Author's Note:

I was so eager to post this chapter that I did so just now without adding an author's note. So here I am, on Take Two, trying to be a little more circumspect this time!

Large portions of this chapter were written anything from three to five years ago, so I have not actually managed to write a 60 page chapter in the two weeks since the previous chapter was posted!

According to the present plan, three more chapters follow this one. Unfortunately, I do not have major portions of those written yet, so we shall see what we shall see as to when they appear.

The poem recited by Lord Húrin of the Keys in the Council sequence is "The Old Issue," 1899, by Rudyard Kipling, slightly edited for our purposes here. (Only very slightly edited – it is rather spooky to me how closely the poem fits these circumstances. Was Kipling a seer who foresaw the events in Tolkien's writings?)

As always, thank you to everyone for reading this tale!

Chapter Twenty-Six: Departures and Returns, Part Three

The Council of Gondor

Relief at being awake propelled me through the morning. The horror of the night seemed far distant, and in my waking self I felt almost puzzled that my dream had brought me such torment.

Valar's blood, I thought. I am not that worried about it, am I?

But clearly I was, or I would not have dreamed of it all the night.

It does not matter, I told myself, as I had before, I know not how many times. One way or the other, today it will be finished.

You will give your apology to Frodo; he will answer it as seems best to him. And this entry in the chronicle will be over.

I rode forth that morn as one of a party that included Faramir, Éomer King with Elfhelm the Marshal, Húrin of the Keys, Lord Angbor of Lamedon, Svip, Pippin and Merry. Our companions waited at the Harlond while Svip and I took a brief morning swim. Then all of us followed my obligatory longer route along the River's bank.

Any dark thoughts I might yet have harboured were banished by the joyous chatter of the two Hobbits. Merry's own dark mood of late seemed defeated by last night's meeting with Frodo and Sam. As we rode along Anduin's shore, the cousins entertained us with a conversation fully as buoyant and whimsical as those with which I'd found myself bemused in the first days of the Fellowship.

The main import of their speech was the many sights around Minas Tirith that Pippin planned to show to Frodo and Samwise. Merry, for his part, began planning the tour of Rohan that he was going to give to them. His voice glowed as he described the beauty of that wild and windswept land. "Although," he admitted, "I can already hear Sam complaining that there's too much pastureland and not enough gardens."

Imrahil had told us last night that all of the army save for Aragorn's Men would be quartered in the Causeway Forts until they received further orders. The barracks there were more than sufficient to house the ludicrously small force that had marched upon the Black Gate: our regular troops along with the Rohirrim and the Men of Dol Amroth and the Southern fiefdoms. Only Aragorn and his immediate followers, including the thirty or so of his Northern Rangers who had joined him on the journey from Rohan, were encamped outside the Forts, their tents scattered along the low rise just beyond the inner gate.

Hastening through the gate on foot as we approached was Captain Eradan, for whom Faramir had sent to join us in this morning's conference. Currently commanding the garrison at Osgiliath, he was, I knew, desperately eager to return to his own post of Cair Andros. Svip and I slowed our gait as we neared the Captain, and walked the rest of the way alongside him, while Eradan reported to me on the Stonemasons' latest work on the Osgiliath Bridge.

Before a tent only slightly larger than its fellows flew the banner we had seen unfurled atop the mast of a Corsair ship in the battle of Minas Tirith: the standard of the kings of Gondor. Automatically I gritted my teeth at the sight of it. I asked myself how this display accorded with Aragorn's statement that he would take no action on his claim to the throne until he had consulted with us upon the matter.

I wondered, Would he still display that standard if the Steward Denethor rode to take counsel with him today, not the Steward Faramir?

It makes no difference, I told myself. Our father is gone. Aragorn need no longer concern himself with tiptoeing around his old antagonist's hostility.

Next to Aragorn's tent was set up a larger awning, where awaited Aragorn of the Dúnedain with a selection of his followers, and our army's Captains.

As we dismounted, several of Aragorn's Rangers came forward to take charge of the horses. I thought I detected a bit of vindictive smugness on Svip's part – although perhaps I was simply reading my own reaction into his action – when he waited until one of the Rangers was close by his side in order to change to his usual shape. The Man jumped backward slightly and, it seemed, barely managed to restrain a yelp of surprise.

Then I was exchanging greetings and handshakes with our assembled Captains: Lords Duinhir of Morthond, Liudolf of Lossarnach, Golasgil of the Anfalas, Dervorin of Ringló Vale, and Captain Penda of Pinnath Gellin. Duinhir, I was glad to see, looked far less wan from grief than when I had seen him last, as though the expedition to Mordor had proved a much-needed restorative.

Having complimented these gentlemen on surviving the perils of the Accursed Lands, and thanked them for their words of condolence on the death of our father, I turned to see Faramir and Éomer in conversation with Aragorn, Imrahil, the Elven Lords Elladan and Elrohir, and Mithrandir.

I was certain that I was soon to have more conversation than I wished with the Grey Pilgrim and the Lord of the Dúnedain. I made my way instead to another group, where Pippin, Merry and Svip now stood with Legolas of Mirkwood and Gimli of Erebor.

"Hail to you, friends," I said to the Elf and the Dwarf. "Has the Battle of the Black Gate answered at last the burning question of which of you is the deadlier warrior?"

"That depends on which of us you ask," Legolas answered, amusement sparkling in his eyes. "Each of us is fully convinced that he has the higher score. But it has been strangely impossible to convince each other of the validity of our arithmetic."

"There is nothing but perfidy in the hearts of Elves," Gimli grumbled, with a look of affection for Legolas that robbed his words of any venom. "Either that or they have no skill in mathematics. Which is odd, considering that they must spend all their time at home in counting trees."

I chuckled at that, remembering that I'd once had a similar joking thought upon the probable pastimes of the Wood Elves.

"It is no surprise, then, if my mathematics are rusty," observed Legolas. "There were few enough trees to count in Mordor. Boromir," he continued then, all trace of humour leaving his expression, "I am sorry for the loss of your father. I am certain that he ... must not have been the easiest Man to live with. But that cannot make his loss any easier to bear."

Legolas' words, I thought, were likely informed by his own experience. From the little I had heard of King Thranduil of Mirkwood, I imagined he might be fully as challenging to live with as had been the Steward Denethor.

"Thank you, my friend," I told Legolas. "You are right, on both counts."

"Aye," Gimli added gruffly, "I am sorry for your loss, as well. I cannot imagine a heavier burden than when a son must see his father journey beyond the spheres of this world. Durin's beard! I shiver to think of the day when I must bear it."

"May that day be long in coming," I said.

Faramir walked over to me then, with Aragorn and Mithrandir. The Northman held out his hand to me, and as we shook hands, he said, "I grieve for the loss of Lord Denethor. He was a noble Man who fought valiantly for our country."

"Thank you," I said. "Yes, he was. It is to him we owe the fact that Gondor survives today."

Mithrandir added a trifle stiffly, "He was a Man of great wisdom and great deeds, who should be long remembered by his people."

"Yes," I answered. "He will be."

It was not surprising, I thought, that the Wizard's tribute to my father sounded a bit strained, considering their decades of animosity. I told myself I should be grateful that he had made the effort. Had their places been reversed, my father would not even have tried.

Aragorn continued, smiling but yet with troubled mein, "The two have you have placed the rest of us in a paradox. I rejoice to see Lord Faramir as Steward. Yet I sorrow that you felt the need to renounce your birthright. The post was yours – by birth, by training, by the love that you bear for our people and that they bear for you. I regret that you felt the need to make such a choice."

The thought occurred to me, of a sudden, that my choice was perhaps not all that different from the choice Aragorn had made when he left Gondor forty years before – although my father would have cast scorn on that notion had he heard it. Father would doubtless have told me that I had renounced a birthright unquestionably my own, whereas Aragorn had merely shied away from making the throw of the dice that would put his shaky claim of kingship to the test.

Faramir was saying to Aragorn, "I told him all of that, when I attempted to dissuade him from his resignation. Repeatedly. Naturally, he would not heed me. Stubbornness is apparently also part of his birthright."

I raised my eyebrows at him on that. "Our birthright, brother," I corrected him.

Turning back to Aragorn, I said, "I thank you for your words to me. All of us serve Gondor as best we are able. It is for Faramir to serve as her Steward, and for me to serve as one of her Captains."

"Not merely as one of them," said Aragorn, "but as her Captain-General, who has given the greatest of service, at great cost to himself."

Faramir smiled at both of us. Then he turned to address the company at large. "Let us be seated, gentlemen," he said. "We have much to discuss."

A selection of folding camp chairs and stools had been assembled for our conference, augmented by some more solid chairs brought out from the Forts. I chose one of these latter, for some camp chairs are decidedly precarious for a Man of my weight. Svip sat on the ground at my feet, while Pippin chose a piece of ground by Faramir's chair and Merry sat by the feet of Éomer King.

When all of the Captains and allies were seated, Faramir said, "Our first need is to determine the situation in Anórien. I ask all of you who have returned with the Army of the West: what is your analysis of conditions there?"

Aragorn glanced about at his fellow Captains, who seemed inclined to let him answer. He said, "The Orcs that held Cair Andros are slain; I believe we may safely say that none of them escaped. We sent out scouts during our march from the Black Gate and throughout the time spent at Cair Andros and Cormallen. During the march through Ithilien the scouts several times observed isolated parties of Orcs headed eastward, all in smaller groups of a score or fewer. By the time we reached Anórien, no further such parties were seen. One group of about three score did attempt to reach Cair Andros from the North during our battle there. A detachment of our force ambushed and annihilated them before they came within sight of the fortress. It would, of course, be foolish to assume that every Orc who crossed into the Sun Land is fled or slain. But I believe we may say that those who remain are seeking bolt holes in the East with all speed."

Faramir inquired, "What territory did the scouts cover?"

"To the edge of Dagorlad and the borders of the Nindalf Marsh on the Eastern shore, and to the Fifth Mouth of Entwash on the West. The farthest west they ranged was about fifty miles inland."

Uncle Imrahil added, "The scouts were looking primarily for signs of current enemy activity, and did not have the time to conduct a thorough survey of the damage that has been inflicted. The general sense we have gained is that while there has been considerable destruction of houses and outbuildings, damage to the fields is less widespread. This does not hold true in all cases, of course. There do seem to have been times when the Orcs simply set the fields alight to either side of them as they marched. But in general their goals seem to have been swift plunder and speed of movement, rather than any systematic effort to render the fields of Anórien unusable."

Faramir nodded, deep in thought. "In light of these things," he said, casting his gaze most specifically on Húrin of the Keys, on Captain Eradan, and on me, "I believe we may reasonably commence work on the return of our people to Anórien. Húrin, you will at last be able to send a positive reply to our garrison commanders who've been seeking permission to send the evacuees home. We must impose some control over this process; we cannot allow our people to go trickling home in dribs and drabs. There is too much risk of their encountering lingering parties of the enemy.

"Then also," Faramir continued, "we face the question of attempting to salvage something of this planting season. Boromir, I think we must involve the Office of Rehousing in this. We will need to register our people as they reach Minas Tirith, and find for them temporary accommodations. When enough are assembled who are returning to the same region, we will send them with a detachment of soldiers to ensure their safe arrival and take stock of conditions there."

I nodded. "We will do so. We may run out of available housing, but there are tents aplenty in the storehouses. I will set Men to investigating our supply and determining what is usable. I may have to request that a few additional clerks be seconded from other departments, if there are any left who can be spared."

"We will find some for you," said Faramir. "Captain Eradan," he said now, "it makes sense for you to coordinate the troops. Cair Andros will be the most logical headquarters for this campaign."

"Aye, My Lord," replied Eradan. "We will likely need to do considerable reshuffling of the Men's assignments. We should put out the call for volunteers among all the troops, for any Man with experience in farming. They will be the most useful for this assignment, no matter where they usually are posted. If there are indeed few of the enemy left in Anórien, the troops will be needed to help get the fields planted before too late in the season."

"Yes," said Faramir, nodding decisively. "And if it should prove that any fields are too badly damaged to permit of their use this season, we must look into sending those farmers to undamaged regions where more manpower is needed."

Golasgil of the Anfalas spoke up, "Our folk will already be planting now. When the first crops are sown, we can send some of our people to Anórien – if indeed the enemy is gone from these shores – to assist in speeding the planting."

"Aye," agreed Uncle Imrahil, "as can we. And we can perhaps send some of our store of seeds as well, if it be found that the enemy has torched Anórien's seeds inside the Sun Land's barns."

The conversation continued, with the Captains and Lords of the Southern Outlands pledging manpower or stocks of seed. Éomer King added, "Our planting time is not yet. But I fear enough of our folk were slain in the enemy's raids, that we will need all the farmers we can muster in order to salvage this season for ourselves. I believe we can better aid Gondor by keeping the majority of the Éored here at your disposal, to guard these returning farmers and to see off any remaining pockets of Orcs that may be discovered."

Aragorn contributed, "We also are not yet planting; not until mid-May. Yet the distance that must be travelled would make it nigh impossible for any Dúnedan farmers to join in Anórien's efforts and still return in time for their own planting. I believe we can aid the Sun Land better by sending some of our supply of seeds, if that should be needed. Over the years our farm folk have developed swift maturing strains of many of our crops, to contend with our shorter growing season. Those could prove of use here, if the crops are sown later than usual. In the meantime," he added, "Our company of Rangers here will remain at Gondor's command to assist in these efforts."

As no one at that moment seemed to have more to add to our agricultural planning, Aragorn turned our conference to a different topic. He said, "It seems petty in the extreme to introduce politics into this discussion, when we are scheming how to grow food enough for Gondor in this coming year. Yet there is another matter on which I would consult with you, My Lord Steward. I intend to formally request the Council to consider my claim to the Kingship of Gondor. Before I make that request, I seek your counsel on how you believe this process should best proceed."

We heard a rustle of movement about that company, and a few sharp intakes of breath, as Men shifted on their seats in nervous excitement at being audience to an historic moment.

Faramir said calmly, "The request will come as no surprise to many of the Council. If you have your written request prepared, or can prepare it before we return to the City this morn, I will take it back with me and set the process in motion. It will need a session of the full Council to consider your claim. Fortunately a goodly number of the Council are even now at the White City or within the Rammas; there will be no need to leave as much time for their summoning as is usually the case. What say you, Húrin?" he asked, turning to the Keeper of the Keys. "Will five days be sufficient to bring the other Councillors here? I think only the commanders of the White Mountains' garrisons are yet absent – and your father, Lord Dervorin," he added to the young heir of Ringló Vale, "unless he wishes to appoint you his proxy upon the Council."

While young Dervorin was looking appalled at that prospect, Húrin of the Keys answered, "It is so, I believe, My Lord. Yes, five days should be sufficient."

Men less familiar with the Lord of the Keys might not have noted the disapproving grimness of his expression. He managed to restrain himself from actually casting a look of dislike in Aragorn's direction. Húrin added pointedly, "Certainly we should wait no longer than that, as this Council session will distract from our primary task of seeing the fields of Anórien planted."

"Then," said Faramir, ignoring Húrin's comment, "let a session of the full Council of Gondor be called, to sit five days from now." He turned back to Aragorn, asking, "Will you wish to address the Council in person, or will your case be presented by a representative?"

Aragorn replied, "I would welcome the chance to speak to the Council in person, that each Man should have the opportunity to ask of me what questions he wills. Yet I have come to the conclusion that it is better if I do not enter the City. The Council may feel more able to freely debate the issue, if the Man whom they discuss be not standing there before them. And I would not have it said that, in the time before this session sits, I was in any way attempting to influence the Council members. I have asked Prince Imrahil if he will present my statement to the Council, and he has consented. Here will I await the decision of Gondor. And if the decision be against my claim, then I will offer my sword and my labours to our efforts in Anórien. I have little experience in planting, but I will gladly join in guarding the farmers – and I can follow instructions, I think, as well as the next soldier-turned-farmhand."

"It is well," said Faramir. "Yet while I know you would not be thought to be influencing the Council, I can see no need for you and your people to remain encamped upon the plain. The Army of the West will be taking up their quarters in the White City, and this will leave almost every bunk in the Causeway Forts at your disposal. I think none would fear that the presence of your thirty Men in one of Gondor's barracks constitutes an attempt to impose your will upon the Council."

The gentle smile with which Faramir made that observation removed from it the scathing derision that it would have held, had our father made the same comment.

Aragorn answered Faramir's words in the sense in which they were spoken. "Yet we are thirty doughty Men," said he, smiling. "I thank you, Lord Steward," he went on, "but we would prefer to remain under canvas. We are used to living thus. And if we keep our tent pegs loose, it will be the easier to move on, if that should be the Council's decision."

"If that is your wish, then let it be so," Faramir replied. He continued then, in more solemn tones, "I feel that you should know this, Lord Aragorn: my brother and I have determined that neither of us will cast votes, when the time comes to decide upon your claim. Nor will we take any part in the debate preceding that vote. There has been many a Steward," he went on, "who was able to greatly influence the Men of his Council; whether through fear or through respect or through a mere love of ease, it can be all too simple for a Man to follow the course that his Steward advocates, whether or not it is the course that his own conscience would choose. This decision must be one that each Man of the Council makes for himself. Lord Boromir and I will attend the session and do what we can to see that it proceeds in something resembling order and peace. That is all the role that either of us will play."

"I see," said Aragorn, bowing his head to Faramir. "I understand your reasoning, My Lord Steward, and I thank you for telling me."

Aragorn made every effort to keep his expression neutral as he spoke. I wondered if I had imagined the look of wistful regret that I thought I had seen pass over his face.

Our conference seemed drawing to its end. When no other statements were immediately forthcoming, I stood and bowed to the company. "If our discussions are concluded for this time," I said, "I ask our Captains and allies to excuse me."

I turned to Aragorn. "I should like to greet Frodo and Samwise," I said to him, "if you do not think that ill-advised of me."

There was a sort of strangled snorting sound from Pippin. From what I could observe at the corner of my vision, I judged it likely that Pippin had started in on some complaint that I should stop fretting about it and just get on with it, and Merry had kicked him to silence him.

Legolas and Gimli both looked troubled, but whether their concern was for Frodo, for me, or for both of us, I could not tell.

Aragorn smiled. "Not ill-advised at all," he said. "When I saw Frodo this morning, he made me promise that I would not let you leave the camp without seeing him."

"He has spoken of you with me, as well," Uncle Imrahil added. "Indeed, he asked me once whether I thought you would want to meet with him – and asked me to convince you to do so, if you did not already intend it." The prince's expression turned rueful. "What Master Samwise said, now, that does not bear repeating in your hearing."

I grinned at that. "I should be able to endure it, Uncle," I said. "I am confident that I have heard worse." I asked, "Do you know where Frodo and Sam are now?"

Legolas, Gimli and Aragorn all smiled, and Aragorn said, "Likely where Sam has been since he discovered the gardens in the Causeway Forts: helping the gardener prepare them for this year's planting."

I bowed to the assembled company once more, saying, "If you will excuse me then, gentlemen. You need not wait for me to return with you," I added. "You will reach the City the swifter by the direct route, at any rate."

"I'll be here waiting for you," said Svip.

When I set out, Captain Eradan was asking for more details of the battle at Cair Andros, and of the locations where parties of Orcs were last sighted by the scouts of the Army of the West.

As the discussion faded out of hearing behind me, I sighed.

I thought, After what we have heard today, there will be no stopping Svip.

He would start speaking again of wanting to return to his home, and this time there would be nothing I could say to delay him. No more could I use the excuse that his path home along the River might not yet be safe to travel.

Never would I wish for Orcs and their like to linger on our shores. But I was glumly sorry that the one delaying tactic I'd been able to think of was gone.

It is the right thing to do for him to return home, I told myself. Svip knows that, and so do you.

It may be the right thing, I thought, but by the gods, I wish that it were not.

As I neared the gate to the Forts, my regret at the thought of Svip leaving was pushed back by older and darker regrets.

Exchanging greetings with the guards and walking on through the gate, I sought to banish the grim memories that crept again to my mind.

This is not Amon Hen, I told myself. This is not Amon Hen, and the Ring is gone. And regret your actions though you do, there is nothing you can do to change them.

Apologise to him and own that you were in the wrong; that is all you can do.

I found the two Hobbits in the Forts' garden, as Aragorn had said. With them was Sergeant Sveneld, the old soldier who has tended the gardens of the Causeway Forts for as long as I can remember. The old Man seemed to have come through Gondor's recent battles unscathed, and he was turning over the soil at one end of the garden with all of his customary vigour.

The two whom I sought were across the Forts' main road from where Sveneld laboured, in the smaller section that is the herb garden. Samwise Gamgee, with a shovel almost taller than himself, was shovelling mulch and manure from a wheelbarrow and working it into the turned soil. A few feet away from him sat Frodo Baggins, plucking weeds from the ground in a lazy, relaxed fashion that suggested he might be about to fall asleep in the sun.

I fought with myself not to tense when I saw him; not to see again in my mind the sun-dappled glades of Amon Hen, and the horror and shock I had called forth then in Frodo's eyes.

The past cannot be changed, I repeated the litany to myself. The past cannot be changed. What matters is the present, and what you do now.

Frodo looked up and saw me before Samwise did. The ever-watchful Sam noticed his master's move, and immediately spun toward me.

I was near enough to them that I could see a smile light up Frodo's face. That sight alone began to ease the tension that had gripped my soul.

For Sam's part, his brows knit together and his mouth tightened disapprovingly in his old, familiar scowl. So familiar to me was that expression of his that I welcomed it near as much as I did Frodo's smile.

The Fellowship of Nine are reunited, I thought, in a sudden lightness of heart. Reunited, in spite of what I did; in spite of the Dark Lord, in spite of all.

At the edge of the garden I halted. Frodo stood up, dusting off his hands on his breeches. He walked swiftly to me, to stand looking up at me with calm and untroubled gaze.

Samwise followed and stood at his master's side, hefting the shovel in his hands in a way that clearly said he'd be happy to try out the shovel's usefulness as a weapon.

"Master Frodo; Master Samwise," I greeted them. "I thank the Valar that you have won your way to safety. I thank the two of you for the safety you have won for all of us."

"Boromir," Frodo said simply, holding out his hand to me. "I'm glad to see you."

Sam sucked in a breath through his teeth. Hoping that I was moving slowly enough not to provoke Sam into attacking me, I knelt and carefully took Frodo's offered hand in mine.

"I am glad to see you, Frodo," I answered. "I am glad to see both of you."

"Are you?" snapped Sam. "That's very good of you, I'm sure, Master Boromir." From his tone, he would have liked to say something along the lines of, That's very good of you, not to jump on my master and try to kill him.

Frodo let go of my hand. "Sam," he said, with a weary sigh.

"Sorry, Mister Frodo," was Sam's thoroughly unrepentant reply. "I'll not shake hands with you, Master Boromir," he went on. "My hands are dirty."

I could not refrain from smiling a little. "But not so dirty as mine are, I think you would like to say?" I asked. "It's all right, Master Samwise. I'll not attempt to force you to shake hands with me."

"Sam," Frodo sighed again. "Will you at least put down the shovel?"

Sam hesitated a moment, then grimly he obeyed, driving the shovel downward so it stood quivering in the ground beside him.

Sergeant Sveneld had paused in his work, and bowed to me. "My Lord Boromir."

"Good day to you, Sergeant," I said, nodding to him. "Please don't let me interrupt your work. However," I added, "I would like to borrow your assistants for a few minutes, if I may."

Sveneld bowed again and turned back to his garden. I asked Frodo and Sam, "Is it all right if we talk?"

"Of course," Frodo said, at the same time as Sam queried brusquely, "Can you talk while I work? There's a lot to be done here, to get this place in shape before planting."

Frodo gave me an apologetic smile. He gestured to the ground where he had been sitting before, and asked, "How are you at weeding, Boromir?"

"I've done a bit of it," I said. "Since nothing's planted yet, we needn't be concerned that I'll pluck the wrong plant."

Frodo and I sat down, while Sam yanked the shovel out of the ground again and turned back to his wheelbarrow. It occurred to me that Sam might find this a Valar-sent opportunity to "accidentally" heave some shovel-loads of manure onto me. But if that should prove the worst I had to fear from him, I supposed I should consider myself lucky.

I thought, If he were not a Hobbit, I'd be seriously wondering if I should look out for his dagger in my back.

"You … are looking well, Frodo," I began, as I started excavating for the roots of the nearest weed. "I think you look healthier and happier, both, than I have ever seen you."

"Do I?" Frodo asked. "I suppose that's probably true. I was about to say the same thing of you."

Frodo did indeed look well, although with the appearance of one who was still on the road back from long and dreadful illness. There was a translucent pallor to his face, and his features were drawn and worn by the memories of pain. But he had none of the driven, haunted look that I remembered about him.

With some surprise, I wondered if that were the same look he remembered about me.

I wondered suddenly, too, what Frodo had looked like before the burden of the Ring came upon him. I wondered if he could ever look again, ever be again, as he was before the Ring. And it came to me with bleak certainty that no, no he could not.

The cruel red scar on his right hand, all that was left of his missing finger, was like to be the very least of his scars.

Frodo said quietly, pulling me back from my thoughts, "I'm sorry for the loss of your father, Boromir. Pippin told me a lot about him, yesterday. He meant a great deal to Pippin. A very great deal. I wish … I wish I could have met him."

I nodded, though I could not help thinking of how very unfortunate it would have been if they had met under certain circumstances. "I wish it too. In … in better days than those that have just passed."

"Yes," Frodo answered, with a sigh. He went on then, in a sudden new intensity, "But they have passed, Boromir. They have passed."

"Yes," I said to him. "Yes, they have passed. Frodo … those days may be gone, but I still need to apologise to you. For what I did to you; and what I tried to do."

"No," he said fiercely, "no, you don't need to apologise." His voice growing softer, he continued, "I know how it was for you, I think. I know, now … I know how it was."

I thought of the terse statement in Aragorn's letter, "Instead of hurling the Ring to destruction, Frodo would have kept it for his own."

I thought that perhaps Frodo did indeed know.

I told him, "I thought the Ring might mean salvation for my people. I was wrong. I am sorry. If there is aught I can do for you to atone for my actions, you have only to ask."

"You've already done it," Frodo said. "You fought to save Merry and Pippin. You died for them. If you had anything to atone for, Boromir, you've atoned already, and more."

Into the silence that fell between us then there came the loud thwacks of Samwise's shovel on the inside of the wheelbarrow, as he shovelled out piles of fertiliser with far greater vigour than necessary.

Frodo's gaze flickered toward Sam, then back to me. And to my surprise, both Frodo and I smiled at Sam's less-than-subtle statement.

Turning to face the small gardener, I said, "If Frodo will not take my apology, then perhaps you will. What say you, Master Samwise? Will you accept my apology for the suffering I caused your master?"

He scowled at me for some moments. Then he begrudged at last, "Well, it's a start, I suppose. But don't expect me to be crying all over you, or making flowery speeches."

"Believe me," I said, "I do not expect that."

"And you'll need to watch your step, too," Sam went on. "You'll need to show you can be trusted."

"That is fair enough, Master Samwise."

Pippin's description of Sam last night had been keenly accurate. He was a veteran now, indeed. The change in him was as plain to behold as ever I have seen it on the face of a soldier after his first campaign. Samwise Gamgee had gone through the crucible of battle, and he had emerged stronger and very much older at the battle's end.

Sam stood awkwardly for a moment with the look of one who knows not what to say. Then he cleared his throat and observed, "Those weeds won't pick themselves, you know."

"Very true," I said. Frodo's eyes sparkled with laughter, but he offered a contrite "Sorry, Sam," and turned his attention to pulling up one of the small, straggling weeds.

"Oh, I didn't mean you, Mister Frodo – " Sam began. He clamped his mouth shut rather than risk putting his foot further into it, and with an angrily embarrassed look he returned to his shovelling.

A few minutes later Frodo and I each had a small pile of uprooted weeds before us. Sam rested his shovel against the wheelbarrow, mopped his brow with the back of his hand, and said, "Look … all right, then, I'm sorry, Master Boromir; I know I shouldn't talk to a lord of the Big Folk the way I've been talking to you. I know you're a great lord hereabouts. It's not my place to be speaking to you so free. But … well, I can't help feeling I've earned the right, so to speak – the right to say what I think. And the way I see it, it don't do any good, when all's said and done, for great folk only to hear what's nice and pretty and polite. They can't be proper rulers of their people if they don't know what people are thinking of them, and – and that's what I think about it."

"I thank you, Sam," I told him. "You are right. True it is, beyond doubt, that you've earned the right to speak your mind. It is true also that there is no hope for good leadership when lords neither know nor care for the thoughts and wishes of their people. For myself, I hope someday to earn your friendship, and that of Frodo. I would never be worthy of that if I did not listen to your words, and take them to heart."

Sam's gaze was wary as he looked on me. He glanced away, staring for a moment down at the soil of the garden.

"Aye, well," he said. "Those are fair words, Master Boromir, and it's good of you to say them." Hastily Master Samwise went back to his gardening.

"You have my friendship, Boromir," Frodo said. "It's good to know again that I have yours."

In the lack of further adequate-seeming words, we both returned to our plucking of weeds. When another several minutes had passed, Frodo spoke again.

"Talking of people speaking their minds. What do you think will happen, Boromir, with Strider's – with Aragorn's claim to the throne?"

Now there was a question I did not want to answer. But, I told myself, this interview was going better than I'd had any right to expect. I should be thankful indeed if another discussion of Aragorn's prospective kingship were the worst I faced in this conversation.

I told them of the decisions reached in this morning's meeting; of Aragorn's resolve to make his formal claim, and of the coming meeting of the Council of Gondor.

Frodo asked quietly, when I had finished speaking, "And what do you think will happen? How will the Council decide?"

"I don't know," I said. "There will be some – there are some – who fully accept and support Aragorn's claim. Others are less convinced – not of Aragorn's worth as a Man, for few can now doubt his qualities, but of the rightness of his claim. Or indeed, they are unconvinced that Gondor has need of any king."

"But," put in Sam, who had put down his shovel again to listen, "but he is the king. Isn't he?"

I said, "In some ways of looking at it, he is. But it's not so simple. He is descended, indeed, from Elendil who was High King. But in the time of Elendil's sons, the kingdom was divided. The North Kingdom, Arnor, went to Isildur Son of Elendil, and the South Kingdom, Gondor, went to Anárion Son of Elendil, and his heirs. It is from Isildur and the Northern Line that Aragorn is descended. Some will tell you the Northern Line has a valid claim to Gondor's throne; others will tell you they do not. Over a thousand years ago, one of Aragorn's ancestors made the same claim to the throne as Aragorn himself will make. That claim was rejected."

Frodo nodded, frowning in contemplation. Sam was scowling in a very visible effort to make sense out of this history lesson.

I eschewed further discussion of Gondor's history. Instead I said, "Some of the Council believe that signs from beyond our world have told us Aragorn is the king. For them, the wonders he wrought during these battles for Middle Earth have proven his right to the kingship. Others acknowledge his exceptional qualities, but do not believe those qualities should play any role in this decision. The question is not whether Aragorn is a worthy Man. The question is whether Gondor needs a king at all – and if it does, whether Aragorn's claim has the validity to make him that king."

"I see," murmured Frodo.

"I don't see," Sam burst out stubbornly. "After everything he's done, how could he not be king?"

"Frodo has done great deeds, Sam," I pointed out. "So have you. Does that make either of you the king?"

"That's different," Sam protested.

"It is. But perhaps not so very different, for those who don't accept his line's right to the throne."

Searchingly, Frodo gazed at me. "Do you accept his line's right to the throne?" Frodo asked.

I avoided answering that. "My brother and I have agreed that neither of us will vote on the question. Nor will we speak for either side of the debate. We have no wish to unduly influence the decision. We will support what the Council's majority decides."

Samwise marched over and sat himself down between Frodo and me. "Why shouldn't Gondor have a king?" he questioned me.

"Why should it?" I countered. "Should the Shire? Would you accept it without question, if a Man arrived in the Shire and stated that he was your king? Or – "

What I thought was an inspired argument occurred to me.

"Or what about your garden? What if some other family of Hobbits had tended a garden that your family tends now, centuries ago? And then they disappeared, and were never heard from since. What if, after centuries of your family tending that garden, a Hobbit from that other family appeared, and said it was his garden, and he was the rightful one to care for it? What would you do then? Would you give him the garden because his ancestors had cared for it, centuries in the past?"

Sam stared at me for a moment. Then he said, "Aye … well. Well. That's a question, and no mistake. I suppose … I suppose it would depend on what kind of a gardener he was. Whether the garden would be better off with him or with me. It wouldn't be easy, but I'd have to do what's best for the garden, that's sure."

"Yes," I said. "That's what we're trying to do, too."

"Aye," Sam said again. Eyes narrowed as he studied me, he challenged, "And you don't want to give up your garden, do you?"

"No, Master Samwise," I answered. "I can't say that I do. But the comparison falls down, I'm afraid. It is not my garden. It is the land of the people of Gondor. And the decision is for Gondor's Council to make, not for me."

"He won't fail you, Boromir," Frodo said suddenly. "If the Council accept his kingship, Strider will not fail Gondor or you."

"I know that," I told him. "I know."

On my return to the White City, I set about the new, expanded work of the Office of Rehousing. Svip and young Bergil Son of Beregond served as my assistants and errand-runners on this day, but my usual assistant Pippin was about other duties.

I tried not to let my speculations dwell on the details, but I had little doubt that on this afternoon, Pippin served as chaperone to Faramir and the Lady Éowyn.

Much of that day was spent in investigating the tents in the army's warehouses, determining which of them were still serviceable. Fully a third were not, as they had been decades or centuries in storage – casualties of our population's decline, for many of these tents must have dated from the days when Gondor's armed forces numbered near as many as our entire population in recent times.

As evening drew in, Svip and I shared a quick daymeal at our headquarters in the Old Guesthouse with our comrades of the Office of Rehousing. Then Svip retired to the Fountain and I turned my steps to an unusual destination for me: the Steward's Library.

Of course I had a nagging fear that Faramir and Éowyn might be there, and would suspect me of spying on them. But I thought – and I certainly hoped – that they were not likely to have spent the entire afternoon together and be still here into the evening. And surely even my brother would not take a lady to the library for two outings in a row?

The Master of the Library gave a knowing nod when I stated my wish to see the Records of the Council of Gondor from the years 1944 and 1945. He told me that I was the second Man to make that request this day, Lord Húrin of the Keys having been here reading those same records and taking notes from them for much of the afternoon.

With a look of weary resignation the two Librarian's Assistants hauled from its cavernous shelf a truly monstrous tome. The thing was as tall as a Hobbit and certainly heavier and fatter than any of the Hobbits I know. The Librarian's Assistants were both fairly muscular Men – perhaps for the sake of such tasks as this – but they were heaving and puffing as they manoeuvred the massive volume onto one of the tables, where it landed with a thud not unlike that of a scaled-down version of the Dark Lord's wolf-headed battering ram.

Either no one was ever expected to read past centuries' records of the Council, or the scribes who compiled them simply wanted to inspire any readers with a fitting sense of the might and majesty of Gondor.

Ere I sat down to face this thing, I suggested to the Master of the Library that when I departed, he might wish to set his assistants to transcribing multiple copies of these particular records. If I did not miss my guess, a goodly number of our current Council members would be here in the next few days on the same research mission. I much doubted that the librarians wanted every Man of the Council poring over this ancient, and enormous, document.

Like Húrin of the Keys before me, I took notes, although since I would not be voting on the question of Aragorn's kingship, I wasn't certain why I was bothering. But vote or no vote, I felt that I wanted to know and understand as much as I could about the previous time a ruler of the North had attempted to claim the Throne of Gondor.

The chief conclusion I reached from the hours I spent plodding through those records was that I was very glad indeed I would not be voting on this issue. If I were to cast a vote – I did not know what I would do.

If my father were still alive, my course would be an obvious one. I would do everything I could to keep my father and Aragorn apart, and to induce Aragorn to return to his Northlands, leaving his claim to the kingship stillborn.

But our father was gone. With him had gone any certainty I might ever have felt upon the question before us.

Had Gondor any need of a king? Was there any benefit to her in having one; was there any detriment to her in not having one? If she had any need for a king, should that king be Aragorn?

I did not know.

By the next morning, the first of the people of the Sun Land – those who had been evacuated no farther away than Tumladen or Lossarnach – were arriving in the City. We heard the predictable grumbling as they learned that still they were not free to return to their homes. But it was a grumbling mixed with relief.

Chafe at the delay though they might, when faced with unknown destruction to their land and homes and the prospect of a race to salvage this year's crops, a little governmental assistance likely did not seem amiss.

Then, too, I think that some of them secretly hoped they would be delayed long enough to see the result of this upcoming session of the Council – reports and rumours of which had already sped through the White City.

Race to save the crops or no, who would not regret that they had left Minas Tirith, perhaps, just days before we welcomed to the City our first king in nigh to one thousand years?

After a morning passed in a flurry of meetings and a few hours of setting up tents near the Crossroads of the White Tree Inn, Svip and I met again with Merry and Lady Éowyn, for another afternoon's ride.

I thought that if the Lady vouchsafed me many more of such meetings, I was like to run out of ideas for interesting places to which we could ride. But then, I reminded myself, sightseeing was at most only a secondary purpose for these expeditions.

On this afternoon we rode to Osgiliath, and spent some hours exploring the ruins on the city's Eastern shore.

The Lady of Rohan showed as much enthusiasm in investigating the shattered city, as she had two days before in counting the repaired rooftops of Minas Tirith. I think only her broken arm stopped her from beginning her own impromptu excavation when we discovered a building that she felt certain had been one of East Osgiliath's larger stables.

"I can see why you long to rebuild this city, My Lord," Lady Éowyn remarked, when we stood on one of the guard towers of our new eastern defences and gazed over the rubble that once had been the Citadel of the Host of the Stars. "There are ghosts here aplenty, but not ghosts who inspire any fear. It is as though all who once lived here are awaiting the day when life shall be restored to these streets and these halls – as though bringing back the city they loved can restore their joy and their hope and all that they have lost."

"We have all of us lost too much, Lady," I agreed. "I pray that if this city can rise again, it will do so as a sign to our people that we have victories now, as well – as a symbol of the hope that has come back to us as the Fire of Doom vanished from Mordor's skies."

Again, that day, when we parted at the Rohirrim's barracks in Minas Tirith, the Lady appointed another meeting for the afternoon after next.

That evening I made my swiftly-becoming-traditional sunset climb to the top of the White Tower. When I descended, I found awaiting me our entire complement of halflings. The four Hobbits of the Shire were sitting on the edge of the Fountain of the White Tree, while Svip, in the Fountain, watched them with all the appearance of solemn interest.

Pippin, so he told me, had spent the afternoon in conducting Frodo and Sam on their tour of Minas Tirith. When Lady Éowyn and Merry returned to barracks, Pippin sought and received the Lady's permission for Merry to join them on the rest of their tour. They had sought out Svip in the Fountain, as well, and the five of them ate their daymeal with Beregond's company of the Citadel Guard – the other three Hobbits being grandly introduced by Pippin as the guests of the Prince of the Halflings.

Now Pippin had one more location that he wished to include in the tour – a location for which he needed my permission, and in which he hoped to have my company.

He wanted to take his friends to see the tomb of the Lord Steward Denethor.

"Talking of who's changed the most in all of this," Samwise said dourly, clearly taking up the thread of an earlier conversation, "I'll say that would have to be you, Mister Pippin. Going on purpose to walk into a tomb just as it's getting dark, I never heard the like! You'd think we'd all have had enough of this sort of thing by now. It's one thing to do that kind of tomfoolery when the fate of everything depends on it. There's no call for us to go and do it now when we've got a choice!"

"The sun's only just setting now," argued Pippin, "it won't be dark for hours, yet."

I thought that he was stretching that point a trifle, but I did not comment.

"There's nothing to be afraid of there," Pippin went on. "Merry and Svip and Boromir and I have spent a whole night in the tomb, and we were none the worse for it except for being tired. If there were any wights in there, we'd have seen them already."

Merry put in quietly, "I would like to take you to see Théoden King, Frodo. So you can see what he looked like; so you can picture him when I'm talking about him." The Esquire to the King of Rohan stared at his feet and whispered, "I just wish you could have met him."

"So do I," Frodo said simply, taking his friend's hand.

Sam set his jaw in grim resignation, but he made no further complaint.

So it was that the five halflings and I made our way that evening to the Porter's cottage and the Silent Street. Although, as Pippin said, it was not yet dark, I doubted that any of the Hobbits particularly wished to be in the Hallows without light as darkness fell. I had sent for torches before we set out. Now, with our torches gleaming in our hands as we walked along Rath Dínen, we looked all too much like a miniature funeral procession. Pippin and Merry strove to dispel this impression with their quiet, fondly spoken reminiscences of my father and of Théoden.

No guard either of Gondor or of Rohan stood at the House of the Stewards now, as the time of mourning and funeral was over. I was grateful, as I pushed on the tall, heavy door and it swung silently open, that the Tenders of the Tombs keep all hinges here meticulously oiled. Master Samwise would thank Pippin not at all, I thought, for bringing him in the shadows of evening to a tomb that came complete with an ominously creaking door.

We stopped first at the bier of Théoden King, where his body would lie until his nephew and successor could escort it home for burial in their own land. Quietly, Merry spoke of him.

"I told him he would be as a father to me, when he made me his esquire," Merry recalled. "And he was. All of you had gone. The two of you," he said to Frodo and Sam, "to Mordor. Boromir, we still thought you dead. Gandalf carried Pippin away with him. Strider, Legolas and Gimli all rode off on these Paths of the Dead. It's a hell of a thing," he murmured, with a rueful shake of his head, "to go from being in a Fellowship of Nine, to being just one.

"But Théoden – he made me feel that maybe Rohan could be my home. Or one of my homes, anyway. He made me feel that – that I wasn't just a Hobbit any more. That I could be a Rider of Rohan, too."

"There's nothing wrong with being just a Hobbit, Merry," Frodo told him, with a gentle smile.

Pippin leading us, we walked on, to the bier of the Lord Denethor. And Pippin spoke of the black day of the Siege of Minas Tirith, when the Steward and Húrin of the Keys and Pippin had toured the Walls together and had joined in the fire-fighting in the First Circle.

"You could see why Men would be afraid of him," Pippin remarked, "but you could see why they loved him, too. It made me not afraid, being there with him. Or, almost not afraid. It was when the Black Riders were flying over us, and the whole City was heavy with the fear of them, but Lord Denethor – you could tell he wouldn't give in to being afraid. Not ever. Just like you, Boromir."

Pippin continued, primarily to Frodo, "You should have seen how all the Men took heart when he visited their posts; how they all seemed to take courage and hope just from seeing him. And when we stopped to work with the fire-fighters, and he was working as hard as anyone else, or harder, and taking more risks than anyone, and all of us got covered in soot – you'd have thought it would have looked funny, seeing the Lord Steward all sooty as a chimney sweep. But it didn't, not really. I don't suppose Lord Denethor ever looked funny.

"He told me stories, that day," Pippin went on. "Like he did again later, out in the forest, the night when he died." The Steward's esquire gave a shaky smile. "I guess he could see how much better it made me feel to hear about other people's hair-raising adventures, instead of just having to think about my own. He told me stories about when he was a young Man, on his first campaigns. About his years as the Steward's Heir, and about his father. And he told me about the first time he went into battle, when he was fourteen, and how afraid he had been that day. I told him I couldn't imagine he'd ever been afraid.

"He smiled at me, and he said, 'We are all of us afraid, Master Peregrin.' But I wasn't afraid – much – not with him there. Not with him."

As I listened to Pippin talk of my father, the thought came to me with a pang of melancholy that he had almost certainly told things to Pippin which he had never told to me.

Many a time my father had recounted to me episodes from his youth and his early campaigns. But the tales were told as salutary lessons, in which the young Denethor had acted in some appropriate and responsible manner in direct contrast to whatever it was that I had just done.

He had spoken to me of his first battle, I remembered – in order to show me how a mature and reliable young officer ought to behave, after I'd nearly got myself killed in my own first campaign, leading a charge at Cair Andros at the age of fifteen.

I thought, I am glad he spoke as he did to Pippin. I wish he had thought it appropriate to speak so to me.

As Pippin continued to speak, Svip touched my hand and whispered to me, "Can we look at something else? You told me, at the end of the funeral, that it's over. That there's nothing more we can do for him."

"That's true," I answered, stepping farther away from the others so as not to interrupt Pippin's reminiscences. "Do you want to leave? I can walk you back to the Fountain, then come back here to meet the others."

"No," he said, "I'll stay. But I just – I just don't want to keep looking at him."

So I walked with Svip along the silent rows of my ancestors, and quietly I began telling him stories of them.

We had reached my namesake the Steward Boromir, and I was telling Svip of that other Boromir's battles for Osgiliath. Then Pippin, in a startled voice, called out my name.

I looked over at them, and with a sinking heart I realized where they were. The four Hobbits were standing by the room's east wall, beside the three enclosed crypts nearest to my father's bier – beside the carven plaque which bears the names of my wife and our son.

I hastened to join the Hobbits, with Svip at my heels. The four of them stared at me, all looking stricken with surprise. Pippin exclaimed, "We never knew you'd been married, Boromir!"

"Yes," I said quietly. "She was the elder daughter of Théoden King. She died five years ago, of the marsh fever. It was very bad in the City that summer; many of our people died from it."

None of the Hobbits mentioned my son, and I thought it likely that only one of them had read of his existence. I suspected that Frodo's reading knowledge of Sindarin was far better than that of his comrades; likely it was he who had translated the plaque's inscription for them in the first place.

That he knew of Findemir now, I was almost certain, from the look of sorrow and sympathy that he cast at me. But to my gratitude, the Ringbearer did not speak of him.

"But," Pippin protested, "why have we never heard of her? She wasn't even mentioned in the chronicle entries in your father's funeral; I'm certain she wasn't."

I sighed and sought for a way to answer this which did not sound as though I were chiding my friends for their breach in etiquette.

Slowly I began, "In our custom, it is held that women and children occupy ... a private sphere in the lives of their families. The men's lives are part of the public world; the lives of their wives and their children are part of the family, alone. It has been millennia, I think, since this distinction has kept the women immured in any kind of seclusion. But the tradition holds stronger in our deaths than in our lives. It is felt to be an insult for any but a close family member to speak of a lady once she has passed beyond the boundaries of this world. If you'll remember," I hurried on, attempting to gloss over my use of the word insult, "our mother's name was never mentioned in the chronicle readings during the funeral. She was mentioned only once at all, when she and our father wed; and that was only because the wife and mother of Stewards plays a crucial role in the history of our country."

There were murmurs of apology from the Hobbits. Pippin, looking grief-stricken, said, "I'm sorry, Boromir; I'm sorry we asked you. We never would have asked if we'd known."

"It is all right," I assured them. I crouched down by them and put my hand on Pippin's shoulder. "It is all right, Pippin. You were not to know. And after all," I added, "after everything that we have gone through together, I should think we are all very near to being family. Even if, Master Samwise," I added, glancing at the intrepid gardener, "just as in a family, certain individuals might be just as glad never to see certain other family members again."

After a pause, Sam gave a little snort and a shrug. There might have been something like forgiveness for me in his gaze, although I did not think that I would bet very much upon it.

"You're right on that one, I suppose, Master Boromir," Sam said grudgingly. "We are very near to being family, right enough."

The meeting of the full Council of Gondor convened at the Third Hour, on the Fourteenth of April, 3019.

It was, I think, the first Council session I had attended from which not a single representative was absent.

Familiar faces were missing aplenty. My father, most inescapably, along with Théoden King, Forlong the Fat, and Hirluin the Fair of Pennath Gellin. Yet the place of each was filled by his successor or the appointed representative of his people. All of our Captains and garrison commanders were assembled, every guildleader, and the lords of each of the Outlands. All of Gondor was represented that day in the sunlit Tower Hall.

Three guests also were present for our deliberations: the Lord Mithrandir and the Elven brothers Elladan and Elrohir, the Sons of Elrond.

I thought this might be the first occasion on which Elves or a Wizard had been present in a meeting of Gondor's Council. Certainly it was the first such occasion in anything resembling recent times.

If matters developed today as I more than half expected they would, I thought it would not be the last appearance of Elves and Wizards at the Council of Gondor.

Others who would have been welcome had chosen to decline the dubious honour of sitting through the debate to come. Pippin and Merry both had requested leave to wait out the day at Aragorn's camp. The rest of the Fellowship also had chosen to endure this wait at the side of their friend who, by the close of the morn, might – or might not – be king.

In the midst of that mighty assembly, I felt almost as though I was not standing there among them – as though I were as absent from that place as were Aragorn and our friends. Or as absent as was my father.

If you feel distanced from these proceedings, I told myself, it is your own choices that have made you so.

You could have chosen to remain Steward, and you could be even now taking your place in the Steward's Chair.

Or you might have chosen not to excuse yourself from involvement in this debate.

I told myself, It is far too late to regret either of those choices now.

I thought again of Faramir's arguments when we had debated the question of who should be the Steward. I thought of his theory that I had renounced the Stewardship simply to avoid being the Man most responsible for the decision ahead of us – and perhaps the Man who would place the Crown of Gondor on Aragorn's head.

It is not true, I told myself. By all the gods, I pray that it is not.

For if it was, then I had made my choice based on simple cowardice, not upon my desire to do what is best for our country.

I thought, too, of Faramir's other theory, that I had sought to remove myself from the Stewardship and this debate out of loyalty to our father.

My answer to that remained the same: that if I sought to fulfill the Lord Denethor's will in this, I would at all costs have retained the Stewardship, and I would stand now as the implacable foe of Aragorn's claim.

But I thought that perhaps, in one way, my allegiance to our father had guided my pathway here.

Perhaps I sought for one final time to be his follower and companion, removing myself from the great struggle ahead of us as thoroughly as death had removed him.

As I took my seat in the circle with the others, I had to force myself to sit upright as was properly expected of me. It was a very strong temptation to slump far down in my chair, as if merely slouching could somehow spare me from listening to the debate ahead.

I thought that I envied Aragorn, who could wait out this meeting in the open air with Legolas, Gimli and the Hobbits at his side. But I did not envy him what must be going through his mind as he awaited the meeting's result.

The thought struck me that Aragorn was rather in the position of a father-to-be, pacing uselessly in the hallway awaiting the news that, whatever it be, will change his life forever.

Or, my thoughts added ruefully, he is in the position of a man who waits to learn whether the lady he courts will consent to be his wife.

Well, I thought, I should rather be where I am than where he is. There are other young ladies in the world. There are not that many opportunities to gain a crown.

The low murmur of conversation died as Faramir, seated in the Steward's Chair before the stairs and the throne, gazed around the circle of Councillors.

This is it, then, I thought. The first full Council session of Faramir's reign.

And perhaps it will be the only session of his reign as Ruling Steward.

Faramir began in clear and steady tones, thanking the Council for their attendance. He said, "I believe that all here know what brings us to this session of the Council. We have only one matter of business before us for our consideration. If there are no other urgent matters that Councillors wish to bring forward at this time, I move that we proceed to the claim of Lord Aragorn Son of Arathorn."

Some of the Council stirred uncomfortably in their chairs, but no Councillor spoke.

"Very well," said Faramir. "Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth has consented to present Lord Aragorn's claim."

Our uncle stood and unfurled the scroll that he had been holding. With his solemn, sharp gaze he looked once about the circle, at each member of the Council of Gondor. Then he began, utter silence reigning around him as Imrahil read forth Aragorn's words.

Aragorn spoke first of his parentage and his lineage, tracing his line back through the Chieftains of the Dúnedain, the Kings of the North-Kingdom of Arthedain, and before them the Kings of Arnor, back to Elendil himself. He spoke of the heirlooms of his House, delivered to him in his twentieth year by his foster father Lord Elrond Half-Elven of Imladris, in whose keeping they had been.

At this point in his recital Imrahil turned and bowed to the Sons of Elrond. "Lord Elladan?" Imrahil said respectfully, and our uncle returned to his seat.

One of the Elf Lords arose – Elladan, obviously, although only the dark blue of his elegant attire enabled me to tell him apart from his claret-clad brother. As soon as they next change clothes, I thought, I'll be as little able to tell the difference between them as ever. At least after the Battle of the Pelennor, one of them had sported a cut upon his cheek. But with the swift-healing nature of the Elves the wound had now vanished without even leaving a scar, denying us poor mortals the assistance of that identifying mark.

Lord Elladan turned to the attendant who stood behind his chair, and put aside the golden cloth that had draped the cushion the Elf was carrying. Across the cushion lay Aragon's sword, innocent of its sheath, the blade gleaming like moonlight upon water.

Reverently Elladan took up this sword out of legend. He stepped into the circle and held it up in both gloved hands before the Council.

"The Sword of Elendil, Narsil, once the Sword that was Broken, now re-forged, and called Andúril," Elladan declaimed. He crossed to Faramir, bowed his head and held out the sword before the Steward's gaze.

In silence my brother studied the fabled weapon, looking intently at the runes along its blade and the barely visible lines of its re-forging. From the fascination in his gaze, I almost expected him to whip forth one of the magnifying lenses they keep in the Steward's Library, that he could better read the ages-old runes.

He did nothing of the sort, of course. Instead he reluctantly dragged his gaze away and nodded to Lord Elladan. But I thought it a very good bet that Faramir would ask Aragorn for a second viewing of that sword as soon as he could possibly manage to, and would likely soon be engaged in writing a monograph on the weapon's inscription.

Elladan took a step to Faramir's right, and stopped again that I might examine the sword.

The smiths of the Elves, unsurprisingly, had done excellent work when they re-forged the blade. Faintly the marks of the sword's breaking could yet be seen. But they seemed more a part of the blade's elaborate patterning, than any imperfection.

I nodded to the Elf Lord in my turn, and he continued his progression around the circle, stopping once more before Húrin of the Keys. Húrin barely vouchsafed the sword a look, before signifying to Elladan that he had seen enough.

Svip, huddled on the floor next to my chair, had stayed silent until now. But when the Sword Re-Forged had passed before him from me to Húrin, Svip tugged on my sleeve and whispered, "What does it mean? That sword doesn't make him king, does it?"

"No," I whispered back. "It's for this Council to make him king, or not to do so. The sword only adds credence to his claim of descent through the line of Isildur."

Svip protested, still whispering, "But he was given the sword by Elrond. That doesn't mean he's really descended from Isildur, it just means Lord Elrond gave him the sword!"

Hearing that, Lord Húrin looked over and grinned at Svip. Any further conversation on those lines was silenced by a short, warning look from Faramir.

The relic made its way about the circle, until Elladan at last stood again before Faramir.

My brother stood then, and with a short speech he thanked the Elven Lord and Lord Aragorn for permitting us to view the Sword of Elendil. The Elf bowed once more, turned and crossed back out of the circle, returning Andúril to its place under the silent attendant's care. Elladan then took his seat between his brother and Mithrandir.

Imrahil went on. Aragorn's statement turned now to a brief précis of his life, with particular focus on his years as Captain Thorongil, in the service of my grandfather Steward Ecthelion II.

Many in the Council had known of this already. Many more had not, to judge by the startled looks and the upsurge of whispers that followed this news.

Aragorn discreetly steered clear of mentioning why he had left Gondor those forty years before. But from the fragments of whispered discussion that reached me, it did not take long for many to reach the conclusion that he had departed in order to avoid conflict with the then-Steward's Heir, Lord Denethor.

Raising his voice slightly but otherwise ignoring the Councillors' whispered discussions, Imrahil completed Aragorn's summary of his life and adventures. The statement closed, in Imrahil's strong, ringing tones:

"I, Aragorn, Son of Arathorn, Sixteenth Chieftain of the Dúnedain of the North, do formally state my claim as the Heir of the Line of Isildur, rightful King of Gondor and Arnor. I respectfully submit my case to the Council of Gondor. You have my word that I will abide by the Council's decision. I understand and respect the weighty responsibilities that accompany Gondor's crown. I am ready to accept those responsibilities, and I will devote my life to proving worthy of that trust. Whatever may be the Council's decision, I will be as I have been, while breath remains in me, the faithful servant of Gondor."

I saw a momentary grimace cross Húrin's face at this closing, but the rest of the Council looked appropriately solemn and respectful. Many of them, by their expressions, were very deep in thought. I glanced down at Svip, and saw on his face a scowl far blacker than that of Húrin of the Keys.

Uncle Imrahil re-furled the scroll. He presented it to Razvan the Chief Scribe of the Council, who sat at his desk within the circle. Imrahil returned to his seat at the left of Éomer King.

Faramir spoke. "I thank you, My Lord Prince," he said to our uncle, who nodded. Then Faramir turned his gaze to the Council at large.

"All of us are aware," he said, "that this is not the first time a ruler of the Line of Isildur has made this claim. I know that many have already read these documents in preparation for this meeting. But, that this discussion may be complete, we will hear now the records of this Council, from the session of November, in the year of the Third Age 1944."

Razvan the Chief Scribe stood up from his desk. He put aside the record book into which he'd been writing and pulled toward a modest sheaf of parchment, the transcription of the records in question.

I had to restrain a grin at that point, as I pictured Razvan instead having to wrestle with the monster of a record book that I'd read in the Steward's Library.

Faramir had told me the night before that the Master of the Library had indeed set several of his assistants to copying those entries from out of the massive tome. The Librarian reported to Faramir that over half of the members of our Council had visited in these past five days to study those records.

We heard now, in Razvan's reedy tones, the words inscribed by his distant predecessor from the days of the last kings.

He read out the transcription of the letter sent by Arvedui of the North-Kingdom upon the death of Ondoher of Gondor and his sons, in which Arvedui claimed the crown as the direct descendant of Isildur, and as the husband of Fíriel, only surviving child of Ondoher.

Then he read out the transcription of the Council session that followed.

I confess that it sent something of a shiver down my spine to hear those words read here, doubtless in the very room where they were spoken one thousand and seventy five years ago. Almost, it seemed, I could see the ghosts of the Men who had spoken those words, of Pelendur the Steward and the princes, lords, captains and guildleaders who once occupied the chairs in which we sat now, and whose debates had decided the future of our country even as ours would decide it today.

Razvan the Scribe, I think, was at best a lukewarm supporter of the move to acclaim Aragorn king. There was an unmistakeable note of satisfaction in his voice as he read the decision of that Council in 1944, from their letter sent in reply to Arvedui's claim:

"'The crown and royalty of Gondor belongs solely to the heirs of Meneldil, son of Anárion, to whom Isildur relinquished this realm. In Gondor this heritage is reckoned through the sons only; and we have not heard that the law is otherwise in Arnor.'"

Razvan turned then to a later entry, the records of the Council session of January 1945. He read the second letter from Arvedui, stating the Northern King's argument that the kingdom was never divided between Isildur and Anárion. When Isildur succeeded his father Elendil as High King, Arvedui wrote, he had committed the rule of the southlands to the son of his brother Anárion. "'He did not relinquish his royalty in Gondor,'" read Razvan, "'nor did he intend that the realm of Elendil should be divided for ever.'"

Beside me, Húrin of the Keys hissed under his breath, "That may not have been what he intended, but it's what happened."

The Council in 1945 had shared Lord Húrin's opinion on the subject. The discussion in the Council's record books closed with this bald statement: '"The Council is of the opinion that His Majesty King Arvedui of Arthedain's arguments were answered fully in their previous letter to him, and that no further reply to the King of Arthedain is required.'"

The Chief Scribe turned and bowed to Faramir. With Faramir's thanks he took his seat and returned to his note-taking.

Faramir addressed the Council. "You have heard the statement of Lord Aragorn Son of Arathorn, and the previous discussions and decision of this Council. This discussion is now open. What answer shall the Council of Gondor return to the Son of Arathorn?"

I knew for a fact that the Men seated in that circle held no lack of opinions. But none, apparently, wished to be first to step out on a limb and state them.

At last Master Moluag the Chief Healer asked, "Does My Lord Steward have aught of direction to give us?"

Faramir frowned. He said, "I do not think it appropriate that I state an opinion on this question. I would not have it said in years to come that this was a decision in which only the words of the Steward held sway. It must be clear to all who read of our doings that this choice was made by the Council as a whole, not by one Man."

My brother paused. I thought of how strange this must be for him: to be speaking in Council as the Steward, as the Man whose words are most likely to guide the decisions of those about him.

How strange it must be for him to realise he need not trouble himself over what our father will think of his words. To know that he need not fear what our father will say.

It must be even stranger for him, I thought, than it is for me.

"This direction only will I give," Faramir continued. "We have heard the deliberations and conclusion of our predecessors on this Council. It is right that we include their conclusion in our considerations now. But let none of us think it our duty to reach the same conclusion as they did.

"The mere existence of a precedent does not compel this Council to reach the same decision. There have been many instances in which the Council of Gondor has not followed precedent. The Council whose deliberations we have just heard decided against the validity of the female line in decreeing succession, yet two hundred years later the female line was adjudged valid in the succession of the Princes of Belfalas. Master Razvan, I am certain, could find for us many examples over the centuries of this Council ruling against precedent. All of us must make our decisions based on the facts as we see them now. We must rule on what we believe to be right for Gondor today, not on what was judged right for Gondor one thousand and seventy-five years ago."

"We thank you for your guidance, Lord Steward," the Chief Healer murmured. He looked, I thought, not all that thankful for the guidance.

"Lord Boromir?" Rađobard of the Merchant Adventurers asked then. "Have you any guidance for this Council?"

"I concur with the Lord my brother," I said. "It is better if neither of us takes a role in this discussion. I will stand by the decision of the Council of Gondor."

As I spoke the words the niggling questions again sounded in my mind. I asked myself if indeed I kept silent for the sake of not over-influencing the Council.

Was it not, instead, that I feared to make the choice; that I wished above all for this decision to be made by someone else?

Master Rađobard bowed his head to me in acceptance of my words. Captain Cirion of the Anórien Rangers frowningly asked, "But, Lord Boromir, it is said that you travelled in company with Lord Aragorn, from the Elf-Lands of Rivendell to the Rauros Falls. Can you not then give us your opinion of him as a Man, if not of his claim as king?"

I held back a sigh, and once again I wished I could somehow have escaped fromattending this meeting.

"Very well," I answered. "This I will tell you: I saw nothing of Aragorn during our voyage together, nor have I seen anything afterward, that makes me believe Gondor would suffer from taking him as her king. He is a brave Man and an honourable one. If he becomes king he will accept his duties in all seriousness of heart, and the welfare of Gondor will be his greatest care. That is all I intend to say."

Uncle Imrahil said, "If the Lords my nephews will offer no further opinion, perhaps this Council will grant me leave to speak?"

He was answered by immediate nods and expressions of assent.

Imrahil began, "When Lord Aragorn asked me if I would read his statement to the Council, I was glad and proud to consent. I, for one, can say without hesitation that I support acclaiming Aragorn our king."

Exclamations both of surprise and of agreement sounded in reply to Imrahil's words. I heard Húrin of the Keys mutter almost inaudibly, "Oh, bloody hell."

I looked over at Faramir, who was working hard at keeping his face expressionless. But I was certain I saw approval in his eyes as he listened to our uncle's speech.

"I remember," Imrahil said, "as will several others of this Council, Lord Aragorn's previous sojourn in our country as Captain Thorongil. He impressed me then as he does now, as a Man of nobility and honour. I remember the esteem in which he was held by the soldiers who fought under his command: the same esteem in which he is held now by so many who shared the journey to the Black Gate.

"In the expedition he led against the Corsairs of Umbar, I led the troops of Belfalas that took part in that campaign. I spoke with Thorongil the night before battle was joined. On that night, he was clearly troubled. I asked him if he foresaw defeat for our forces. He told me that no, he believed we would be victorious. But he confided that he planned to leave Gondor after the campaign.

"I remember the sorrow in his face as he spoke of it. He admitted that there was bad blood between him and the Steward's Heir, Lord Denethor. He told me the time had come for him to leave, for the peace and happiness of the kingdom.

"When the battle was won, Thorongil did as he had told me he would, though many mourned his departure. When he returned to Gondor in this month past, and we learned the truth of who he is, I dreaded the conflict that I believed must come between him and the Lord Denethor. Lord Faramir and I spoke of it, and we resolved that if our forces survived the expedition to Mordor, I would ask Lord Aragorn, for the sake of Gondor, to leave our country once again.

"I grieve the death of Lord Denethor," Imrahil said earnestly, turning to Faramir and me as he said it. "Yet in my heart I am glad that I had no need to ask Aragorn to depart. I would not have stood against the Steward my brother-in-law. Nor would I stand against Steward Faramir and Lord Boromir, if they opposed Lord Aragorn's kingship now. But they have stated that they do not oppose it, and that they will support the decision of the Council. When I learned that, I rejoiced. For I believe that Aragorn will be a king of whom any kingdom would be thankful and proud. He loved our country enough to leave it and to put aside his chance for the kingship, once before. Now that he has returned and has made his claim, I know his valour, his wisdom and his love for Gondor will make him the greatest king this land has known."

There was a scattering of applause from some of the Council. Lord Duinhir of Morthond, however, bore a troubled frown on his face as bowed his head to Imrahil and began to speak.

"With all respect to Prince Imrahil," said Duinhir, "and all with respect also to Lord Aragorn, I must state that Aragorn has no monopoly on love for our country. None here can deny it when I say that Lord Denethor loved Gondor as well – even as do Steward Faramir and the Lord his brother."

Gratitude swept my heart at the Lord of Morthond's words. He had said what I had cut myself off from saying, by proclaiming that I would take no role in this discussion.

Lord Duinhir was continuing, "Nor do I believe Lord Aragorn holds any advantage over our Steward and Captain-General in the qualities of a leader. They too are Men of valour and honour. They too are Captains beloved by their Men. And it is their family, not Aragorn's, which has fought to keep Gondor alive these thousand years past. I must say that this supposed love for Gondor sits strangely upon a Man who has scarcely ever been here. My Lords, I, too, rode to the Black Gate; I, too, was impressed by Lord Aragorn's qualities as a Captain and as a warrior. But I can see no need to hail him as our king."

"It is true," exclaimed Húrin of the Keys. Húrin had in fact surprised me by holding his peace this long. "Why should we hail as king a Man who, by his own admission, has spent nine-tenths of his life in other lands? The Line of Isildur could not even keep their own kingdom intact. Why then should we believe that a petty chieftain with no kingdom of his own is the Man to rule Gondor?"

"My Lord Húrin," Faramir interceded, before several in the room could explode in outrage, "I believe that the term 'petty chieftain' is spoken of a prejudice that should play no role in our deliberations."

"As you will it, My Lord," conceded Húrin with some effort.

Faramir's intercession had not succeeded in banishing all of the Council members' wrath.

"If I may speak," Éomer King put in from his seat at Faramir's left. His voice quivered with an anger that stated he would dearly love to wipe the look of disdain from off Lord Húrin's face.

In his impassioned tones, Éomer began, "Like Prince Imrahil and Lord Duinhir, I too have had the honour of riding to battle with Lord Aragorn. A strange being indeed he seemed to me, when on the green downs of Rohan I first encountered him and his comrades. I asked him then whether he were a Man of our earth, or of legend. He told me that a Man may be both.

"In the days that followed I have found that he spoke true. For though he be a Man as we are, yet also he is more than mere Man. The lord my uncle, Théoden King, called Aragorn a kingly Man of high destiny, and in my heart I know the truth of those words.

"Rohan was a country besieged, when Aragorn and his comrades came to our land. Our spear arms were tied by the spell-cast sickness of the Lord our king, by the dwimmer-craft of the Wizard of Orthanc. Aragorn and Gandalf Greyhame returned to our king his strength and his hope. To Rohan they returned its heart. Théoden King and Aragorn the Heir of Elendil side by side routed the foe from Helm's Gate to the Great Dike. None who saw them that day could doubt that both of them were kings, Men fashioned by destiny to lead their people."

Éomer admitted, "I know that some may say I speak of feelings now, and not of proof. Yet proof there is; proof stronger than mortal Man could give. If Aragorn is not the king, how then did he lead his followers unscathed through the Paths of the Dead? If he is not the king, how is it that the Army of the Dead rallied to his call, and fought under his command?"

"If I may," put in Lord Duinhir of Morthond, in troubled tones, "the tale of the Paths of the Dead may not yet be known to all in this room. Rumours of it have reached me by messengers from my own land, for it is in Morthond Vale that the Stone of Erech stands, where Lord Aragorn summoned his Army of the Dead. It is my people who dwelt in terror while an army of spectres marched past their homes. Let us hear this tale, that all of us may judge it by fact and not by rumour."

It was Mithrandir who answered. "My Lord Steward," he said, "and Lords of the Council: there are two here best fitted to answer that request. Lords Elladan and Elrohir journeyed with Aragorn's forces through the Paths of the Dead, and stood at his side when the Sleepless Dead answered his call. I ask that the Council grant the Sons of Elrond leave to tell what they have seen and heard."

"You have good leave, My Lords," said Faramir.

The Elven brethren glanced at each other as though debating who would answer. Then again Elladan rose to his feet.

He began, in his melodious voice, "At Erech stands a black stone upon a hill, that was brought by Isildur from Númenor. By that stone the King of the Mountains swore allegiance to Isildur at the beginning of the realm of Gondor. But when Sauron returned and grew in might again, Isildur summoned the Men of the Mountains to fulfil their oath, and they would not: for they had worshipped Sauron in the Dark Years.

"Then said Isildur to their king: 'If the West prove mightier than thy Black Master, this curse I lay upon thee and they folk: to rest never until your oath is fulfilled. For this war will last through years uncounted, and you shall be summoned once again ere the end.'

"In the days of Arvedui, Last King of Arthedain, Malbeth the Seer spoke:

"Over the land there lies a long shadow,

Westward reaching wings of darkness.

The Tower trembles; to the tombs of kings

doom approaches. The Dead awaken;

for the hour is come for the oathbreakers:

at the Stone of Erech they shall stand again

and hear there a horn in the hills ringing.

Whose shall the horn be? Who shall call them

from the grey twilight, the forgotten people?

The heir of him to whom the oath they swore.

from the North shall he come, need shall drive him:

he shall pass the Door to the Paths of the Dead."

I think many of us in the Tower Hall shivered as the Elf Lord spoke these words. Without, the sun must have passed into a cloud, throwing the Hall into shadow. But the shadow passed, and sunlight gleamed again in the Hall as the words of Malbeth the Seer came to their end.

Elladan Son of Elrond went on, "To my brother and me our father said as we set forth to join Aragorn's company: 'Say unto Aragorn, The days are short. If thou art in haste, remember the Paths of the Dead.' So Aragorn took the path beneath the Haunted Mountain, and his kinsmen of the Dúnedain, and Legolas of Mirkwood and Gimli of Erebor, and my brother and I with him. And in the hall of empty shadows beneath the mountain, Aragorn spoke aloud: 'I summon you to the Stone of Erech!'

"Out of the Mountain's blackness we rode into blue twilight, and the Dead rode behind us, with their banners as of mist and their spear points glimmering on the edge of sight. Through the Vale of Morthond to the Stone of Erech we came in the dead of night. Then my brother gave Aragorn his silver horn, and Aragorn blew upon it, and the host of the Dead pressed all about us. Aragorn called unto them, 'Oathbreakers, why have ye come?'

And a voice answered as from the halls below the mountains, 'To fulfil our oath and have peace.'

"Others in this room will confirm what followed. From Morthond through Lamedon and the plains of Lebinnin we rode, and the Shadow Host with us, till we reached Pelargir upon Anduin. There lay the main fleet of Umbar, fifty large ships and smaller vessels beyond count, where their host stood ready to give us battle. Scarce the numbers of the crew of one their ships we had, yet in that battle none of us were scathed. For Aragorn set loose the Host of the Dead upon them. Like a grey flood they rode among the Men of Harad, and in the terror of them the enemy broke and fled, scattering before us like the leaves of Lorien in the first wind of spring. But," added the Elf Lord, gazing about the Council with a look part of request and part of challenge, "my brother and I are not alone here in witnessing these things. Others there are among your own number who saw it."

As most of the Council looked questioningly one to the other, Angbor of Lamedon cleared his throat and said with a discomfited frown, "It is true. At Linhir above the Mouth of Gilrain my Men contested the fords with a force of Umbar and Harad. Though we were in the heat of battle when Lord Aragorn's host approached, our foemen fled away in the fear of – of those who rode with them – and most of our folk did likewise. Aragorn bade me gather my Men and follow on to Pelargir – which we did, although it took no little persuading to make any Man follow in the roads that the Dead had trod!"

Amid a few nervous laughs from those about him, Angbor continued.

"When we came to Pelargir, the battle was done: the ships of the Black Fleet abandoned or ablaze, the foe drowned or fleeing southward. But the Dead were not yet gone. Myself I saw them, like a fog upon the shore, except for the sparks that were their swords and their spear-blades, and the star-gleams of their eyes.

"Lord Aragorn cried to them: 'Hear now the words of the Heir of Isildur! Your oath is fulfilled. Go back and trouble not the valleys again. Depart and be at rest.' Then I thought I saw the shape of a Man step out from the fog, and he broke his spear and cast it before Aragorn's feet. The Dead Man bowed and turned back toward the land, and all that fog and the swords and the eyes faded away and were gone."

Shudders and whispers sped among the Council. At some point during Lord Elladan's recital, Svip had reached up and clutched my hand. He managed a shaky smile at me when I squeezed his hand.

Elladan returned to his chair, while Angbor of Lamedon scowlingly eyed the Council as though daring anyone to cast doubt upon his story.

None spoke until our old comrade Captain Cirion of the Rangers leaned forward in his chair and said, "I mean no disrespect to you, Lord Angbor, or to the Lords the Sons of Elrond, or to any who endured the fear of this Host of the Dead. I am not sorry that I missed out on seeing them. But I ask all of this Council: is it on the word of some ancient Dead Men of the Mountains that we are to choose our king? Because the cursed Dead obeyed his summons as a means to end their torment, are we to believe that these Dead Men knew who is Gondor's rightful king? By the Valar, I can easily believe that if they'd waited since the time of Isildur to perform some deed that would free them, they would follow any Man who dared to stand at the Stone of Erech and tell them that he is king!"

At this, Mithrandir snapped in withering tones, "Any other Man who dared try it, Captain, would not have survived the attempt."

"So you tell us, Lord Wizard," Cirion fired back. "Pardon an old soldier's bluntness, but I would prefer some more solid proof!"

"It is a valid question," mused Captain Eradan the Commander of Cair Andros. "Could the Dead know in truth that Lord Aragorn is king? I—"

He turned an embarrassed look on me, then he hastened on. "Forgive me for asking this of you, Lord Boromir. But – you alone among all Men here have passed beyond the borders of this life and have returned. What do you think? Do the Dead know that he is king? Are all the questions clear to them that are mysterious to us?"

The young Captain's voice was so pleadingly hopeful as he asked that, that I could not restrain myself from laughing. "I am sorry, Eradan," I said. "There is nothing I can tell you. I do not know if the Dead are gifted with miraculous knowledge or not, for the simple reason that I remember nothing of the hours I spent as one of them. I'm afraid that for answers to the questions of Life and Death, you will have to look elsewhere."

Several of the Council chuckled at that, while their more straight-laced fellows grimaced in disapproval at their laughter.

Dryly Master Rađobard of the Merchant Adventurers observed, "We are wandering from the path, I think. I do not think it matters whether the Dead Men of the Mountains knew the truth of Lord Aragorn's claim. Lord Elladan stated very clearly that the Dead Men were bound to obey the heir of Isildur. It was Isildur to whom they swore fealty; he who cursed them. The words of the seer in Arvedui's reign spoke of them being bound to 'the heir of him to whom they swore;' the seer said nothing of them being bound to Gondor's king. We are not debating here the validity of Lord Aragorn's claim as Isildur's Heir. We are debating whether his status as heir to the Northern Line gives him valid claim to the Throne of Gondor."

There were murmurs of agreement. Lord Húrin whispered, "Oh, well said!"

"We must not forget," said the Chief Healer, with a frown of thought, "that there have been other signs. There is his power of healing: to which, with the assistance of the Lords the Sons of Elrond, we owe the lives of over three hundreds who were patients in the Houses of Healing. We would be the worst of ingrates did we forget not only the care he has shown for the people of our country, but also the power beyond mortal skill with which he heals."

"Of a surety," replied Captain Olfert, Post Commander of the Calenhad garrison, "those are deeds for which we must be grateful to the depths of our hearts. But are they deeds which make him our king?"

"It is said in ancient lore," the Healer countered, looking rather surprised at the objection, "that the hands of the king are the hands of a healer …"

"Aye, so it is said," cut in Lord Kirilhir of Ringló Vale, who had arrived in the City in time to spare his eighteen-year-old son the strain of being one of the Men to choose whether Gondor should again have a king. Kirilhir went on, "But I cannot say that I have ever read any specifics of it. You will know, My Lord Faramir, if any of us will: are there written in the chronicles of Gondor or Númenor any details of the kings' powers of healing, or of any kings, say, who were chosen for the throne by virtue of their healing gift? Were there any kings who were unknown and were identified by this power?"

Faramir frowned long in silence before he answered. "I do not think that I have read of any such," he said at last, with troubled gaze.

I thought suddenly of the words with which Faramir had awakened from the Dark Sleep, at Aragorn's call. Again I heard him murmur "My Lord, you called me. I am here. What does the King command?"

What must it be costing him, I thought, to sit here and listen to this debate and not to speak for the choice that he believes to be right?

Our father is gone, I thought. Our father is gone, and with him, may the Valar be thanked, the necessity for Faramir to choose between Father and the king.

And even so, even now, his determination to be the Steward he feels he should be, forbids him from speaking for what he believes.

Lord Kirilhir pursued, "Lord Mithrandir and the Lords the Sons of Elrond can tell us: is it not true that Lord Aragorn received his training in the healing arts from Lord Elrond Half-Elven? I think we must ask, then, if that is so, whether Lord Aragorn's healing skills are proof of his status as king, or simply of Lord Elrond's prowess as a teacher."

Elrohir Son of Elrond sprang to his feet at that. His brother gave him the same look that Faramir has so often turned on me, when he fears the ill-seasoned statements into which my wrath may lead me.

Despite Elladan's fears, Lord Elrohir managed to pause for breath, and at least to somewhat regulate his words.

Elrohir said, "There is more than our father's skill at work in Aragorn's healing power. From the day our father first commenced his teaching, when Aragorn was a child of no greater than five years, his quickness and understanding passed that of any other mortal. By the time he could look back on ten years upon this Middle Earth, Aragorn's power in those arts was rival to mine and my brother's, and we had been our father's pupils for over two thousand years. And ere three more summers had passed, Aragorn's skill surpassed ours."

"With respect," said Húrin of the Keys, in tones far less than respectful, "when you say his quickness and understanding passed that of other mortals, had you any other mortal with which to compare him? Had Lord Elrond attempted to pass on his skills to other mortal Men and found those other mortals lacking? Or do you simply assume Lord Aragorn possesses more than mortal skills, because your father says Aragorn is the King of Gondor and you believe him? If Aragorn surpassed you and your brother by the time he reached thirteen, may that not say more about the two of you than it does about Lord Aragorn? Are we to fall on our knees and hail Aragorn as king because the Sons of Elrond may be tardy pupils?"

The sudden rage on Elrohir's face predicted immediate death for Húrin. Elladan grabbed his brother's arm, and Faramir snapped coldly, "I will ask you to recall, Lord Húrin, that this is the second time this day I have been forced to caution you."

"I apologise, My Lord," said Húrin, "to you and to the Lords the Sons of Elrond." He bowed his head and kept his gaze fixed on his clenched hands. Elrohir took his seat once more, still glaring. It appeared to me that he sat largely by the force of his brother tugging on his arm.

Éomer King put in, in his typically heated tones, "There is another omen to consider, if the Paths of the Dead and Lord Aragorn's healing power are not enough for some here. What of the words of the eagle, of which we have heard since we returned from Mordor? Will not some Man here speak to that?"

The Council members looked from one to the other, and none answered. At length Faramir demanded, "Well? Did no Man of the Council hear the eagle's words, that have caused such a stir within the City?"

"I heard them." The reply came from Ivarr Son of Yngvar, of the Orc's Head Tavern, though by his tone he spoke far from willingly. Scowling, he went on, "I was at our guildhouse in the City, and I heard the eagle sing,

"Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West,

for your King shall come again,

and he shall dwell among you

all the days of your life."

Looking embarrassed at this admission he had just made, Ivarr hastened on gruffly, "But I do not say we should make our decision based on the words of a bird."

That was too much for Lord Elrohir, who threw off his brother's arm and leapt once more to his feet. He cried out, "Is there no belief at all in the hearts of Men? Will you have the omens spelled out before you in letters a league high and still not accept them? You do not deserve Aragorn as your king!"

Several of the Council started to shout at once, but Faramir's voice carried over all of them.

"You have the apology of the Steward of Gondor, Lord Elrohir. We thank you for the guidance and wisdom you have shared with us. But you must understand that this Council must make its own decision. I ask you to accept my apology, and be seated."

Elrohir Son of Elrond swallowed, bowed, and sat.

Duinhir of Morthond spoke, apparently unmoved by the recent tumult. "I do not consider myself an unbelieving Man," he said, "and I think that this omen of the eagle has the same weight or lack thereof as the other omens we have heard. Clearly the Eagle Lord believes that Aragorn is our King – even as Lord Mithrandir and the Sons of Elrond believe it, and even as the Sleepless Dead believed him the Heir of Isildur. Lord Mithrandir, the eagles are your allies and friends, as we know from the account you related to us before Minas Tirith was besieged. I mean no disrespect to you or to the eagle lords. But the fact that you and they share the same opinion of Aragorn's claim to the kingship seems to me no omen, but merely a shared belief."

"It is a belief that many of this Council share also," said Éomer of Rohan.

Duinhir bowed his head to Éomer in response to that. But now Húrin of the Keys spoke up again, though in more restrained a voice than one might have expected of him.

"And it is a belief that many do not share," he said, slowly and calmly getting up from his chair. "My Lords and Masters, we have heard the words of the eagle, that our King shall come again, and we have heard the words of Malbeth the Seer. Yet I ask, what makes one Man a seer, when another, whose words also are remembered over the centuries, is thought merely a poet? I ask that this Council remember the words of Arnemir of Erelas. Ask yourselves if perhaps he was seer as well as poet, when seven hundred years ago he warned of the danger of kings."

I would not have believed it of Húrin. I had not heard him recite poetry since our schooldays, and even then he had done so under duress. But desperate belief in one's cause can lead a Man to surprising tactics.

Húrin declaimed now, in ringing, impassioned tones that our old Literature Master would never have thought possible from him:

"All we have of freedom, all we use or know,

This our fathers bought for us long and long ago.

Ancient right unnoticed as the breath we draw,

Leave to live by no Man's leave, underneath the law,

Lance and torch and tumult, steel and grey-goose wing,

Wrenched it, inch and ell and all, slowly from the king.

Here is naught unproven – here is naught to learn.

It is written what shall fall if the king return.

He shall mark our goings, question whence we came,

Set his guards about us, as in freedom's name.

He shall break his judges, if they cross his power;

He shall rule above the law, calling on the Valar.

He shall peep and mutter; and the night shall bring

Watchers 'neath our window, lest we mock the king.

Strangers of his counsel, hirelings of his pay,

These shall deal our justice: sell, deny, delay.

We shall take our station, dirt beneath his feet,

While his hired captains jeer us in the street.

Long-forgotten bondage, dwarfing heart and brain,

All our fathers died to loose, he shall bind again.

Here is naught at venture, random nor untrue,

Swings the wheel full-circle, brims the cup anew.

Here is naught unproven, here is nothing hid:

Step for step and word for word, so the old kings did!

All the right they promise – all the wrong they bring.

Stewards of the judgement, suffer not this king!"

Húrin took his seat amid startled silence from the Council. His fists, I saw, were trembling.

It was Elrohir Son of Elrond who spoke first, but he spoke in tones surprising in their gentleness. With sorrow in his voice, he said, "Lord Húrin, you wrong Aragorn if you believe he would be a king like those of whom your seer spoke. I am his friend who speak it, but I do not concede that friendship blinds me in this. From his infancy I have known him. I will stake life and honour that Gondor need fear no wrong from Aragorn if he takes his place as king."

"It is true," Elladan said firmly. "I add my word of honour to my brother's."

"And I add mine," said Mithrandir, then he continued with a wry smile, "though I know that will do Aragorn's cause no good, with those who trust a Wizard's word no more than they do an eagle's."

"The Elf Lords, the Wizard and the eagle are not alone in this," said Éomer King. "I too will pledge my honour and my life, that Aragorn would be no king such as those in the poet's words."

"As will I," said Prince Imrahil. "And I will take the liberty of reminding this Council of the context in which the poet wrote. The 'old kings' of whom he speaks were those in the last days of Númenor, when, snared by Sauron, they sought to set themselves above the Valar. And the king that he warned against was no returning scion of Elendil's line. That poem was a warning against pride to Steward Hador, of whom some say that he contemplated changing the title of the stewards to king, and taking the throne for himself. Hador heeded the warning, as have all his descendants after him. But honest though the poet's words be – and honest though be the Man who speaks them – we need not fear that they portend disaster and tyranny if one of the House of Elendil sits again upon the Throne of Gondor."

Húrin of the Keys answered, though in tones still curiously calm, "Are we not taught that the words of a poet may have many interpretations? And how is it to be known that one man is a seer and the other a mere poet, but by the events that prove their words to be true? Malbeth the Seer's words would mean nothing to us now if Aragorn had not indeed followed the Paths of the Dead. If he had not, perhaps we would call Malbeth a poet, and no seer."

Húrin's voice grew impassioned again as he spoke. "I warn this Council; it will be on our heads if the words of Arnemir of Erelas also prove true. If there was peril in a Steward taking the title of King to himself, and seeking to make himself more than the first among his peers, does not the same peril hold true for a scion of Elendil's line? Why should we welcome, like lambs inviting the wolf into their sheep-fold, a Man whom we will set above us, and give to him and to his heirs power over our people?

"I do not gainsay those who say that Aragorn is a good Man, who will rule us with conscience and honour. But will his descendents also do so? Why should we give ourselves into the power of those we do not know, for no better reason than antique allegiance to a title from out of the musty scrolls of history?"

"Lord Húrin," Faramir said. This time he gave a melancholy smile, instead of taking Húrin to task. "One could ask the same question of the line of the Stewards, as you ask of the line of kings. That some are good Men, does not mean that all of their descendants will be so. Steward or king, either may prove a tyrant. In both cases, it is the responsibility of this Council to guide their return to the path of honour, or to punish them if they will not return to it. We have no guarantee that all of our future rulers will be just. But we will be no more free of that risk with Stewards than we would with kings."

"My Lord," Húrin said. Tears raced down his face as he spoke. "My Lord, a Steward does not rule by the sanction of magic, as would this king. The Stewards would not have the weapon that this line of kings would have, to hold their people in tyranny: the weapon of the magical endorsements that won for them the throne, and the belief that, with their healing hands and their birds of prophecy, they are more than mortal Men!"

"I will not make my decision based on magic," flatly said Captain Penda of Pinnath Gellin, "nor will I reject Lord Aragorn's claim out of fear of it. I would know the practical reasons for hailing him as king. What will Gondor gain by accepting him as king that she would not have without him?"

"We can give one of the answers to that," said Elladan Son of Elrond. "At least I hope that some of this Council will consider it a gain. Gondor would have the heartfelt alliance of the Elves of Imladris, and those of Lothlorien also. I do not speak this as a threat," he went on; "should Gondor not accept Aragorn's kingship, you need fear no hostility from our people nor those of the Golden Wood. The Sea calls to all of us, and we will not be long among you upon this Middle Earth. But while yet we tarry here, we will be the faithful allies of the kingdom that Aragorn rules."

"I have little doubt," added Elrohir, "that the same is true of the Kingdom of Mirkwood. With Prince Legolas as Aragorn's boon companion, the alliance of Gondor and Mirkwood is assured."

"And the same," put in Mithrandir, "can be said of the Dwarves of Erebor. Gimli Son of Gloin will forge an alliance of the kingdoms as strong and pure as any mithril-work."

Captain Eradan's eyes gleamed in wonder as he began to speak. "There would come as well the unification with Aragorn's ancestral holdings in the North … and perhaps also unification, or at least alliance, with the country of the halflings; do they not hail from those parts as well? With so many strong, new alliances with the kingdoms of the north, added to the ancient bonds of friendship that link all the lands of the south … why should Gondor not know a new golden age? We may have holdings greater than they have been since Elendil's day, and a time of peace and prosperity such as we have never known!"

"It is true," mused Rađobard of the Merchant Adventurers. "The new trading links alone could enrich Gondor twenty-fold …"

"The trading-links could enrich some in Gondor," snapped Master Eppa of the Stonemasons' Guild. "But will these friendships with other lands come at the expense of Gondor's own people? Will this fine king who has the love of the Dwarves of Erebor bring them in to do all his building-work, and leave the honest workmen of Gondor with no work for their hands and no food for their children's bellies?"

"Aye," said Captain Cirion of the Anórien Rangers. "There are good honest warnings in the Lord of the Keys' poem! Are we to find 'strangers of his counsel' and 'hired captains' lording over us and standing between us and our king? Will we be giving Gondor over to the hands of foreigners when we hand ourselves to him?"

"We will not!" exclaimed Éomer. "None who know Aragorn could ever think that."

"It should be possible," Faramir interjected, "to maintain friendships and alliances abroad, while yet standing faithful to the needs of Gondor's people. If in any way the king should fail in that, it will be the duty of this Council to remind him – and his descendants – that Gondor's people gave them their throne, and that Gondor's welfare is their most sacred charge."

The debate continued, but I lost the track of it, for Húrin Keeper of the Keys turned to me, seizing my arm. His face was dry now, but his voice was still raw with tears.

"How can you let this happen?" he demanded in a desperate whisper. "Why do you not stop it from happening; why will you not speak?"

"I'm sorry," I whispered back. "I don't know that it should be stopped. I don't know that it's the wrong thing to do."

"How can you not know it?" he hissed, his eyes wild with despair. "How can you not know?"

He turned away and stared desperately ahead of him, fighting to regain mastery over himself.

Svip, who had been huddling close to my chair, gazed up at me with a look of reproach. Then pointedly he got up and took a step over closer to Húrin's chair.

"Svip – " I began in a whisper.

But my brother's voice interrupted me, as in tones of command he addressed the Council.

"My Lords and Masters," he said, "the charge laid upon us is to weigh all that we have heard. Consider well all that has been spoken here. But remember: the decision must arise not from omens, not from precedent, not from the advice of allies. The decision must come from each Man's conscience.

"Tell me," he demanded of all of them, "is there more discussion to be held? Have we more questions; is there aught more that any of us wish to say? Or have we accomplished all we can with words, and the time is come to choose?"

The answer came slowly at first, from a few isolated voices. Then it was taken up by well-nigh every member of the Council.

"Choose! Choose!"

"Let us choose!"

Faramir held up his hand for silence. Then he stood and struck the gong that stands to the left of the Steward's Chair.

From their places along the walls where they had waited in silence, the servants came forward, bringing to each Man of the Council his travelling desk, with the pen, ink and paper with which he would cast his vote.

Only Faramir and I refused them. I smiled faintly at him, and he at me. Then we waited, as the Council penned their answers.

I looked over at Svip, but he stood like a sentinel at Lord Húrin's side, and would not meet my eyes.

The servants carried the votes to Razvan the scribe, then returned to their places at either side of the Hall. Razvan's assistant stood by the desk, waiting until the Chief Scribe should complete his count.

With painstaking lack of speed Razvan studied each paper and set them in two piles upon his desk. The scratching of his pen as he noted down each vote seemed the only sound in the Tower Hall.

There followed then another maddening wait, as Razvan's assistant in turn counted the votes, confirmed the Chief Scribe's count, and appended his signature to their written report.

At last, after at least an Age, Razvan stood, holding the parchment with their notations in his hands. He turned and bowed, stiffly but with dignity, to Faramir.

"You have a result to report, Master Razvan?" Faramir asked the question quietly, but I am certain that his voice carried to the farthest reaches of the Hall.

"I have, My Lord Steward," the scribe replied. "Be it known for the record that the Lord Steward Faramir and Captain-General Boromir have abstained from this vote. On the question of whether to acclaim Lord Aragorn Son of Arathorn as King of Gondor, the vote of the Council is: In favour, twenty-three. Opposed, ten."

No one spoke at the first. I believe that all felt as stunned as I did; those who supported Aragorn's kingship no less than those who opposed it. We sat in silence a moment, sobered by the magnitude of this deed we had just wrought.

I think at first I had no reaction at all. Then my thought was, I am sorry, Father. I am sorry. I hope you can someday forgive us.

Around the Hall, Men of the Council began to speak. I saw the delighted smile on Éomer's face as he reached over and shook hands vigorously with Uncle Imrahil. Identical grins of amazement spread over the faces of both of the Sons of Elrond, then they turned excitedly to say something to Mithrandir, who also was beaming like a new father holding his first child.

"Gentlemen of the Council," Faramir said. His voice silenced again the rising tide of exclamations. "The vote is sufficient for the two-thirds majority that custom requires. I trust that none will contest this result and ask for a further vote?"

No one answered.

"That is well. Let the vote that Master Razvan has reported be entered into the record of this Council. Yet for a decision of this importance, it is vital as we go forward that we have the support of all of Gondor's Council. I ask of all here to accept the choice of the majority, and to stand behind that choice. I move that the votes cast today be burned, and that the record shall state that the Council of Gondor unanimously asks the Lord Aragorn Son of Arathorn to be Gondor's King. Are there any who wish to speak against this motion?"

Again there was no answer. I glanced over at Húrin, but he stared straight ahead, as motionless as one of the Hall's carven kings. Svip glared at me in a fury, still standing at Húrin's side. I reached out to put my hand on his arm, but he angrily shook it away.

"All those in favour?" Faramir continued.

There answered a chorus of "aye"s, in which I spoke along with the rest. I heard Húrin Keeper of the Keys speak it as well, although his "aye" sounded forth as though it cost him mortal pain to speak.

"And those opposed?"

None answered.

Faramir's voice rang out, "Let the record so show. Master Razvan, if you will bring the votes to me?"

The scribe carried the pile of papers to Faramir, bowed, and stepped aside. Faramir stood. One by one, as Council, guests and attendants watched in silence, he set each vote into the fire burning in the brazier by the Steward's Chair.

When the last vote had crackled and vanished in flame, Faramir spoke again. "I will ride at once to the camp of Lord Aragorn, and inform him of this Council's request. My Lords the Sons of Elrond, and Lord Mithrandir, I ask that you will honour this mission with your presence. All Men of the Council who wish to, I ask that you join us as well."

As tradition decreed, he struck the gong once, and declared, "My Lords and Masters, be it known that this session of the Council of Gondor is ended."

Freed at last from the strictures of decorum, most of the Council sprang to their feet and began speaking at once. There was a general rush toward Faramir, as Men sought to proclaim their eagerness to join him on the mission to Aragorn.

I kept my seat, and looked over to Húrin and Svip.

Svip looked back at me, both in accusation and in pleading. Húrin of the Keys had bowed his head and shut his eyes.

"It will be all right," I said urgently, to both of them. "It is the right decision. Believe me. It will be all right."

Húrin looked up. "I know it," he managed to say, although his jaundiced smile as he spoke proclaimed just the contrary. "I know it," he repeated. "Eventually I will even come to believe it. But I'm afraid that will take me some time."

Lamely striving for some way lighten the mood, I said, "I nearly thought I was hearing myself at previous councils, listening to you; as though the ghost of my former self were speaking through you. Give or take the poetry."

"Aye, well," he said, with a half smile, half grimace. "Someone had to do it. They were things that needed to be said."

With a suddenness that left both Húrin and me staring, Svip bolted for the door.

I jumped to my feet, yelling his name. He was already out of the room.

"What the hell?" wondered Húrin of the Keys.

"Damnation," I groaned.

Politically, I knew, I should not go rushing after Svip. I knew very well that I should be seen to be here, not running out of the room the instant Aragorn was acclaimed king.

But politics, this time, would have to do without me.

"Excuse me!" I shouted over my shoulder to Húrin, then I plunged into the crowd.

There were more Councillors clustered around Faramir than I cared to fight my way through. But Uncle Imrahil was within easier reach.

I manoeuvred my way through the small crowd between us, and grabbed his arm.

"Uncle," I said. "Tell Faramir I'm going after Svip. He's upset; I need to talk with him. Tell Faramir not to wait for me. I wouldn't be able to go with you to Aragorn anyway, not unless this whole lot wants to take my route along the River."

Imrahil nodded. As I set out for the door at the best speed I could manage through the crowds, my uncle called after me, "Good luck!"

I had thought I would find Svip huddled in the Fountain, as usual. But this time, I did not.

With a feeling of foreboding that seemed to increase with each step, I hastened to the guards at the Citadel's gate.

"Did Svip just pass through here?" I asked of them, as I arrived at a run.

"Aye, My Lord," confirmed one of the Men, and the other put in, "As if the wolves of Angband were after him."

Cursing under my breath, I sped on. An alarmed-looking guard at the other end of the tunnel informed me that not only had Svip passed him a minute or two ahead of me, the shape-changer had also switched to horse form the moment he was out of the tunnel.

"Damn and blast," I hissed. I ran for the Stables.

It was the work of a few moments to commandeer one of the horses that are kept saddled and ready should any of the Message-Riders require them. I urged the horse down the Citadel road, though I was forced to rein in our pace by the risk of mowing down hapless townspeople.

I thought, He is going home. Svip is going home, and I'll be too late to stop him.

I'll be too late even to say goodbye.

The guards at each gate and each tunnel confirmed that the big grey horse had passed by shortly before me. None had tried to stop him. They knew him as my companion, and presumed that he was on some mission for me.

At the Great Gate of Minas Tirith, the story was the same. One of the guards told me that he had attempted conversation with Svip. But when the shape-shifter snarled that his destination was none of the guard's business, they had let him pass with no further delay.

From the Gate I could spot him easily. Already two miles or so from the City, a small cloud of dust showed where his hooves pounded along the Harlond Road.

Biting back another curse, I urged my commandeered horse in pursuit.

The Errand Riders' steeds are of necessity no sluggards. But though we gained on Svip throughout that chase, he was still near a mile ahead of me when he reached the Harlond's gate. When I galloped up to the gate in turn, leaping to the ground and flinging the reins to the young soldier who ran out from the stables, I knew a dreary certainty that Svip would be too far ahead for me to ever catch him.

As the guards heaved open the gate, one of them told me, "Lord Svip said he was on an errand for you, My Lord. We saw no reason to doubt him—"

"I know that," I said. "Did you see anything of where he went; what he did?"

"Yes, sir," said the other guard. He stepped through the gateway to point out where Svip had gone. "He galloped to the end of the quay, there. Then he changed to his other shape and dove into the River. He was facing upriver when he dove; that is all I saw."

Shouting my thanks to the guards, I ran on to the quay, already knowing that I would see nothing of my friend when I gazed into the water.

In his own form, and with the lead he had on me, he would be both too small and too far away for me to see.

I yelled, "Svip!" I expected no answer, and I received none.

Without pausing to question my actions or to tell myself how stupid they were, I stripped off my outer tunic and dove into the Anduin.

Swimming against the Great River's current was a challenge. But it proved well within my abilities. I suppose it must have been so since the day I first awakened in Svip's home, changed by the water creature's spell that had brought me back to life.

Somewhat more troublesome than Anduin's current was the dull ache of my battered ribs, already protesting from the less-than-gentle treatment I had given them on my ride from the City. But the discomfort was easily bearable. I told myself that if anything, the time spent in Anduin's waters was more like to help my ribs than to make them worse.

Faramir, of course, would be unimpressed by this argument. I could already hear the lecture he would give me when he learned how I had treated my still-healing body.

But Faramir would understand. Faramir would know that I had to catch Svip if there was any way I could do so; that I must make every effort to find him and say goodbye.

I was swimming near the shore. Every now and then I would stop where a rock along the shoreline gave me something to hang on to, while I shouted out Svip's name and listened for any reply.

I was under no illusion that I would spot him, if he wished to remain hidden from me. The only hope was that he might hear me, and would relent enough to stop and speak with me.

How long am I going to do this? I asked myself. How far is too far; when will I have to give up?

It was difficult to judge how far this pursuit had brought me. The shores and the Rammas wall to my left seemed identical from one mile to the next, though I thought I had seen four mile castles since I struck out from the Harlond.

It is fifteen miles along the River from the Harlond to Osgiliath. I told myself that I would go as far as Osgiliath, if I had to. If Svip had not chosen to stop and speak with me by then, there was little chance that he ever would.

There is little chance that he will stop even now, I thought bitterly. But I swam on.

It started to rain. I saw the circles of the rain's droplets, spiralling through the water about me.

A memory came to me of the day Svip and I spent hiding in the Nindalf Marshes, while rain plopped down on us and the sounds from the Orc encampment taunted us with the impossibility of journeying on.

As I swam, I cursed everything that had changed for Svip since that day in the marsh.

I cursed that I had brought him into the world of Men. I cursed that he had learned the anguish of loss, but that I could not teach him how Men learn to go on with their lives.

I caught hold of a boulder, trying to ignore the dull ache of my chest that grew more noticeable the instant I stopped swimming.

"Svip!" I yelled. "Svip, I just want to talk with you, before you go home. Please."

There was no answer. I swam onward.

I passed the fifth mile castle. There would be one more mile castle before the Rammas curved away from the shore.

You've gone a third of the way, I told myself. A third of the way, and do you think you've accomplished anything besides making your ribs ache and earning Faramir's wrath?

The long green face of my friend popped out from the water in front of me.

I was so startled that for a moment I stopped swimming. The current pulled me several feet back from him before I recovered myself and swam for the shore.

Svip, to my relief, was swimming next to me. When I hauled myself onto a boulder green with moss, at the shoreline, Svip leapt out beside me.

"You shouldn't be swimming this far!" he yelled chidingly. "Your ribs haven't healed up yet."

"I know it," I gasped out. "I'll stop swimming if you'll talk with me."

"Damn it, Boromir!" Svip shouted. "You'll kill yourself like this someday."

I laughed weakly. The water creature snapped, "What's so funny?"

"You sound just like Faramir."

The rain drizzled down on us, one of the soft rains of spring. Svip scowled up into the sky. Then he muttered, "Faramir knows what he's talking about."

I was sitting on the boulder now, hanging my legs down into the water. Svip perched next to me, huddled up with his chin propped on his knees.

"You shouldn't have followed me," he said, not looking at me. "I have to leave. I have to go home."

"I know that," I said. "I'm not trying to stop you. But in the world of Men, friends do not take leave of each other without saying goodbye."

"I don't care about the world of Men!" he raged. Svip turned on me suddenly and yelled, "How could you do that? You, Faramir, all of you! How could you give your father's kingdom away to him?"

He turned his angry, grief-stricken gaze away from me, leaning his chin on his knees once more.

In wonder, I marvelled at the heartache that the Council's decision had called forth in him.

"Svip," I began, "it was never my father's kingdom. The very word itself, kingdom, never allowed us to forget that. It was always the Kingdom of Gondor. The Stewards were caretakers only, guarding our country till the return of its king."

"Your father didn't believe that," Svip said harshly. "Did he?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "He always said that he did. He said that ten thousand years would not suffice to turn the line of the Stewards to kings."

"But he didn't want to give the kingdom to Aragorn! You know he didn't."

"No. That's true."

I watched the circles of the raindrops, spreading through Anduin's water.

"I don't know if he ever would have done so, in the end," I said. "With the Ring destroyed, and the Dark Lord gone … I don't know what he would have done then. But … this is the right thing to do, Svip. It is the right thing to do."

"Why?" he shot back at me. "Why is it the right thing to do? Your family fought for Gondor all these centuries; his never did. Why is it the right thing to give the country to him?"

"He fought for Gondor," I argued. "He led the relief force that saved us from the siege. And forty years ago, he served my grandfather and captained the force that drove the corsairs from Umbar. He has fought for Gondor, even though his ancestors did not."

"You've fought for Gondor too! You've fought for Gondor always. And Faramir's fought for Gondor, and so has Imrahil, so have Éomer and Éowyn, so have I! Does that make any of us the King?"

I sought for the words that could truly answer his question.

"Svip … it makes sense for this change to come to Gondor now. Sauron's passing has brought the end of an Age. They say it is six thousand years since first he sought to claim Middle Earth. If he is truly gone, now, then many things will change. It makes sense for Gondor to begin this new Age with her king restored to her."

"Why a king rather than a steward?" Svip insisted. "Why Aragorn rather than Faramir or you?"

As I answered him, the thought came to me that I was answering myself, as well. And I realised with surprise that I believed in the words I was speaking.

"Gondor will be stronger with him," I said slowly, "than she would be if we denied him. You saw at the Council; you saw the leaders of Middle Earth who favour his claim.

"He has the friendship of the Elves. True, many of them have left Middle Earth; many more will soon leave. But there are many of them yet, and they are yet powerful. They love him as one of their own. We would rob Gondor of the strength of that alliance did we turn him away.

"But more important than the Elves, he has the love of many of our own leaders. You heard how Imrahil spoke of him, and Éomer. They would not turn from our ancient alliance if Faramir instead of Aragorn ruled Gondor, but they would always wonder if we had made the right choice. I think in their hearts they would always regret it.

"I think that Faramir would regret it, too. So would many of our people. And regret would turn to doubt and bitterness. And doubt and bitterness can rot the strength of any kingdom."

It is true, I thought, and I believe it.

The realisation spread over me in a slow, growing surge of relief. I thought, I do believe that the right choice has been made.

I believed it, and I could cease tormenting myself with doubts. I could stop wondering whether I'd done the wrong thing by keeping silent, by shifting the decision from my shoulders to those of Faramir and the Council. I could stop asking myself whether I should have steered Gondor away from accepting Aragorn's kingship – as our father might have steered our country's choice, had he lived.

The right decision has been made. Gondor must move forward now and you must move forward with her.

The words that brought comfort to me had no such effect for Svip. I looked at him sitting slumped beside me, staring out at the River while the raindrops rolled unheeded over his skin.

"You don't care anymore, do you?" he murmured finally. "You, and Faramir. Neither of you care."

"What do you mean?" I asked him quietly. "What don't Faramir and I care about?"

"Your father," Svip whispered. "You're forgetting about him already. You don't care about what he wanted. And both of you, now, you're running after Éowyn. You're so busy wanting her, you don't think about your father at all."

Oh, Valar, I thought, oh Valar, my poor, poor friend.

And what can I say to him? What is there I can say to help him understand?

"Svip," I said, "that is not true. I think of our father every day. I know that Faramir does, too." Although, I added silently, it were probably better for him if he did not. "There is not an hour goes by that I do not think of him. That Faramir and I are courting Éowyn does not mean either of us have forgotten our father. Father wanted to see his sons wed; he wanted to hold his grandchildren on his knees. He cannot do that now, but he would not want us to grieve so for him that we cannot live our own lives. We would anger him did we do so. By the gods, I can hear the chiding he would give us if he dreamed we even thought of such a thing!"

Svip gazed at me in bleak incomprehension. I spoke on.

"It is part of the way our people heal. When we take a wife, when we hold children of our own … that itself is another link to those we love, who have gone before us. You see something in the face of your child that reminds you of your father, or your mother, or your grandparents, and you know that your line, and theirs, will go on. You know that through your children, and your children's children, you and all your longfathers before you will live on. You will be remembered."

My friend's expression had not changed. I sighed, knowing there might be no answer that would make any difference to him.

I said, "I'm grateful that you care for my father, Svip, and that you will remember him. But he would never want your grief for him to hurt you. It will cause him anger and sorrow if he knows the pain his death has caused you. For that reason if for nothing else, you must take heart, and go on."

"How?" Svip demanded. "How do I do that? I can't just decide that it doesn't hurt."

"I'm sorry," I told him. "I know it is hard to learn, now, when you have not spent your life in our world."

"I don't think I can learn it," he said, his eyes huge and sorrowful as he stared at me. "I don't think I ever can."

I reached out suddenly and grasped his hand. Svip squeezed my hand back, and whispered, "I have to go home."

"I know," I said. "I understand. But I don't want you to go alone."

"Come with me," he said. For a moment, hope sparked in his eyes – hope which I was forced to extinguish.

"I can't. I'm sorry. I have to stay; I have to be there when Aragorn is crowned. There is too much that all of us must do to rebuild Gondor. I'm so sorry, Svip; I cannot leave."

Svip pulled his hand away from mine and stared again at the River.

I said, "Please, wait until tomorrow morning and let me send an escort of soldiers with you. I don't want you making the journey alone. More of the enemy may yet linger in the marshes than we know. It makes sense to send an escort with you; after all, we are sending troops with our other returning people. And I want to be able to receive word of you, to know that you have made it home safely."

Svip said flatly, "I'll be safer if I go alone. The enemy wouldn't see me. They would see a troop of soldiers."

In that, he was almost certainly right. Since he had logic on his side – and since I had not in fact truly feared any enemy presence, but had merely used that as an excuse to retain some contact with Svip – I fear that I resorted to bribery.

"Listen," I argued, "if you go alone, you won't be able to carry the gifts I want to send with you."

In spite of himself, Svip's eyes lit up at that word.

"Gifts?" he echoed. Rather reluctantly, he added, "I don't need any gifts. You don't need to worry about that."

"But I want to worry about it," I said. "I haven't forgotten that I'm part of your collection. If I'm going to stay in Minas Tirith and you're returning home, then you should at least have some gifts to add to your collection. I don't want you to lose out from the exchange."

My poor friend wanted to resist, but the prospect of additions to his collection was too much for him.

"Well," he mused, "I suppose it wouldn't be bad to have some company on the journey. Could it be some of Cirion's Men? Holgar and Buslai, and Thorolf, too, if he's well enough. They're sensible, and we're used to each other, and they know a lot of the country up there. And … and I'd like to show Holgar my home."

"I will see to it," I said. "I will speak with Cirion and have them seconded from their regiment to accompany you."

Svip seemed to hesitate. I hoped against hope that he might be rethinking his decision to leave. But finally he stood up, and said, "You'd better let me give you a ride back to the City. How are your ribs?"

"They're fine," I sighed, standing up as well. "Thanks."

Svip hopped onto the shore, where he changed into his horse form. I followed more slowly, and stood for a moment at his side. As I patted his shoulder, I felt a stab of melancholy on thinking that this was one of the last times I would do that.

Carefully I got onto Svip's back. We set out through the rain, along the shore. Svip took the journey at a sedate pace out of concern for my ribs.

"Svip," I began, "will you do me a favour? Don't mention to Faramir how far I swam after you. It will only worry him, to no good purpose."

"I ought to tell him," said Svip. "If he yells at you enough, maybe that will stop you doing stupid things like that!"

"It won't stop me," I answered. "You ought to know that by now. When I have my mind set on doing stupid things, nothing can stop me."

"Well, that's true," Svip admitted grudgingly. "All right. I won't tell Faramir."

"Thank you, Svip," I said.

The rain fell on, soft and slow but unceasing. I smiled a little at the thought that some of the more grandiose lords and guildleaders would get their plumage soaked as they accompanied Faramir to Aragorn's encampment.

The mission to Aragorn would doubtless be depicted occurring in radiant sunlight, in future days when it was pictured in tapestries and paintings. But damp and squelching though the reality was, I thought, it would not matter to Aragorn. No gleaming sun could make this day more radiant for him than it was in truth already.

My smile vanished as I wondered whether poor Húrin of the Keys had forced himself to join in this ride to welcome our new king.

Much of the rest of that day I spent in making the arrangements for Svip's journey. I found Captain Cirion in the barracks at Minas Tirith, the Captain having pointedly not ridden in the mission to Aragorn. I set him to select a detachment of his Men including Buslai and Holgar to accompany Svip to his home, which command he accepted with the philosophical calm of one who has obeyed a good many peculiar orders in his time.

The choosing of gifts was a balancing act for me. I weighed my desire to overload Svip with presents in the attempt to assuage my guilt regarding him, against the logical consideration that if they were to encounter any of the enemy, the last thing the Rangers needed was to be burdened with a bulging pack train of trinkets.

At length I forced myself to keep the gifts relatively restrained, limiting them to objects with some personal meaning. I chose the golden leaf-patterned belt of Lórien and the grey Elven cloak under which Svip and I spent so many hours in hiding during that unending journey through the marshland. I chose a small selection of bottles: one of White Tree wine, a Dol Amroth white, and a Calenhad whiskey, along with a mithril goblet the stem and bowl of which were carved in the image of the White Tree. The small complement of weaponry that I included, I rationalised by telling myself that they would actually be of use to the Rangers if they should happen to run into the enemy. Finally I included a small portrait of Father, Faramir and me, painted when Faramir was ten and I was fifteen. Father commissioned that portrait when he and I returned from the Cair Andros Campaign, presumably in a fit of fatherly tenderness in his relief that I survived to return, after the famous incident in which I got myself skewered.

That portrait was on a wooden panel rather than canvas, which I hoped might give it a bit more durability. I wrapped it in my Elven cloak. Then I set my esquire Balamir to seek whatever other water-resistant materials he could find in which we might wrap it, in the hope that it would survive the trip to Svip's home beneath the River.

Assigning Buslai the Ranger to be part of Svip's escort reminded me that I had given my word to dine on some occasion with Buslai and his father, old Sergeant Brynjolf. It would make sense to fulfill this promise before I sent Brynjolf's son once more haring off into the wilderness. As it was yet early enough in the day to permit some planning, I sent a message to Buslai at Osgiliath, inviting myself over to his father's for the daymeal and granting him leave for the rest of the day in case he needed to help the old soldier get things ready.

Many households would find it a curse to be informed, with a few hours' warning, that they must entertain the Captain-General that evening. But I did not think that Sergeant Brynjolf would be troubled. I doubted that my presence would daunt him. He had witnessed too many of my childhood exploits to be in any way awed by me – as, apparently, he never tired of telling all of his neighbours on the Fourth Level.

It is my suspicion that most or all of that daymeal was cooked by Buslai, for I am certain that his father spent the afternoon informing every neighbour he could locate of the august visitor he expected that evening. That would account for the truly astounding number of Minas Tirith's citizens who just happened to be out and about on the Fourth Level when I walked to Sergeant Brynjolf's house.

All the bleak statistics I had ever heard regarding our population's decline seemed denied that evening. The street was abustle with townsfolk chatting with their neighbours on the doorstep, puttering in their terrace gardens, hanging out the washing, painting their front doors, and finding any number of other plausible reasons to be within sight and earshot of Brynjolf's house at the hour of sunset.

The sergeant made certain that he and his son welcomed me outside on the front step. Cheerfully I played my role in this little pageant. I allowed myself to be pounded on the back by the old soldier and gave him a restrained back-pounding in return, and I made all the appropriate nods, comments and jokes as he congratulated me on surviving against the odds yet again and launched into a few reminiscences of my days at Cair Andros as a wet-behind-the-ears cub.

Buslai was grinning widely as he watched the performance. When his father turned aside for a moment to grandly open the door for me, Buslai mouthed silently at me, "Thank you, sir."

Inside, over the stew, bread, and an excellent Tumladen ale, the conversation continued along similar lines – although a trifle less loudly, and with the flow of reminiscences occasionally interrupted for more serious topics.

Brynjolf grimly expressed his condolences for my father's death, and spent a while then in recounting memories of the Lord Denethor. While the sergeant could not claim to have known my father since the late Steward was knee-high to a Dwarf, Brynjolf's own first campaigns had been expeditions commanded by the Steward's Heir, young Captain-General Denethor.

"This foreign whippersnapper that I hear is going to be king can never hold a candle to your Lord father," opined Brynjolf, at which comment I nearly choked on a mouthful of ale, "or to you and your brother. It's a good thing he'll have the two of you around to tell him what to do. And while I'm thinking of it, what in blazes possessed you to give up the Stewardship?"

Yet again I gave my by now thoroughly shop-worn explanation for why Faramir was the right Man to be Steward. I might just as well have saved my breath, for my reasoning cut no mustard with Sergeant Brynjolf.

At length he pronounced, "It was a damn fool stupid thing to do, if you ask me – which, of course, you didn't. What in hell do any of us care how far you can go from the River?" He shook his head philosophically and continued, "But one never can teach you young fellows any sense. By the time you have got some sense, you'll be broken down and gouty like me, and it'll be your turn to watch all the young Men making a hash of everything."

"It is the way of this Middle Earth," I joined in his philosophising, "probably decreed for us by Ilúvatar or some such personage. The younger Men must forever make asses of themselves, and the older Men must forever give them hell over it."

Only once, as that visit drew to a close, did old Sergeant Brynjolf depart from his pattern of reminiscing and generally giving me good-natured hell. As I stood to take my leave, and Buslai went to fetch my cloak, his father said in a voice suddenly thick with emotion, "My Lord – my boy has told me of his death at Lilla Howe, and that you convinced Lord Svip to bring him back to life. I want to thank you, sir, for bringing him home to me."

The old soldier swallowed, and said, "He is all I have left now. He, and my memories. And the memories are not enough."

"No," I agreed, "no, they are not. I was glad to bring him home, Brynjolf. I was glad to bring him home."

The decision to send Buslai and Holgar as members of Svip's escort had another notable impact. When I returned to my townhouse, it was to learn from my seneschal Gavrilo that this evening young Holgar Son of Armod had sought, and received, permission to woo Gavrilo's daughter Sigyn. I had apparently just missed a scene of tearful farewells in the parlour, enacted under the watchful gaze of the maiden's parents.

Whether any of the tears had been on Sigyn's part, I cannot say. When she waylaid me in the corridor as I made my way to my office, she was determinedly dry-eyed. She asked me for my honest opinion on what sort of conditions Holgar was going into on this mission.

On my assurance that there was every chance the mission would be free from danger, she bestowed on me a radiant smile and departed with that lightness of step of which only the very young are capable.

I smiled as I told myself that however much I might regret Svip's departure, it had this positive result: it had prodded Holgar into asking the question that he would have been an idiot not to ask.

The next morn, at a grey dawn that held the promise of rain, a goodly company assembled in my townhouse courtyard to wish Svip the Valar's speed. In addition to myself, the people of my household, and the twelve Rangers, Svip's well-wishers gathered there were Pippin and Merry, Faramir, and Éowyn of Rohan.

I had written to Lady Éowyn telling her of Svip's coming departure, for I thought she would wish to give him her farewells. She wished also to give him a remembrance more tangible. The Lady arrived at my townhouse carrying one of the spears of the Riders of Rohan. She took charge of fastening the spear into the gear that already loaded the gift-laden pack horse, all the while speaking quietly with Svip.

I had determined to give Svip the use of my Rohirrim steed Fengel, that he might have his own mount for the journey. While I was sure he was like to spend much of the voyage in horse form, there were bound to be times when he wished to take his own shape, or when his legs could use a rest. Fengel was the logical choice, as the horse that had spent the most time in Svip's company.

I was going to miss the stolid, imperturbable beast. But I had no need of him, I told myself, when Svip was not around to necessitate the use of particularly phlegmatic horses.

The horses that Lady Éowyn had trained to work with Svip numbered twelve, in addition to Fengel, to Merry's pony, and to Éowyn's own steed. Knowing this, I had set Cirion to choosing twelve of his Men for the mission, and I undertook that the eight horses of the Citadel and the four from my stable would be made ready for them.

Svip's escort was commanded by Thorolf Son of Eyjolf, who seemed none the worse for his poisoned arrow wound and his bout with Sauron's Dark Sleep. The Rangers busied themselves in checking over the animals, their equipage, and the provisions and equipment. Meantime Svip spoke quietly in turn with Éowyn, with Pippin and Merry, and with Faramir.

My brother had also brought a parting gift for Svip, for which Faramir found a place amidst the other presents. Faramir's gift was wrapped in oilcloth to waterproof it, and from its shape and size – and knowing Faramir – I had little doubt that it was a book.

The time for departure had come. Solemnly Svip shook hands with Éowyn, with Faramir, and with Merry. He and Pippin embraced, and when they parted the Hobbit turned away hastily to wipe at his eyes with his sleeve.

I set out from the City with Svip and the Rangers, riding Svip to the Harlond for one last time.

The Men respectfully held back from us as Svip shifted to his own shape and he and I walked along the quay.

"Shall we race across the River?" I proposed.

"Yes," he said. "Let's."

Together we dove into the water.

Our races had ceased to be races in anything but name. As had now become our usual practice, we regulated our speed to each other's. We reached the far shore at the same instant. We did the same when we returned to our usual steps at the foot of the dock, where we had sat and talked together so many times.

I wanted to linger there on the steps and talk with him now. But I told myself there was no use in any further delay.

Side by side we climbed back to the quay. There I knelt beside my small green friend, and in our spreading puddle of River water, we embraced.

When we drew apart, still keeping our hands on each other's arms, we could barely endure to meet each other's eyes.

"Remember you're part of my collection," Svip told me. "I don't want you to go getting yourself killed."

"I'll remember," I said. "Don't you go getting yourself killed, either."

He nodded, but apparently did not trust himself to speak.

"I'll come to visit you," I promised him. "I don't know when that can be. It will probably not be for some while yet, with all that we must accomplish here. But I will come."

Svip nodded again. "Take care of yourself, Boromir," he said to me at last.

"I will," I said. "You take care of yourself, too, Svip. Take care of yourself, too."

Fengel the horse gave a look of long-suffering as the water creature scrambled up the stirrups and into the saddle. Amid more-or-less cheerful farewells to me from Thorolf, Holgar and Buslai, their party set forth, riding through Waterfront at the beginning of a voyage that would take them two hundred miles along Anduin's shore.

Svip turned around and waved once, and I waved back. He did not turn again.

I watched until I lost sight of them behind a row of Waterfront's warehouses, at a point where the Great River curves.

I turned my steps then to the extra horse we had brought with us, held for me in readiness by one of the Men of the Harlond garrison.

I will see Svip again, I vowed in my thoughts. I will see him again.

As I mounted up and rode through the Harlond Gate, I wanted nothing more than to wheel the horse about, gallop after Svip and the Rangers and share their journey with them.

But it was an idle dream. I knew that, even as I longed for it.

You have resigned from the Stewardship only, I told myself. You cannot resign from your duty to Gondor.

Your people have need of you still. And your brother still needs you.

Damned strange though it is to think about it, your king probably needs you, too.

Shoving aside my regrets and ignoring the tears that stung at my eyes, I rode toward Minas Tirith, and our country's future.