The door-wardens allowed Thengel to pass without comment into the cool shadows that always dwelled within the king's hall. The chamberlain met him as he entered the paved passage just as he had the day before to turn Thengel away. Turgon had not been well enough to sit in his chair and would not, therefore, see him.

As Turgon had never once been ill in Thengel's twenty-year sojourn, he found this not a little suspicious. So instead of waiting for a summons, he decided to make a second attempt. If the Steward's chair remained empty today, he'd make a visit to the sick bed. He knew any further delay only played into Halmir's plans.

"Will Lord Turgon see me today?" he asked, already passing the chamberlain on the threshold. His voice and footsteps echoed in the vast emptiness of the corridor.

The man took skipping steps to keep up with the prince. "Yes, my lord. I have been instructed to send you through immediately."

Thengel waved the chamberlain off. "Thank you. I'll see myself in."

Thengel made short work of the passage and barely registered the cool touch of metal on his hand as he pushed through the tall doors leading into the throne room. As he walked between bright shafts of light down the line of kings rendered in stone, he tried not to feel the weight of their marble scrutiny on his back. It had been this way whenever he entered the throne room since he was a boy freshly arrived in Minas Tirith. The kings looked offended that he should walk under their stony noses with so much guilt on his shoulders. An exile.

He didn't know why these representations of long dead kings should take it so personally that he had once threatened bodily violence to another ruler and had been summarily foisted onto their country because of it. They didn't know Fengel King. Otherwise they'd really stick their noses in the air.

"I began to think this day would never come."

Thengel's thoughts jumped to the present. The voice came from the tall, gray man mounted on the Steward's hard, unadorned chair. The white rod of the Stewards rested across his lap. The gold nob glinted whenever it caught the sunlight, which was rare. Beyond the stone chair, steps rose to the high, empty throne and the crownlike canopy. It cast a long shadow. Thengel approached faster, forgetting the kings and their judgment. Death had found them long ago.

Thengel bowed. "What day is that, Lord Turgon?" he asked. His voice echoed through the cavernous space beneath the gold vaulting.

"The day Thengel the Renowned finally put in an appearance on the month of his birth. Should I congratulate you?"

Thengel pressed his lips into a thin, hard line. His foster-father had a gift for irony, which had taken years of cultivation for the plainspoken firebrand to appreciate, let alone interpret.

"How is that, my lord?" he asked.

Steward Turgon studied Thengel through heavily lidded eyes. "Are you not here to announce a betrothal? I did not think you would brave the streets for any other reason."

Thengel stopped before the dais. "No. My uncle's plans have changed this year. I thought you were aware."

Turgon tapped his armrests impatiently. "Not betrothed? How interesting. Reports are circulating that you were seen traversing the streets with your new intended - or is my daughter-in-law not to be trusted?"

Idhren! Thengel might have known.

"I see your repose yesterday allowed you to catch up on idle reports," Thengel said dryly.

"Indeed. And I am feeling much recovered. Thank you for your concern," Turgon groused. "Well? What do you have to say?"

Thengel approached the chair and laid his hand on the armrest. "Allow me to summarily contradict and deny any such matter. Rather, I braved the streets to ask a question."

Turgon harrumphed in ill humor. "I am not an archivist, but you may try me."

Thengel nodded his thanks. "It was brought to my attention that you may have a future audience with Prince Adrahil of Dol Amroth. Forgive me for taking advantage of my position in your household to expedite an urgent matter on his family's behalf."

Turgon frowned, but did not outwardly object. "What is this family matter?"

"Lord Randir of Lossarnach served you once, did he not?"

Turgon coughed. "Randir? I did not know you were acquainted with him. He had already abandoned me by the time you arrived."

"I have never met him," Thengel replied. "But I know he associated with you during his lifetime."

The Steward pretended to think. Then he gave Thengel a wry look. "He died before he could finish a genealogy of my mother's line, which greatly inconvenienced me and my posterity – especially since he was doing all those literary favors for Angelimir. Hmph. He was an able orator and scribe in my father's house and served me for a good many years. They called him Randir of Belfalas in those days, until he married Hirwen and she spirited him off to Lossarnach. She stole him right out of my archive. Not the usual place to find husbands, but there's no accounting for taste."

Thengel said, "Morwen, his daughter, still resides in Lossarnach."

Turgon pursed his lips in thought. "The girl comes from a noble line as kin to the princes of Dol Amroth. You cannot fault her pedigree, though her wealth, such as it is, is tied up in land, I understand."

"Yes," said Thengel with a hint of impatience. He wasn't sure which of them was steering the conversation. "Your knowledge of your subjects is far-reaching."

Turgon tapped the armrest again. "I had a moment of study this morning."

Thengel waited with a semblance of patience.

"It is no secret that the woman you deposited on Prince Adrahil's doorstep the other night happened to be Randir's kinswoman. Servants are useful for interesting trivia of that nature." Turgon fixed his keen eyes on Thengel. "As are daughters-in-law."

Thengel swallowed. This wasn't the direction he expected the conversation to go and he certainly hadn't considered how an innocent favor would lead to so much ridiculous speculation.

"Idhren did not tell you I was betrothed."

"Not in so many words, but she looks on it as quite settled after we cobbled together what is known about this young woman." Turgon frowned. "Not a bad catch."

"The rumors are only that, rumors."

"Then why are we discussing this girl if you aren't engaged to marry her? What is she to you?"

The Steward, Thengel knew, operated under a constant level of irritation. It gave the old man momentum. Thengel didn't mind Turgon's frankness, but knew better than to wear out his welcome. He considered how to best lay out his explanation.

"I am in Lady Morwen's debt."

Turgon scowled. "In debt, sir?"

"It is a debt of honor. I led a hunting party on Lady Morwen's estate some weeks ago. My man was injured and she undertook his care and our hospitality. As you know, her estate Bar-en-Ferin was leased to her father, an informal agreement between relatives, which Lord Hardang had extended to Morwen. When he died in your service eight weeks ago valiantly defending Ecthelion's garrison against a siege of orcs, his brother decided to renege."

"What does the brother have to do with it?"

"His brother, Halmir, took his place as regent until Hardang's heir comes of age."

Turgon's brows furrowed while he thought. "Did he? I hadn't heard anything official. And what has this to do with the young woman?"

"While a guest in Lady Morwen's house, Halmir used the informality of the tenement to bully the lady toward accepting his suit."

Something seemed to switch in Turgon's mind. "He means to marry her?"

"Yes."

"Popular young woman." Turgon held his hands up. "It seems a straightforward business. What is your question?"

"Is this behavior condoned in Gondor?"

"What behavior? The movement of property through marriage?"

"Rapacity, my lord."

Turgon's expression darkened and his voice came as a low rumble of thunder. "What do you mean?"

"Halmir installed himself in Imloth Melui and has threatened to strip her of the land if she should refuse to marry him," he told Turgon, allowing frustration to color his voice. "It's the basest coercion."

"No, no, he cannot force her to marry. This is Gondor not Harad. A woman's free consent is of utmost importance." The Steward leaned deeply into his chair and closed his eyes. "He might persuade her, however. Men often must."

Thengel glowered. "And this method of persuasion is acceptable?"

"Methods vary," was all the Steward would say.

Thengel stepped back from the chair and crossed his arms as if to contain his rising temper. He thought he might encounter indifference, but flippancy? He watched Turgon's stonelike expression and thought the man looked asleep.

"In my country, a man who would rob a woman of her livelihood for any reason would be publicly disgraced and cut off from the community. But it has been brought to my attention that not only is this behavior acceptable, but it is protected by law."

"Protected how?" Turgon asked.

"Protected because he has rights but the law hasn't granted her any."

Turgon's eyes flashed open. "She has a contract?"

Thengel deflated. "No."

"My son, I see where this is going," Turgon said with paternal calm. "But you understand that a tenant's complaint over the loss of a verbal agreement cannot stand in the Steward's court."

"But surely the Steward could influence a lord to honor the verbal agreement. Hardang had, up to his death, treated the estate as Morwen's right. Who else will hold Halmir accountable for disregarding his brother's acts if you won't?"

Turgon gave him a disapproving look. "There is nothing to work on. It is his word against hers. Thengel, you are old enough and learned enough to know better - especially as the future king of Rohan. You aren't an idealistic princeling anymore. If I interfere in one fief's internal affairs," he lifted the rod reverently, "abuse my authority - I would have a host of barons crying tyrant. I cannot interfere with a man for not breaking the law and choosing where and with whom to grant his manors."

"But he is using the law to his advantage to force her—"

Turgon raised his stick higher, silencing Thengel. "This Halmir cannot force the young woman to do anything except to accept one consequence over another. She can marry him and keep the land or refuse him and shift for herself elsewhere."

Thengel did know that, but found the answer unsatisfactory. He bowed sharply as he felt the hot tide of anger creeping over him.

"Pardon me, lord. I've troubled your solitude long enough. I will leave you."

Turgon cleared his throat. "Just a moment, if you please," he said. "Before you run off in a fit of spleen…" Thengel tried to protest, but the rod of judgment appeared again. "…As is your habit to this day despite your advancing years, let me remind you of my place in the grand scheme of Gondor."

Thengel held his ground and forced himself to listen.

"My province extends to the wellbeing of the realm-at-large in the absence of the king, not with the individual management of every farm in this benighted country. That is the province of the Gondor's barons and their deputies. If this lady's romantic entanglements somehow interfered with our hedge of protection to the east and south, that might be another matter."

Thengel eyes kindled. "Odd you should say so, my lord. As it happens, the gentleman and his brother did show a certain disgust for service in Captain Ecthelion's army, despite the tribute of knights due to the throne."

Turgon seemed to spark on the new information Thengel offered as fuel. "Too good for Gondor, are they?"

"Five score axemen are camped on Lady Morwen's lawn at this moment, doing nothing but eat and aggravate the household."

"A hundred axemen?" Turgon's eyes could have boiled the rapscallions alive with his eyes if only they were present. "Idle?"

"Give or take, that's an éored," Thengel mused as he brushed dust off his sleeve. "A waste after what we've learned from Egil and Frár. Those axes could be put to use splitting orc necks instead of rusting in the open air."

Turgon sat, puckered in silence and a darkening mood. Finally, he seemed to get the better of himself and said, "These young men don't know what they owe to the throne. I shall see that this is remedied." Turgon slashed the air with his finger. "But don't suppose, Thengel, that you can annoy me into acting for the young woman. This waste of fighting men is one matter, but the lease is another. I cannot interfere directly on the lady's behalf."

Thengel choked down his frustration. "You could find a better use for the men, at least. Halmir might be less persuasive without his henchmen."

"That is for Ecthelion to decide."

"What about Halmir's peers? Can he risk the disgust of the princes and lords of other fiefs? Prince Angelimir won't be best pleased to find his kinswoman displaced."

Turgon considered this point with a sour expression. "Lossarnach is hedged behind the protection of Minas Tirith, not exposed to our enemies like Belfalas or Lebennin. Its lord can afford to ruffle feathers. With our dependence on produce and herbs supplying the city and Ecthelion's forces, we need Lossarnach's favor more than he needs ours." His voice was sharp and grim. "Which of course I am telling you in strict confidence."

"There has to be something you can do," Thengel pleaded. "Randir was your friend."

"My authority as Steward has its limits within the law, Thengel, which friendship does not override," he said with some gravitas as he rose from his chair and descended the step. His stick sent staccato claps echoing down the marble room. "We exist because of the law, not the other way around. Her father was a good friend of mine, but not entirely practical. I cannot act for her if he didn't."

Thengel searched Turgon's face but found nothing there to work on. "In Rohan the community exists because of its king. He unites them, protects them, provides common space, and he guides them," he said. "Or he should. Otherwise what's the point of him?"

Turgon's eyebrows twitched noticeably. "Certainly, a king might do more," he sniffed. "Or perhaps a certain hotspur lieutenant with diplomatic immunity acting independently of his lord."

Thengel blinked. "Pardon?"

Turgon laid a hand on Thengel's shoulder. He had a strong grasp for an elderly man. "If Hotspur should interfere with said regent, well what of it? I speak as you foster-father, you understand, and therefore not on the record."

Thengel's eyes lit up as Turgon's words sunk in. The Steward raised a wizened finger. "I'm not sanctioning anything, mind. But if I were a young…well, youngish man determined not to mind his own business, I might consider a way to persuade the lord away from persuading the lady, if you understand me."

"Persuade?"

Turgon grinned crookedly. "Methods vary."

Thengel stood silent, lost in thought as possibilities presented themselves while Turgon resumed his seat. The Steward had handed him a wild card and yet he knew that the Steward's grace had its limits. So far, Thengel had managed to live within that circle of grace all the years he had dwelled in Gondor, despite moments of spleen and recklessness. It would be a simple matter to overstep the bounds but less simple to return. A delicate matter.

"Incidentally," said Turgon, breaking into Thengel's thoughts. "Why the interest in this lady's misfortunes?"

Thengel turned reticent. "Her story reminds me of my own and I pity her."

"Pity?" Turgon looked like he had tasted vinegar. "You interrupted my brief solitude for pity?"

Thengel gave him a blank look. "Is there a more satisfactory motive, father?"

"There is," Turgon replied. "And one method that neither of us has mentioned to any avail."

"What method?"

"Marry her yourself if you're going to stick your oar in her business," The Steward groused with a crack of his stick on the marble floor.

Thengel cringed as the sound knocked his eardrums. "We will not discuss that please."

"You may not wish to discuss it but all of Minas Tirith is."

"What would that solve? Halmir would still claim the land. That's all she wants."

"Yes, but by the Valar, it would shut up those irritating-and-highly-official dossiers from your uncle - not to mention the - I don't know what you would call it other than a sortie of camp followers each spring! I can't abide to hear tell of every eligible Æthelthryth from Aldburg to Isengard who loves the color green and long rides on the Wold while you hide out in some remote corner of my kingdom."

Thengel cleared his throat. "There aren't any women west of Isen, my lord, except among the Dunlendings. They are reputed to be…haggish."

Lord Turgon rested the rod across his knees. "You are growing tedious, my son."

Thengel bowed. "Forgive me, father." Then rising, "Before I go, allow me to clarify. I have your leave to interfere?"

Turgon pursed his lips. Then he said, "Allow an old statesman to rephrase - in fact, to borrow a line from your kinsman, 'The king does not permit brawls in his house…but men are freer outside.'"

For the first time, Thengel grinned. "Ah. I can hardly gainsay Helm Hammerhand."

"The man had a talent for certain turns of phrase one can appreciate," Turgon replied. "I trust you can take the hint."

"I'll do my best."

Thengel retreated from the throne room, his mind already turning over possible plans. He had permission, now he needed inspiration.

…

Turgon frowned at his ward's back until it disappeared behind the closed doors of his - that is, the king's hall. He rolled his eyes toward the vaulted ceiling, leisurely, as he enjoyed the few moments of unfiltered expression allowed to him in these days of diplomacy. It felt good, like stretching after a long sleep.

A side door belonging to the Steward's antechamber opened on nearly silent hinges, but Turgon heard it. Marshal Oswin entered from where he had been listening as best he could from within.

"Are you satisfied?" Turgon asked.

"Perfectly. From what I could hear. That was a good touch at the end, Lord Steward, reciting Helm Hammerhand. I congratulate you."

Turgon sniffed. "I thought so myself."

"So, did he admit to being in love with the girl?"

"Marshal, not in so many words, but if your nephew isn't hooked then I'm an orc," Turgon muttered. "What else would induce a man to pick a fight he's very likely to lose?"

The graven kings seemed to agree, but Oswin bristled.

"Lose? The sons of Eorl do not lose. Especially not to paltry little lordling brutes."

Turgon looked on Fengel's chancellor with some surprise. "Mark my words, Marshal, he will have to lose if he's to make this woman a princess of Rohan."

Oswin tucked his thumbs into his belt. "Well, but…"

"How else will she willingly leave when she is so determined to keep the property? Have you thought on that?"

Oswin glowered at the one broken spoke in the wheel of his new plan. He hadn't counted on the girl digging in her heels. She had seemed so obliging yesterday.

"Why wouldn't she want to leave? What's wrong with the Riddermark, I ask you?"

Turgon pinched the bridge of his nose. "Nothing, Marshal. There's nothing wrong with Rohan. We are all very fond of Rohan. Only it's a very long way away. I said Thengel wants her. We do not know the lady's feelings. She may not like him as much as he likes her."

"Not like him?" Oswin stormed. "What's wrong with him?"

"Calm yourself, Marshal Oswin. I only said we do not yet know one way or the other. I can see plain as plain that Thengel doesn't know either or he wouldn't refuse to speak of it. Perhaps he hasn't admitted it to himself either. But it is clear she doesn't mind his company. Should she share his feelings, well, that would simplify the matter. Until then, circumstances might help persuade her to think favorably on a change of scenery."

"How could she help it? A handsome, strapping warrior like that with all his own teeth in his head? And Thengel the future king of the Mark? She'll have no small share of the treasure and the run of Meduseld. And such horses as she's never seen the like in this country." Oswin began pacing the floor at the Steward's feet, arms akimbo with his thumbs still in his belt. Emotions were messy, uncooperative things. "What is the matter with these Gondorian women? Is she waiting for some elven sorcerer to make her a better offer?"

"When you paint such a picture one can hardly wonder, my friend," Turgon answered dryly. "Roll out the wedding announcements, by all means."

"Good. Excellent." Oswin stroked his beard as he congratulated himself on a job nearly well done. "I shall put Wynflaed on it immediately."

Turgon raised a gnarled finger. "That is precisely what you must not do," he replied. "My daughter-in-law warned against it and I agree with her."

Oswin stopped stroking his beard and glowered. "What? But my nephew is a stubborn idiot."

"I am well aware."

Oswin began to pace again. "He'll never come around on his own. Someone has to work on the girl. It'll be another twenty years if left to his own devices."

"Patience, Marshal." Turgon tapped his nose.

"The Rohirrim don't have much of that in ready supply."

"Well I know it," said Turgon tartly. "Hotspur was in my charge these last twenty years, you will recall."

Oswin bristled at this reminder, but wisely held his tongue.

"Thengel will make himself indispensible to the young woman all on his own if we leave him be. Mark my words — I'll be sure to remind you of them at the wedding next year."

"Next year? Why not next month?" Oswin said with a wave of his hand.

Turgon massaged his wrinkly forehead. "Because he hasn't asked her yet, that's why. These things take time. There are formalities. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. We haven't even discussed her dowry yet."

"Has she got one?"

"On that score, you'll find Gondor will remember Thengel's service with a good deal of generosity. But that is neither here nor there yet. The engagement may take time to come about and then there will be preparations to consider."

"When a thing needs doing, get it done. We don't share your customs. Long engagements only makes young people fiddly."

Fiddly? Turgon winced, as if such youthful impetuosity had long passed from his memory. "When the time comes, I am sure we can negotiate the length of engagement down to say, nine months."

"Three months."

Turgon struck the floor with his stick. "Three months! Don't be absurd." Nobody could live at that speed!

"Thengel's no spring chicken, you know. And if you hadn't allowed him to keep running around in the woods this might have been taken care of long ago."

Turgon frowned. Oswin and he agreed on that point, at least, though it little pleased the Steward to admit how they had taken advantage of receiving the heir or Rohan.

"All right. Six months. But no less! You don't want people's tongues wagging."

Oswin shrugged. "Let them wag. Nobody in Rohan will understand them anyway."

As the Marshal retreated, Turgon allowed himself the pleasure of a long sigh. He was getting too old. If it wasn't for the regard he felt for his old friend Randir, he would hide in his tower and make Ecthelion deal with this. But it was too delicate a situation for his martial-minded scamp of a son.

That he had purposefully deceived Thengel was a stroke of genius he couldn't trust to Ecthelion. He certainly intended to interfere on the lady's behalf, but not in the way Thengel thought he should. Randir, loved by all, had been an excellent scholar but rather absentminded in practical matters. This union was exactly what Turgon would like to see for his old friend's daughter. She might not know that the Steward kept her in his sights since her father's passing, but he had. And he preferred to keep her in the dark and work by proxy.

What a windfall that Thengel had come across Morwen and would bear the brunt of the hard work of securing Morwen's future. Very convenient. It would save Turgon the trouble and repay him for raising and equipping the heir of Rohan.

Not that he would confess this motivation to Marshal Oswin, either. Let the man think that this union worked all in Rohan's favor. They were a suspicious lot, the Rohirrim.

And if the union worked out in Gondor's favor on a diplomatic level, so be it. Turgon could satisfy his personal motives and justify himself to his son. Everything satisfied him. And Idhren would make sure all the pieces were in the right place.

Only the princes of Dol Amroth remained. The last obstacle. Turgon felt he could persuade Prince Adrahil to cooperate.

…

AN: The hardest part about writing this chapter was the intrusive voice of Nanny Ogg. ;)

O, the steward's staff had a knob on the end.
It does! It does!
O, the steward's staff has a knob on the end.
It does!
O, the steward's staff has a knob on the end
And the steward's staff is the steward's friend.
It is! It is!