tart on a tray which she set down on a small table by his elbow. She curtseyed and seemed about to leave when he spoke.

"Emmeril," he said slowly, "Has—has Master Gelmir ever told you how he was wounded?"

"Aye, he has," she answered, looking surprised.

"Tell me."

"His company was patrolling the southern border," she began in her soft country voice. "They were expecting trouble from the Haradrim, so they sent out a scout. The man who volunteered for the mission had been saying for many weeks that he did not care for the army, and he wanted to go back home. Gel—Master Gelmir thinks that is what he did, for he never returned. Instead, the Haradrim attacked by surprise."

"And Gelmir was wounded in that battle?"

She nodded. "But he was lucky, in a way. Many men were killed."

After she left, Denethor turned his gaze out the window, leaving the pastry untouched beside him. I was right to leave, he thought stubbornly. It made him realize that he was not treating me with proper respect. It is not as if anyone was attacked because I went away. His ankle throbbed, reminding him that he would not be able to walk for several weeks while it healed.

The afternoon shadows had grown long when Ecthelion entered the room. Denethor could tell at once by the way he moved that he was angry. He pulled up a chair opposite Denethor and sat down, hands resting upon his knees. His piercing grey eyes regarded Denethor for a moment before he spoke in a stern voice.

"Master Gelmir has told me what happened this afternoon. What have you to say for yourself?"

Denethor told the story, taking care to emphasize how Gelmir had been at fault for neglecting the lesson.

"And you believe your actions were justified?" Ecthelion asked when he had finished.

"Yes, I do! I was learning nothing!"

"You are wrong there, my son," Ecthelion answered sharply. "You might have learned something far more important than anything in a schoolbook: you might have learned patience. One day you will be Steward, and the lives of many will depend on you. You will not be able to pick and choose the duties you enjoy if you are to lead this country."

But it was not my fault…he should not have left me there, Denethor thought, but he felt less sure of himself than he had before. His mind flashed to the story of the man who had run away from his comrades after promising to gather information for them, leaving the others to be killed or wounded. It is not the same, he thought, but he knew that in some important sense, it was. Though he had injured only himself, the impulse had been the same. A hard knot of shame formed in his chest. He bowed his head and, for the second time that day, two large tears rolled down his cheeks.

Ecthelion's tone was milder when he spoke again. "I will not punish you, because you have brought your own punishment upon yourself. You will have plenty of time, I deem, to reflect on the value of patience while your ankle heals." He laid a hand on Denethor's shoulder. "And I am grateful that your injury was no worse."

Denethor sniffled loudly but could not manage to speak. I will make it up to Master Gelmir, he promised himself fiercely. I will be a good pupil for…as long as it takes until I can walk, and I will not sigh even when he drones on about the ship-kings. The vow made him feel slightly better.

Ecthelion leaned back in his chair. "Now, I must put a question to you, and I would have you think carefully before you answer. Master Gelmir is a fine scholar, and I had hoped that you would benefit by learning from someone with his experience, but I know you have never truly warmed to him as a teacher. He tendered his resignation to me today. I leave the choice to you: shall I accept it?"

Denethor looked up quickly. "No! Father, do not send him away!" He could not bear the thought of Gelmir leaving before he had paid his debt.

"Are you certain?" Ecthelion asked in surprise. "You are right to say he was partly at fault in this matter."

"I am certain," Denethor answered firmly. "Bid him stay."

With the aid of a crutch, Denethor made his way to the schoolroom after breakfast the next morning. He hoped to arrive before Master Gelmir, but when he opened the door, he found the tutor already in his customary place at the long table. There was a short, awkward pause, and then Gelmir spoke first. "I understand that you wish me to continue as your tutor. I-I thank you." Denethor caught the hesitation in his voice and thought he understood it: He is afraid I will misbehave again. I will show him that I mean to do better.

Gelmir smiled, though it did not reach his eyes, and indicated Denethor's usual seat. "Come, sit, and we will begin with our Quenya."

Throughout the morning, Denethor strove to remain true to his vow. He listened attentively and asked respectful questions. But it seemed to him that the more he tried to be a dutiful pupil, the more uneasy Gelmir became. By midday, Denethor felt the fragile goodwill between them dissipating. He sat frowning at the tabletop, struggling to understand the reason, as Gelmir moved to put away some books which they had used. Finally he blurted out a question: "Master Gelmir, are you sorry to be a tutor?"

Gelmir looked up, startled.

"I mean," Denethor tried again, "Are you sorry not to be soldier any longer?"

Gelmir relaxed visibly. "No," he replied simply as he gathered up the books. "I was proud to give Gondor all I could as a soldier, but I have always loved learning and lore. Since I may no longer fight for my country, I am content to serve in another way."

It was not the answer Denethor had expected. "Then why—?" he started to ask, but he was cut off by the arrival of Emmeril, bringing their luncheon on a tray. He could not contain a little snort of irritation at the interruption.

She set a bowl of soup in front of Denethor and started to do the same for Gelmir, but the tutor reached up and took the bowl from her. Their fingers brushed; Gelmir said "thank you" in a soft voice, and Emmeril smiled at him. Then she left, without another word passing between them.

They had behaved irreproachably, but Denethor felt a surge of resentment nevertheless. "Well! You seemed happy enough to see her," he snapped before he could think better of it. "I am sorry that you are forced to take your luncheon with me."

Gelmir looked at him in surprise and then, to Denethor's amazement, he started to laugh.

"I beg your pardon," he gasped between chuckles. "But I was beginning to wonder what had gotten into you this morning. Now you are more like your usual self."

Denethor pressed his lips together and looked into his soup. "I apologize," he said stiffly. "I swore that I would be a good pupil and now I have broken my resolution."

"You swore?"

Denethor nodded. "I swore to be good until I could walk again, to make up for my behavior yesterday. That is why you wanted to leave, is it not?"

Gelmir's laughter subsided and he answered more soberly. "No, that is not the reason. I feared your father's trust in me was mistaken. I knew that you accepted me against your will, and it seemed I could do nothing improve matters. I confess I had despaired of finding a way to do so." He sighed. "You had a narrow escape yesterday. It reminded me not to take my duty so lightly."

Seeming to come to a decision, he leaned forward. "I will offer you a bargain: until you can walk, I will also try to be a better teacher. I promise not to neglect your lessons during that time. At the end of it, if you are still unhappy, I will leave."

"You would do that?" Denethor was startled.

Gelmir nodded. "If you cannot learn from me, then another should teach you. The education of the Steward's heir is much too important to gamble with."

The echo of Master Orodil's sentiments astonished Denethor so much that he could not speak.

"Shall it be a bargain?" Gelmir asked.

Denethor found his voice. "Very well," he agreed.

Gelmir smiled. "Then let us enjoy our luncheon, and this afternoon we shall take up our study of the Ship-Kings once again."

Denethor's heart sank at this, but he remembered the words of his father: One day you will be Steward…you will not be able to pick and choose the duties you enjoy…. And he could not go back on the bargain he had made with Gelmir so soon after agreeing to it. So he simply nodded, without enthusiasm.

"We have nearly come to the great victory of Eärnil I at Umbar," Gelmir continued. "I have seen Pelargir, where he built his ships, and can give you more than a textbook account of the city. It is a place that every man should see someday, if he can."

"You have been to Pelargir?" In spite of himself, Denethor was impressed. "Even my father has not been there. What is it like? Is the harbor very big? Did you see the house where King Minardil died?"

"Patience!" Gelmir cried, but he looked pleased. "I cannot eat and answer all your questions at the same time. I will tell you about Pelargir after luncheon."

Obediently, Denethor took a spoonful of soup. Through the schoolroom window, he caught sight of the White Tower gleaming in the sunlight. The soaring view from the top was still his secret; in the confusion following his injury, no one had questioned him too closely about what he had been doing in the Tower. He suppressed a smile as he realized that no one had forbidden him to climb it again either. As soon as I can walk, I will visit you once more, he promised the White Tower silently.

Meanwhile, the afternoon's lesson was taking on a promising aspect. It should be easy to keep his vow to be a good pupil, at least for today. Cheerfully, he began to eat.

END