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“Hail, King Aragorn, son of Arathorn,” Isagar Speaker of the Council intoned solemnly and sat down after giving a respectful bow.
Aragorn gave a regal nod in response and looked over the gathered council. There was a terrible hope on his face, barely suppressed. Boromir glanced at Faramir, stood behind the Dúnadan, and the rest of the ranger's retinue, and the only thing he felt was a heavy tiredness.
He knew most, if not all the men gathered behind his former travel companion. Imrahil of Dol Amroth and his heir, Éomer King, the Lord Elrond and his twin sons, Mithrandir, and of course Merry and Pippin, wide-eyed and almost bursting with exitement, were just a handful of them.
The newcomers were seated in a half-circle before the council. Only Boromir knew how much effort had gone into the placement of the chairs so that they were of a level with the council's benches and not below so as to not offend their guests, nor make them out to be petitioners. His attempt to avoid Aragorn's gaze was for naught; the Dúnedan caught his eyes and sent him a smile.
They'd hardly had time for a proper reunion after the Battle of Pelennor Fields was won. Just the barest of facts, how Boromir, horribly wounded at Amon Hen, had made it safely to Minas Tirith accompanied and watched over by Pippin. Boromir would always marvel at the bravery in one so small. He feared his hobbit friend's heart would suffer a blow today.
“The Council has heard and debated your claim to the crown of Gondor,” old Isagar continued. “It is with our utmost regret that we must deny it.”
Pandemonium broke out.
Boromir pressed his left fist against the runnel left by the last of the black arrows, so close to his heart, hidden beneath his embroidered tunic, and let the pain ground him.
He understood Aragorn and his friends, he did. If the crown were given for deeds of valor alone, the Chieftain of the Dúnedain of the North would have earned it many times over in his defense of the West. But Aragorn's motives were not pure and his qualifications suspect. After a long debate the council had arrived unanimously at its decision, and Boromir had to agree that it was the right one. He had abstained from having his voice heard, both in the debate and in the vote afterwards, citing his membership in Aragorn's company as the reason. He would neither be Denethor nor Faramir, bitter enemy or fervent supporter of the heir of Isildur.
He hadn't been named steward yet, was not certain he had the right. It hadn't been his place to speak.
After enough time had passed without a cooling of tempers, Isagar nodded at Húrin Warden of the Keys. Húrin, having brought a heavy, iron-capped staff just for the occasion, slammed it onto the marble floor. The resulting noise easily drowned out the shouts and left a ringing silence in its wake.
“The Council would like to make its reasoning public if it may, Your Highness,” Isagar said a bit drily.
Aragorn nod was stiff. In contrast to his friends' faces that were quite dark in their anger, his had turned white and strained.
“There is no doubt in the Council's minds that you are, by blood and law, a descendant of the line of Isildur and the rightful king of Arthedain, although a king in exile. What you are not, however, is a descendant of the line of Anárion, first King of Gondor.” Isagar let his eyes wander over his audience that hardly seemed to be breathing. “The line of kings split after Arnor and Gondor were founded by Elendil. Anárion's crown went to his son, Meneldil, and Isildur's went to his last surviving son, Valandil, and thus the two Royal Houses were established. Gondor had thirty-one kings in an unbroken line going back to Anárion before her throne stood empty until twenty-six Ruling Stewards, from Mardil Voronwë to Denethor II, took up her crown in all but name in order to serve her people. Arnor had ten kings before Eärendur's sons split their inheritance and Arnor was divided into the kingdoms of Arthedain, Cardolan and Rhudaur. Over the intervening centuries, the royal houses of Cardolan and Rhudaur perished, and the kings of Arthedain lost their throne only to wander their kingdom as rangers, all alone in the wilderness.”
The man to Aragorn's left, a stern-faced Dúnedan and one of Aragorn's lieutenants, opened his mouth and would have sprung up if not for his kinsman's iron grip around his wrist paired with a forbidding shake of the head.
“Over a thousand years and many generations lie between us and the reign of the High King Elendil. Gondor has no king. Gondor needs no king. Even if she did, I am certain that we could go back a shorter way than fifty-six generations to find a distant relative to the Royal House who might inherit by better right than the last descendant of our fallen neighboring kingdom.”
Again, chaos reigned.
Boromir saw Faramir, the Lord Elrond and Mithrandir gather around Aragorn. They were having a furious if short debate before Aragorn's voice rang out over the clamour and the rest fell silent.
“If I may remind this council, my line is far closer to Gondor's Royal House than this. My forebear, Arvedui, was wedded to Fíriel, daughter of King Ondoher of Gondor, in the year 1940 of the Third Age. I would argue that, as nephew to Ondoher, my forebear Aranarth had a better claim to the throne of Gondor that King Eärnil who, despite being a descendant of Telumehtar Umbardacil, was more distantly related to Ondoher.”
Boromir saw the Lord Elrond nod. He let his eyes travel and soon wished he hadn't. Daydreaming about being far away from here, be it in the stables, in the training yard or somewhere in the wilderness during their journey here from Rivendell, he failed to avoid his brother's gaze. Faramir's face was hard, but his eyes weren't, and the reproach there felt like a dagger cutting into his flesh.
“Gondor's council has already ruled over Arvedui's claim in 1940 and refused it. Gondor's throne is passed on in the male line. The sons of Fíriel have no claim to it by their mother's blood.” Isagar returned calmly.
Another voice rang out, and Boromir had to grit his teeth, feeling as though he had finally gained a better understanding of his father. “My lords, tell me, is it better to let Gondor's throne stand empty when it could have a king who, by blood and valor, might take it and defend its people, after facing Sauron no less, and lead it into a new age? A new High King who would reunite it with the North Kingdom so that the might of Mordor might be driven out of Arnor for the glory and strengthening of Men?”
Mithrandir was on his feet and it seemed as though he was a tall, burning flame of white whose passionate words reached out and touched all the hearts around him.
Boromir saw Húrin shake himself and touch Isagar's shoulder before he slammed his staff onto the floor once more. The councilmen, many facing each other in ardent discourse, turned around again, shamefaced and somber.
“By which right do you, Mithrandir, address his Council?” Isagar inquired pointedly. “As much as Gondor appreciated your counsel during the War, it is customary for outsiders to beg leave to speak here in these ancient halls. You hold no rank here, no position, and the last steward thought you unfairly biased and eager to use our realm and people as puppets in your grand plans, with no regard for the weal of Gondor. Is it the Istari's right to determine Arda's borders, kingdoms and rulers as they like?”
Boromir gripped the dagger at his hip, awed at the old man's daring.
The white light around Mithrandir seemed to abandon him and left an old, exhausted man in its wake. Mithrandir bowed. “Of course not, my Lord Isagar. I only seek to bring back the glory of old, when our world was young and there was but one kingdom in Elendil's wise hands. I am certain King Aragorn will appeal this council's decision, and I will gladly give him my counsel on how to do so.”
“That, of course, is your prerogative, Mithrandir,” Isagar said.
He then addressed the Lord Elrond and his twin sons who appeared to be just half a word away from taking insult on their foster brother's behalf and draw steel in the council hall. “Lord Elrond.” The peredhel inclined his head and Boromir almost shuddered upon the expression on his cold face. “You have Gondor's thanks for your support, both here and against Mordor. Without the timely intervention by you and your kin, our White City might very well have been lost. Should you desire to have your voice heard here now or later, you are welcome to do so.”
Isagar then turned to Aragorn's retinue. “However, I would ask you all to bear in mind that Gondor has neither had nor does ever seek influence on foreign kingdoms' decisions on their line of succession or royal decrees and thus we would beg you to act the same in turn, no matter what bonds of friendship might link you to the one in your midst.
“Gondor has suffered much in the last centuries. It has given and given and never run empty, sacrificing its Royal House and scores of its people so that the West might remain free. Our mothers have gotten used to going hungry so that our army might be clothed, fed and armed. They have gotten used to seeing only half of their children beget children in turn, the others being lost in battle against the enemy.”
No one moved, no one even seemed to breathe.
“Despite its sacrifices, Gondor still stands tall. Her throne is not for the taking by a would-be king who has not stood by her, does not know her. A would-be king who'd prefer her ordered rule to conquering and pacifying an Arthedain – or Arnor – fallen into disrepair, its cities abandoned, its fields turned into grassland, its people slain or driven out. Follow your legitimate birthright, King Aragorn, and establish a new North-kingdom in what remains of Annúminas, or Fornost. Surely your deeds, your fame of this War of the Ring is great enough that an army could be gathered if you only wished for it. Create something out of dust and ruins, draw up with your own hands a shining jewel where only desolation has lain for centuries. Gondor would welcome a new Arthedain, a new Arnor as her neighbor. Make its crown your groom's gift to your intended, the Lady Arwen, if a crown is indeed her condition for gracing you with her hand.
“Gondor will only be yours by right of conquest, should you seize her by force, or by right of blood, should a descendant of yours marry into our House of Stewards and Mardil Voronwë's line be broken at the same time.”
Isagar sat down.
Boromir's fist sank onto his thighs. His hand burned and so did his chest. There was blood on his fingers, but upon opening them, he saw that it was only from his nails cutting his skin. The great wound next to his heart had not re-opened.
Boromir breathed and felt the world settle around him.