Recommended listening: Franz Schmidt, Symphony No. 2

CHAPTER III: RECONSTRUCTING MINAS TIRITH

'Milord, it is past time!' cried the guard from without the King's House, pounding insistently upon the doors of those grand chambers tucked behind the White Tower of Ecthelion. Aragorn glanced up from the papers scattered across his desk (many of them crumpled or bearing frustrated scribbles) and dropped his pen in exasperation – half at being interrupted, and half at his inexplicable inability to put his mind into word.

'Yes, I understand. Thank you,' he said in measured tone, careful to ensure his frustration did not seep to his speech. As the messenger's footsteps disappeared back towards Tower Hall, Aragorn rose and shuffled the jumbled papers as one who mixes puzzle pieces about in a vain attempt to spot previously unseen patterns. He was quick to admit defeat, however, and with a sigh of resignation, he ducked out into the narrow stone byways of the Citadel.

Saturday had once again come far too swiftly. Facing Aragorn was the long, exhausting day in which Gondorians of any station, locked in conflict exceeding the negotiatory skills of both their local and sûza councils, could come and seek the guidance of their King. Though the hour was yet early, a great many petitioners were crowded beneath the black stone arches of Tower Hall when Aragorn entered in the wake of his advisors and door-wardens. A tremendous uproar broke out immediately, amplified by the marble interior – appreciative cheers and vocal grievances alike; for where fields are stripped bare by hardship, it is the weeds of discord that are most likely to sprout first.

Yet as Aragorn ascended the dais and stood before the throne, looking out onto the congregation, the Hall fell hushed; without command or gesture, the villagers and townsfolk yielded to complete silence. As one, they bowed low, respect for the resplendent figure towering at their forefront apparent in each and every motion. Aragorn took his place upon the throne and inhaled a deep breath to compose himself before speaking at last.

'Harrowing must your grievances be, to spare such time as takes to come to these Halls on a day that might otherwise be devoted to your own prosper,' said he, voice reverberating within the stone walls of the Tower. Even those harbouring the deepest of resentments reconsidered the ills done unto them in that moment. 'And thus address every one I shall – for a man's unremedied injustice is a second injustice done upon him; and even in our disagreeances where no one party reigns true, compromise might yet be had. Speak your case to me, so that this Hall might be departed today in camaraderie rather than conflict.'

A guard stepped forward at these words and declared: 'Redhor and Nethor of Tumladen for your consideration, milord.'

Two men emerged from the crowd and knelt on silken pillows arrayed at the base of the dais stairs. 'Milord,' said the first. 'I am but a humble farmer, and though my fields were blessedly spared the ravages of war by reason of being located in the secluded vales of Lossarnach, I know not whether last autumn's yield is sufficient to supply the needs of our people. Every sennight, a new cart comes from the north, begging for anything that can be spared. Yet even in such desperate straits, my neighbour allows his herd to graze my land as though it were his own! Cows and goats all — they leave nothing behind!'

'It has always been thus between us!' cried the accused neighbour. 'Ever do I supply you with milk and meat, and clear your fallow lands of their tangled weeds in exchange for access to your unused pastures. Just last Tuesday my wife brought to yours a pail of delicately churned butter, yet you would charge me with unfairly exploiting an agreement long held between us!'

'Your herd ate near half my Bessy's cabbages, and more of her parsnips! Such a mishap might be overlooked under ordinary circumstances, but it is unconscionable to treat our old agreement as though naught has changed, for things are not as they were when first we made it!'

Aragorn's eyes fluttered closed as the farmer and herder continued to bicker loudly; each Saturday past had brought similar discord. Such simple conflict ought to have been settled by the lower councils, and yet limited resources had incurred limited patience of late, and those who were once friendly were now quick to quarrel – and bitterly.

Aragorn raised a hand for silence, and the two Lossarnach residents' argument gradually abated.

'Grim days are upon us, and we must all make sacrifices beyond those we are accustomed to making in the past,' he said, turning first to the herder. 'If there are no other lands upon which your livestock might graze, you shall pay doubly to your neighbour on all counts, and assist him in the sowing of his crops come spring.

'As for you, Redhor, you cannot expect benefit without consideration; if you wish to continue receipt of Nethor's gifts, make available to him your fallow fields, securing those areas which yet boast harvest. The rejuvenation of Gondor and its surrounding lands will require tremendous effort on all our parts, and necessitates extending a kindly hand in even the most trying of circumstances.'

'This is the decision of the King!' cried the guard, stepping forward once more to escort both herder and farmer from the Hall, still arguing.

The void they duo left was soon filled by a new group in conflict, and then another, and another. As a blacksmith defended against accusations of nonpayment for a charcoal delivery, Aragorn could not but allow his mind to wander the countless other issues pressing upon his mind: rumours streaming in from the southern Gondorian coast of Corsairs harassing townships there, or whisperings that the Haradrim perhaps gathered to mount an assault upon realms they deemed further weakened by a harsh winter.

He thought also of Lord Faramir, who protected Gondor's eastern flank from any lingering threats that lurked in the shadows of Mordor. Yet the Steward was wholly consumed in caring for his bride of Rohan and the establishment of his realm in Ithilien – cleansing the Morgul Vale in the process – that his resources surely grew thin and could not be relied upon to hold.

What weighed most heavily upon Aragorn, however, was not political strife, nor militaristic manoeuvring, but that enigmatic letter.

Morning rays cast through the windows grew more defined, shadows shortening as the sun pulled towards its midday zenith. Still, the crowds did not thin. For each departing petitioner, three new crowded into the hallowed archways of Tower Hall in a seemingly endless stream of begrudging Gondorians. Aragorn did not take lunch, for he felt it was unseemly that he eat while others suffered, and thus the hearings continued late into the evening, long after torches had been ignited in their brackets to send flickering light skittering across the black marble floors.

It was in the wee hours of the night, when the guards stood sleeping upon their feet, that at long last the final petitioner (a fisherman who worked the waters of the Anduin, come to speak with his King about an unnatural poison sweeping through his local creek) took his leave, bowing low before shuffling out of the Hall. The wardens threw the doors closed. At the resounding clang, the guards bolted upright – as did the King's advisors, who had been nodding drowsily in their seats. It was tradition that wardens alone served in shifts; neither guards nor advisors changed when hearings were in session.

'Is that the last of them, my lord?' asked one advisor by the name of Aphadir as he stretched with a yawn and rub of his bleary eyes.

'It would seem so,' replied Aragorn, rising stiffly from the throne and carefully flexing each muscle. He once more reminded himself to have the seat refurbished, for in its current state it caused his legs to go numb within minutes.

'Let us retire, then,' sighed another advisor, who was already halfway towards the exit.

Aragorn turned to the Captain of the Guard. 'Your men have more than earned their rest,' said he. 'Hurry now, and send for their replacements.' And so the Captain scurried from the Hall, scarcely outpacing the second advisor.

Before Aragorn so much as descended from the dais, a new guard entered and exchanged places with the old. Those who had been relieved fell in behind their King, escorting him from Tower Hall in sharp formation. Rather than turning towards his chambers, however, Aragorn made as if to enter the lower levels of the city.

'My lord,' said Aphadir, close behind. 'Are you not going to your repose?'

'There are things yet to be done this night,' he replied. 'But they are my responsibility alone; I free you from all official obligation or duty.'

'Thank you, my lord,' said Aphadir, unwilling to question the King's determination when it so perfectly aligned with his own desires. He and the others bowed before departing along their separate paths: the advisors to their accommodations in the upper levels, and the guards to their quarters down below.

'So many petitioners—' their complaints drifted off into the night as their footsteps grew distant.

No sooner were they out of sight than Aragorn turned to his own destination, towards the rear of the sixth level, where the rock of Mindolluin encroached upon the city – for that was where the modest stables of Minas Tirith were located. He slid the sturdy wooden door aside and greeted the stable master with a nod before making his way to the endmost stall, from which gentle snorts greeted him.

'How now, Shadowfax?' he said, rubbing the beast's velvety nose. 'Why so restless?'

The regal Mearas gave another snort and made as if to nip Aragorn's hand, though he merely played it as conversation. 'Is that so? How have you come by such information, and I – the High King of the Reunited Kingdom of Arnor and Gondor – have not?' He slipped his hand beneath the neck of Shadowfax's blanket and rubbed the horse's withers. 'You say she misses me? Ah, that I had your confidence! Yes, I know, I know— the letter must be finished, and anon. But how am I to put into words that which cannot be expressed, save through look and touch and feel, and even then is insufficient to convey the true feelings of the heart?'

Shadowfax leaned into Aragorn's rough scratches throughout the lengthy confession, then turned to gaze into the King's eyes. Aragorn knew in that moment he was being reprimanded by one of the few creatures who saw beyond his composed façade.

'Yes, yes, all right, I shall go and leave you to your peace,' he said.

Shadowfax gave another snort.

'And to write the letter, yes, of course. It is only that I cannot help but be reminded of her when I see you, as your homelands are one and the same, and it brings me some small sense of comfort.'

With that, Aragorn adjusted Shadowfax's blanket and exited the stable, returning back along deserted stone streets to the King's House. It felt cold and empty as ever; no number of furs spread across the tile floor, no length of tapestries hung upon the wall could give warmth where none existed. High arches – a reflection of those in the Tower Hall – merely served to amplify the slightest of sounds as Aragorn crossed to his writing desk and sat before it once more.

It was indeed not for warmth that Aragorn had laid the furs, as he had endured freezing climates in the North, the likes of which Minas Tirith had rarely known. Nor was it for comfort he chose to forego the traditional Kings' boots, which scuffed noisily wherever he went, and donned instead the soft, silent leather he had worn as a Ranger in Arnor. No, it was the haunting echoes of the Home's high arches that reminded Aragorn he was, for the time, alone.

He sat with a sheet of parchment before him, pen dipped and dripping inky spots upon the beige desert of its surface, yet the jumble of thoughts in his mind would not organise itself into words he could put down upon the page. Aragorn found himself ensnared in memories more difficult to evade than the webs of Ungoliant, and was cast back to his initial meeting with Truva, upon the golden plains of Rohan.

How unremarkable she had seemed then, how very unlike the fair Rohirrim maidens! Yet her historical acuity had been apparent from the outset, and it took little time for Aragorn to learn her prowess in battle was likewise not to be underestimated. It had, however, taken him considerably longer to learn his initial perception of meekness was wholly mistaken; for Truva's quiet nature belied a dragon slumbering beneath the surface. He could not shake the vision of her standing upon the Hidland scaffolding, rallying newly freed prizefighters about her—

He was awoken by yet more pounding upon the King's House door. Sitting bolt upright, Aragorn glanced out the windows, only to find the night's darkness cleared from the sky. Beyond coloured panes of glass rose up the city's stoneworks, bordered by surrounding farmland and enclosed by the Rammas Echor. At the edge of vision to the east cut the Ephel Dúath, still dark from their days of Sauron's occupation – though long ago had the gloomy mist dispersed from their sharp peaks. Between the Ephel Dúath and Minas Tirith lay the glimmering Anduin, snaking southward to its outlet in the sea of Belegaer from its source in the Grey and Misty Mountains, far beyond the Wood of Green Leaves.

Upon recalling the Wood of Green Leaves, Aragorn leapt to his feet. He cast about, the knocking at his door growing more insistent the longer he delayed.

'My lord?' called the voice of Aphadir. 'Are you all right, my lord? You've a great many duties to attend to today – it would not do to delay much longer, my lord.'

'Yes, yes, I am awake!' cried Aragorn in response. 'That is to say, I am all right!'

He raced to strip himself of the previous day's raiment and don new clothes, wondering all the while how many more 'my lords' Alphadir could insert into his speech. It was not Aragorn's manner to sleep overmuch, and so to find himself in such a situation left him feeling entirely disoriented and uncharacteristically short.

'I am fine!' he repeated when he at last opened the door and came face to face with his terribly concerned advisor. 'As you have said, there are a great many tasks to be done; let us begin promptly.'

'My lord—' said Aphadir, pointing hesitantly at the King's face.

'Whatever is the matter, Aphadir?'

'Did you fall asleep at your desk again, milord? You've what appears to be ink spilled all across your cheek,' the advisor explained.

'Is that so?' Aragorn asked, wiping the offending cheek with his hand.

'Oh dear, now you seem to have gone and made it worse – your hands are covered as well, my lord,' Aphadir fretted. Aragorn held up his right hand, the forefingers and palm of which were stained an inky black.

'A brief moment, if you will, Aphadir,' he said, ducking back into the King's House to scrub his face and hands in the freezing water of a washbasin. He gave a cursory glance in the polished mirror to confirm he was presentable before emerging from his chambers once more. Aphadir still stood shivering in the street just beyond.

'To the gardens first, is that not correct?' Aragorn confirmed as he strode off in the direction of their first appointment.

'What of breakfast, my lord?' said Aphadir.

Aragorn halted quite abruptly; in truth, all thought of breakfast had entirely escaped his mind. 'Have you eaten, Aphadir?' he asked in counter.

'Yes, my lord.'

'Very well, that's settled then. Let us proceed straight away, as I am not hungry.'

'But my lord—!' said Aphadir, yet the King was already some distance down the street. Aphadir rushed to keep pace.

The morning air bore a terrible chill. Aragorn wrapped his arms tight about his chest, wishing he had paused to don his cloak. Despite clear morning sunlight streaming down, a glance westward over the White Mountains showed thick, hazy clouds threatening snow; a smattering of flakes fell even as Aragorn came upon the Houses of Healing and turned into their gardens. In the very midst of the wintry scene stood Legolas.

'My friend!' Aragorn exclaimed, leaping forward to greet the Elf with an affectionate embrace. 'When was it that you came amongst us?'

'Yesterday noon,' said Legolas, 'though I was informed the council of arbitration had already begun, and thus delayed my salutations. It was said this week's number of petitioners exceeded all other counts since your ascension.'

'By nearly a score,' Aragorn sighed. 'The harshest days of winter are not when the weather is most foul, but when the promise of spring is imminent yet still intangible. But how fared you on your journey?'

'Exceedingly well!' Legolas enthused. 'For even in winter are the beds of Lossarnach bountiful with the blessings of Ivon. And I have discovered there are gardeners in South Gondor who harbour a fondness for all that is green which near rivals that of my brethren, and whose knowledge might even be said to surpass our own in some ways.'

'And you return so learned, to bestow unto our humble city the beauty of the natural world?'

'Not only knowledge, but many plants have I returned with.' Legolas led Aragorn deeper into the garden. 'Daphne and quince, clematis and honeysuckle shall grace the austere streets of Minas Tirith, and many fruit trees of the far south will find their home in Osgiliath. But let us begin with this garden here, for given its proximity to Houses of Healing, it must necessarily feature most prominently those plants that boast medicinal properties: hyssop and feverfew, lungwort and burdock—'

'If I might, my lord,' interrupted Aphadir, for he had grown weary of standing about like a second spoon at the supper table and spoke at last. 'But as I've no head for herbs, and an ever-increasing list of duties that must be seen to, might I be excused—?'

'Yes, of course,' said Aragorn, motioning for his advisor to take his leave freely. 'You are a busy man, indeed, and I am sorry to have kept you for so long.'

'I am very grateful, my lord, as there is so much to do, you see, and many people to meet, and so on and so forth…' he said, bowing to the King and wandered off, muttering all the while to himself about all the tasks mounting upon his shoulders.

'"No head for herbs"!' scoffed Legolas. 'Any man can learn, if he be willing. Now where was I?'

Soon regaining his train of thought, the Elf spoke in extensive detail as he escorted Aragorn about the garden, expounding upon his plans for the coming spring: a flower garden for marigolds and milk thistle, and the treacherous corner that would become home to hawthorn, foxglove, and nettle. He spoke of the white willows they would plant, and of bay laurels that could be grown within the Houses themselves. They came at last to a vast bed, raised slightly from the main lawn and enclosed with etched stone tiles.

With an elegant gesture, Legolas indicated the exposed dirt, which lay frozen as white drifts of snow began to accumulate. 'Soon, this is to be your crowning glory.'

'Athelas?' Aragorn surmised with a wry smile. He could already smell the salty scent of the sea wafting up when the plant would leaf in spring.

'It is only natural,' said Legolas, returning his smile.

They exited the gardens of the Houses of Healing then, and ascended to the Citadel as Legolas explained his further designs for Minas Tirith:

'We ought to begin with the Place of the Fountain,' he said, 'for though it is a powerful symbol of Gondor and its renewed leadership, it is currently stark and uninviting. I do not think hedges of laurel would be amiss – but it would not do to detract from the new White Tree sapling, which endeavours to throw up its milky branches to the falling snow even now.'

'You do not find me in disagreement,' Aragorn acknowledged before the duo descended to the lower tiers of the city. Legolas swept his arms along each street and eave, speaking of his desire to swathe residential areas in the most fragrant of herbs and flowers, and encourage wisteria to spread its enchanting tendrils along shop fronts and mingle with the scent of lilac. The market district would become home to great trees whose foliage would spread so wide they would provide a refreshing haven in summer months.

'This city of stone shall be transformed into one even Elves lingering in distant realms will flock to, so that they might observe its wonders with their own eyes.'

'I trust you to make it so,' said Aragorn. 'But come now, let us descend further to greet our old friend – though I suspect you have already done so.'

'I did not so much as pause to lay aside my burdens of the road before I woke that lethargic boulder from his rest,' laughed the Elf.

As the pair wended their way through the bottommost streets of Minas Tirith, heavy clouds gathered to obscure the sky. Only a feeble glow could be discerned of the sun at its zenith; yet even that light grew dim as snow began to fall more thickly, inching across the city and toward the Fields of the Pelennor.

No sooner had Aragorn and Legolas exited the main gates than they came upon swarms of Dwarves heaving their weight against an array of massive black stones. A gruff voice called out in greeting at once.

'The King himself has come for a tour, has he?' Gimli emerged from the crowds of his brethren with a broad smile upon his face.

'To be learnt in the ways of stonemasonry from the masters themselves,' said Aragorn.

'Well met, my lord,' said Gimli. 'As you see, our newest shipment of stone has just arrived – this time having been sourced at the head of Ceols, brought up from the south upon the Great Anduin, and unloaded in Osgiliath.'

Aragorn nodded, listening intently while observing two groups of Dwarves standing to each side of one tall boulder. As they heaved in turns upon ropes tied round the rock's top, it wobbled forward, almost as though it were walking. Even in the overcast light, its crumpled, sable surface gleamed entrancingly, like a starless night.

'It is our intent to reinforce Minas Tirith's walls first and foremost,' Gimli continued. 'Deep within the forges of Erebor shall a prodigious gate of mithril and iron be crafted – so great in its construction that it cannot ever be sundered by the hand of man, yet will be open always to the many friends of Gondor.'

'Words cannot express how deep my gratitude runs, my friend,' said Aragorn.

'We shall repave your streets with the purest of white marble also, and rebuild your towers to greater heights and more magnificent beauty!' cried Gimli, then with a glance to Legolas, added, 'Now what does the Elf of Eryn Lasgalen have to say to that? For I daresay his gifts are not so grand! Such is the generosity of the Glittering Caves, and the Lonely Mountain.'

'I daresay the strength of stone and gentleness of nature shall balance each other quite harmoniously,' said Legolas.

'Indeed, it is for the benefit of all the north that we resurrect Minas Tirith,' said Aragorn. 'The city shall serve as a haven for those who would seek sanctuary, and a bulwark against those who wish to incite chaos in an attempt to disrupt our hard-earned tranquillity. Come, let us lend a hand to your efforts, Master Gimli, so that they might be completed all the sooner!'

And with that, the three set to work, heaving stone amidst the clang of iron upon rock as the Dwarves enacted their miraculous skills. The company laboured throughout the afternoon, the passage of time marked by drops of sweat rolling from their foreheads to drip from noses and chins and mingle with fluttering snowflakes.

As evening drew nearer, the flurries came heavier, and deep banks began to accumulate. After a time, the snow grew too troublesome even for the stubborn, industrious Dwarves (on some of whom the deeper drifts came up as high as their waists). Determining their work concluded for the day, Gimli ordered the great boulders organised as best they might be, and tools stored in the guardhouses before the company began their long ascent to the upper tiers. But even as Gimli followed his brethren to their lodging and Legolas turned once more to the Houses of Healing, Aragorn noticed a frantic Aphadir emerging from the Tower of Ecthelion.

The advisor scurried across the courtyard until he drew near. 'Milord!' he gasped, breathless.

'What is it, Aphadir?' asked Aragorn.

'A courier from Pelargir has arrived bearing news from Belfalas, my lord,' said he. 'The fiefdom of Lebennin has once more found itself confronted by Corsairs, though our forces stationed there were able to stave off the attack. My lord, we shall be beyond fortunate if the additional grain shipments arrive by spring. As it is, we are scarcely subsisting on imports from the south; if anything were to disturb the supply further, our people will suffer terribly.'

'Perhaps I ought to send a detachment south after all,' Aragorn mused before addressing Aphadir again. 'I shall summon a council tomorrow morn to discuss the matter; send word to all advisors and captains.'

'Very well, my lord. Shall I send an errand-rider to Lord Faramir in Ithilien?'

'No, I am certain he is preoccupied with… other matters,' said Aragorn. 'Should the conclusion of our considerations tomorrow require action on the Steward's part, let us disturb him only then.'

'As you wish, my lord,' said Aphadir before bowing and rushing off to complete another of his countless tasks.

With weary steps, Aragorn returned to the King's House. His doublet and hose – soaked in cooled sweat and freezing snow – seized his body in shivers. It was a relief he had not worn his cloak, after all, for it would have been but one more sopping layer to his heavy ensemble.

The instant the doors closed behind him, Aragorn stripped bare and crossed to the fire, thoughtfully set in the hearth by Aphadir during his absence. Wrapping himself in a dry blanket, Aragorn sat gratefully beside the leaping flames, lost in thought for a time. When some warmth had seeped back into his bones, he donned an opulent robe (insisted upon by Aphadir) and sat once more before his desk. Crumpled papers still littered the elegant surface, obscuring a patchwork of stained glass which depicted the great Anduin winding its way from the sapphire Bay of Belfalas up through the emerald lands of Gondor – splotched by the ink he had spilled in his slumber the previous night.

Aragorn set the inkwell upright, then wet a rag in the basin to clean the glass tapestry. As he worked, his mind was absorbed in contemplation of the north and what tasks he had yet to accomplish in Arnor, for it would take immense effort and a great deal of time to rightly unify the two kingdoms into one. But in spite of his concern, some levity was wrought in Aragorn's heart when he thought of the land that lay between Gondor and Arnor – levity which was all too soon shattered, for still he could not bring himself to put pen to paper.

He sat miserably in his chair, staring at the parchment whose very blankness seemed to taunt him; for though Aragorn was a quiet man, he was not an ineloquent one, and it frustrated him beyond all measure that the very topic upon which he wished to wax poetic was that which continued to render him speechless.

It would not do to regale Truva with the tedious details of daily governance, as he was certain she had her own concerns as Marshal of the East-mark to occupy her; nor did he wish to bore her with additional questions regarding circumstances in those lands, so many had she already answered. She seemed far too proud for vain pontifications on her finer aspects – and yet even if it were not so, Aragorn was convinced there were no words in Westron or Eorling, or even in the tongues of Elvish that were sufficient to convey them.

He was determined to make an attempt anyway:

Dearest Truva,

He immediately scribbled out the elementary greeting, then began again directly below. Yes, a draft would have to come first:

Truva, mighty Arien to my reckless Tilion, golden sun for which the silvery moon longed…

…What fate is it that, upon the moment of our union, we are sundered once more; would that we…

What of Roheryn? Does he take well to the climate of the Mark?

Each was struck as soon as it was written. Resigned to defeat, Aragorn crumpled the paper and cast it into the fire. He sat brooding for a time, eyes lingering upon the flickering flames. With practised movements, he lit his pipe, though he became so lost in thought that he unwittingly let it go out.

Quite suddenly he sat up, a spark of inspiration having taken ahold of him. Yet no sooner had he taken pen once more in hand, determined to make a second endeavour, than a rap sounded at his chamber doors.

'My lord, another errand-rider has come from Ithilien!' called the voice of Aphadir. 'He wishes to come before you now; he says he conveys a message of the most pressing urgency.'

'Very well, let him in,' said Aragorn, standing and wrapping his robe more tightly about himself. Aphadir shoved the doors inward and allowed the errand-rider to sweep into the King's chambers. The White Company guard bowed low, yet before he could so much as speak, Aragorn deduced his purpose in coming.

'Is it time?'

'Yes, milord!' cried the messenger.

'You come hard upon the heels of your brethren who bore the initial news, but I suppose a child arrives precisely when he means to, and not a moment sooner or later,' said Aragorn, turning then to Aphadir. 'Ready my horse and prepare an escort. We ride for Ithilien at once!'

'Now, sir?' asked Aphadir, eyeing the darkened skies with concern.

'This very night. But first, see that this man receives a meal and repose; he may rest here in the meantime, or join us on our journey if he so wishes.'

'Very well, my lord,' said Aphadir, escorting the errand-rider out of the King's House and in the direction of the Citadel mess hall. Aragorn immediately set about preparing a small pack, for as enthusiastic as he was for Faramir and Éowyn's good fortune, it was something else that drove his haste: the knowledge conveyed by Captain Maeron that Éomer of Rohan made already for Ithilien – and that a certain Marshal rode in the Eorlingas King's Company.