His hands trailed down the flower's green stem, feeling the morning dew or perhaps the night's rain cool his skin. There were a thousand gardens in the parapets of the White Tower, but this was his favorite. It reminded him of home. He closed his eyes, dark bangs dripping down his forehead. Breathing in the soft air, he felt a ghostly hand on his shoulder.
"Estel, be careful. I won't be there to save you from silly scraps, and I would like you to be in one piece come winter. I don't want to explain it to Adar if you're not!"
He smiled softly at the sound of his brother's voice, but that fell to a frown when he thought over the words. He'd noticed that, soon after he left for Gondor, that he'd stopped thinking of himself as Estel. He didn't think of himself as Thorongil, either. And Aragorn wasn't even on the list.
Elrond's last son was still annoyed at his mother and fa-adopted family for hiding his heritage, for keeping his own name a secret from him! Perhaps that was why he had chosen to come here and help his people. Then he couldn't hit anyone in the face. These secrets, these lies, left him confused, and, in his own mind, he didn't have a name. He was just 'him'.
"Thorongil!" He snapped to his feet, hand resting on the pommel of his sword. Finduilas was in the entrance, and, seeing her, he relaxed. The Steward's Wife strode forward with the poise of a queen, the tiny Boromir supported on her hip. "Captain Thorongil," she remarked again, searching his eyes. He bowed his head.
"Yes, my lady?"
"Ecthelion is irate." He winced, glancing at the sky.
"I'm late, then?"
"Late?" she laughed, "My good captain, you've missed the council entirely. And my brother was so looking forward to meeting the famous Thorongil." His heart felt a pang, like a red-hot knife burning a hole through his chest.
"Which one?" he managed to ask in what he hoped sounded like his usual lighthearted voice. Finduilas looked at him sideways.
"I said brother, captain, and I only have one." Feeling a faint blush rise in his cheeks, he pointed his gaze to the grass under his boots.
"Forgive me, my lady, I have been... distracted of late." A bit of rigidness vanished from her stance.
"Ah. Longing, or Hiraeth?" He blinked.
"My lady?"
Finduilas smiled with her eyes.
"Forgive me, captain, but I know that expression. You long for something, as some days I long for the sea. If I had to guess, I would say your home or your family. More likely both." He didn't let any emotion wash over his face. She was right, in a way. He did long for his family and home, but, more than that, he wished he was someone other than himself. "So, my good captain, I will ask again: longing, or Hiraeth?"
"I… am unfamiliar with the word 'Hiraeth', my lady."
"Hiraeth (noun). One: a deep, soul-wrenching longing. Two: homesickness. Three: unreasonable homesickness for a place you have never even visited. Four: bittersweet memory of a person, era, or thing long gone or that never happened, yet still feeling grateful for its existence." The voice came not from Finduilas, but a strongly built man, with fair hair and eyes like the ocean's water hidden beneath foam. He was dressed well, and, like the captain, wore a sword at his waist. He gave a small bow as he approached. "Imrahil of Dol Amroth."
The captain blinked, and his gaze sharpened unperceptively. Though the man was dressed in a noble's clothes, they were rumpled and didn't match. His spine was loose, but his feet were even with his shoulders and the captain doubted that, if he rammed into Imrahil with his shoulder, he'd be able to shake him, much less knock him over. He respected that, even safe in the walls of Minas Tirith, he was ready and waiting.
"You forgot one, little brother," Finduilas told him, eyes purposefully avoiding Imrahil's face.
"Did I?" he asked.
"Hiraeth (noun). One: a deep, soul-wrenching longing," she repeated his words from earlier, "Two: homesickness. Three: unreasonable homesickness for a place you have never even visited. Four: bittersweet memory of a person, era, or thing long gone or that never happened, yet still feeling grateful for its existence. Five:" she stressed, "depression." He waved a hand in dismissal.
"That's just a minor, archaic translation."
"Still's a definition."
"Every little thing matters to you, doesn't it?" he remarked, head cocked to the side.
"It does," Finduilas replied before her hands readjusted their grip on Boromir and her freed one shot out to straighten his shoulder pad. He shook her off. "and so, it should to you." The captain blinked.
"My lady… do you wish me to leave?"
"No, captain, stay." He aligned his feet, crossed his wrist behind his back, and waited. Something told him that he would be here for a moment before they noticed he was there again.
"I don't see your obsession with everything being perfect." Finduilas raised an eyebrow.
"Don't you, dear brother? If I remember correctly, you were the one who angrily adjusted all the flowers in the outlying garden because they clashed. It took you three full days, and you didn't sleep." Imrahil's face heated.
"I was eight!" The lady sighed, shrugging Boromir higher on her hip as he started slipping.
"It is as children that we are most open." He threw his hands in the air.
"I can never win against you." She smiled slyly.
"You cannot, little brother."
"Call me younger," he muttered, "it's less diminutive."
"Of course, my little, tiny, younger brother." He buried his face in his hands with a groan.
"I'm six inches taller than you!"
"And five years younger." The captain couldn't help but softly chuckle, and that turned them back to him.
"Brother, Captain Thorongil," she introduced simply. Imrahil started.
"Captain Thorongil? The Hero of the Ports of Umbar?"
The captain inclined his head humbly. "The very same, my lord." The clasped forearms in a warrior's greeting. He measured how strong Imrahil's grip was and was pleasantly surprised at it.
"I've heard much about you. Is it true that you're an enigma that appeared from the mists, with the features of a Gondorlorien but not the heritage of one?" The captain only smiled. He supposed it was mostly incorrect—he had come from nowhere, at least, as far as even Denethor or Ecthelion knew, but he was of Gondorlorien heritage, from Isildur, his great-great-great-great-great-great- great-great-great-great-great-great -grandfather. "Can I guess?" The captain nodded gracefully. The only guess anyone ever had was that he was a Rohirrim (as he'd made a name for himself in Rohan as well) or a Harad that didn't agree with Sauron's will. No one ever even had the slightest hint of an idea that he came from over the mountains. "You're not fair enough to be Rohirric; You're too fair to be Harad…" The captain fought to keep an impassive face. Imrahil had already taken out the only two opinions anyone had ever had! What was he going to guess? "Perhaps a man of Bree?" The captain felt a puff of air push past his lips. That was far closer to the truth than he was comfortable with.
Finduilas glanced between them with interest. "That is a remarkable idea, brother." Her gaze leveled on the man of the West, who was wishing he was somewhere (anywhere) else. "Well, captain?" He sighed. She'd asked.
"No, my lady, my lord, I am not a man of Bree."
"Are you a man of the… what are they called?" he asked, facing Finduilas.
"Lond Daerion?" The captain shook his head.
"What of Eryn Vorn? Or Eren Luin? Nîn-in-Eilph? Chetwood?" Imrahil snapped his fingers. "I've got it—Fornost."
"None of them, my lord," the captain replied, smiling thinly.
"Argh, I'm forgetting one of the ones I wanted to guess." He had a list?! "That's right—Ranger?" The captain's smile froze on his face, as did the thoughts in his head. He couldn't lie, not to the Lord of Dol Amroth and the Lady of Minas Tirith. Should he tell them? They wouldn't make the connection from that. Right? "Or do you call yourself a Dúnedain instead?" Imrahil rambled on, his brow twisting, "Númenórean?"
Finduilas, observant as always, noticed the emotions flickering in his steel eyes, and gave a true grin, even as Boromir tugged at her dress.
"You're floundering, captain." Imrahil noticed then as well and hissed a small 'yes!' under his breath. The captain sighed.
"Yes, I am a Ranger. Dúnedain is fine as well, my lord, but not Númenórean. That race…died out long ago."
"That's why you look Gondorlorien! Our people and yours share the same common ancestor—the people of Númenór!" Imrahil exclaimed. Finduilas sent the captain an amused glance.
"You'll have to forgive him, Captain Thorongil. My brother is too excitable and scholarly for his own good." Imrahil sent her a scathing gaze.
"Said the lady who remembered the dead definition of the word 'Hiraeth'." She only smiled, and then his distraction was over. The lord turned back to the captain, who was fighting to both keep an impassive face and not run away screaming from someone who already knew far more about him than he was comfortable.
"What exactly are you to the Rangers, Captain? You said you are not one of their Eryn Vorn or Fornost inhabitants, which means you're one of their wanderers. A hunter, perhaps? A scout? Or part of their watches?" The captain sighed, pointing his gaze to his mud-slick boots.
"I am… one of their leaders, my lord." Imrahil looked taken aback, but not for long.
"How far up in the chain of command?" His mind stalled.
"….H-high, my lord." Imrahil hummed.
"Don't want to tell me. That's fine—I'll guess." The captain's feet itched, but he buried his heels in the ground, clenching his jaw. Don't flee, makes it more suspicious… "They're run by military…" How does he have all this in his head?! "First or second lieutenant?" he shook his head. "No, not high enough… Captain?" 'Thorongil' signaled no. "Commander?"
"I suppose… in a way." He pursed his lips.
"…Are you their Chieftain?" Finduilas shot her brother a look.
"That's highly unlikely, tiny brother. I doubt that their chieftain— "
"I am," he whispered. The two siblings froze.
"…What?" Imrahil murmured. The captain threw his shoulders back and lifted his head.
"My name is Thorongil, Captain of Gondor and of Rohan, Chieftain of the Dúnedain, called Strider by the Hobbits of the Shire and the men of Bree." Then his feet got the better of him, and he turned and fled.
Imrahil looked at his sister with a thoughtful face and then strode away, the blue cloak of Dol Amroth spreading out behind him in a wave.