Rites of Passage

Minas Tirith, 22 F.A.

It was not that they kept secrets from Father (he always knew what they were up to anyway), but there were some things that they had together decided were best not mentioned too often, and Grandfather was one of them.

But how could they not be interested? A careful silence had surrounded him throughout their youth. It was different from the gaps in the stories of their other grandparents, where they quickly hit the simple wall of their parents' lack of memories. The King had proven a great source of information here. He had known each one of them. There was the tale of Éomund, a boy of eleven, trying to pass himself off as full-grown Rider, sneaking his horse to the back of the patrol, getting no more than a yard or two.

"Oh, that's a good one," Father had said. "I see now where Dernhelm came from." Mother hit his arm.

There was the tale of Théodwyn, a fierce child of eight, refusing to remain indoors until even Steelsheen herself threw up her hands and gave way.

Father, seeing that this story had Mother rubbing her eyes, did not make a single joke.

There were many of tales of fair Finduilas, which all seemed to tell of the sweetness her laughter, or the beauty of her singing, or the time he had seen her dancing for joy in the rain.

And Father and Mother would hold hands and look both wistful and happy, all at once.

But he did not tell stories about Denethor, and neither did anyone else, until someone broke the silence, and Father and Mother told them the tale in full. And then they knew – the three of them – that Grandfather was a subject best not broached.

What was strange, though, was that the King sometimes talked about him now – if they were there, and Father was not, and the subject came up. The King remembered the old Steward; remembered him, and honoured him.

But they were hungry for more.

"He kept journals, you know," Morwen said to her brothers one evening.

Bron was toasting bread on the fire and only half-listening. "Who?"

"Idiot boy. Grandfather."

Both her brothers sat up. "Where?" said Bron. And, "Have you read them?" said Léof.

"In the city archive. And no." Morwen chewed her bottom lip. "I want to, of course... But, well. You know."

They did know. But still… They eyed each other. Bron handed round the toast. "Has Father read them, do you know?" he said, slowly.

"I don't know," said Morwen. "And no – I won't ask."

"Will you read them?" said Léof.

Morwen sat for a little while, thoughtfully chewing her toast. When she was done, she wiped the butter from her fingers. "Yes," she said. "Yes, I will."

And she did. She went one day early to the archives, and asked for them to be brought, and the archivist remarked that nobody had looked at them since they had been sent here after the war. She sat for a week, with a pile of tall narrow books, bound in black leather, each one filled with the small precise script of her forefather. What she took from them was his erudition, and how for nearly seventy years his handwriting did not change. Not even near the end.

Bron went next, after Morwen assured him it was safe. "Don't read the last five," she said. "They'll only make you worry." She knew her brother – a stickler for tradition, proud of his heritage, and above all loyal to Father. There was no happiness for him in that story; no courage to be granted from seeing that giant grief writ large upon the page. No need for him to see how tightly the script remained under control. No need to see the blotches. "I'll give you the gist."

And he trusted her completely – his first and forever his best counsellor – and he read instead from the middle years: what it was like to be the Steward's Heir; what it was like to become Steward. And he learned more about the court of the Minas Tirith, its histories and its rivalries, than even Father could tell him. "Did you read them all?" said Léof. "No," said Bron. "Some of the early ones are in code."

Code. That was enough to send Léof their way. Léof was never in a hurry, but when the decision was made, he did not waste time. One fair spring morning, as if on a whim, he wandered down to the archive. No whim, of course. He had been thinking of Father's trips away, and their Southron friends, and something that the King had said in passing.

And he sat with the first few years, and patiently cracked the code his forefather had left behind. He read stories of a youth that none of them had guessed; how, once upon a time, a young man had travelled south, with a mission to make alliances, if he could, or prevent enmities, if that was all that could be achieved. He thrilled at the nights spent at campfires, with games of chance and pipes passed round. He learned of harsh lords and clever chieftains, and laughed to see them meet their match in this clever young tark. He shuddered to read what he saw, with hindsight, were temples to Sauron rising up across the land. And he read with mounting unease the long account of the death of the Lord of Khôm, and the days of mourning that followed, and the very last day, when the chosen wife and child were carried from the house, and taken with their lord to the funeral pyre…

Léof read to the end, and closed the book. Later, when his brother and sister asked him what he had found he said, "A tale or two from the south. Nothing more." And when, a year or two later, he followed his forefathers south, he stood upon the great stone bridge in Khôm, watching the river slide by, and he commended the scraps of paper to the waters.

Altariel, 25th April 2019