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Chapter Text

Imrahil gazed around as he rode beside his father up the winding main road. He had visited Minas Tirith once before, as a small boy some ten years earlier. Although the walls did not loom quite so much as in his memories, the city was still far greater than the sea-girt fortress, with the town clustered at its feet, that he had left behind a week ago.

Appetising smells drifted from an inn set just down a side street, reminding Imrahil that he was hungry. Less appetising smells forced themselves on his nose as they passed through the second circle, where tanners and leatherworkers and dyers had their quarters. In the next circle, he heard the rasp of a saw, the ding of a hammer on metal, and the soft, rapid chink of a chisel on stone. Behind all of it was the hubbub of a great city busy with life; and on either side of them, men and women strode up and down the broad way, carrying baskets or pushing handcarts. There were times when Imrahil wondered how their party — not just Imrahil and his father, but also Meneldur, his father’s squire, leading their two pack ponies — would make it through, but somehow the crowd always parted in front of them and closed behind them as they slowly made their way upwards.

In the sixth circle, they turned aside into a quieter street, and then turned again through a high gateway into a courtyard that seemed to be filled with almost as much bustle as the city below. Imrahil recognised several of the servants from home, sent ahead to prepare the town house.

A grey-haired man dressed in Dol Amroth livery — a stranger to Imrahil, but he must be the town-house steward, Minardil — came forward as they drew their horses to a halt and bowed. “My lord, it is good to see you again. I trust you had a pleasant journey.”

“Pleasant enough, Minardil.” Adrahil dismounted and stripped off his gloves. “The wind was kind and we made good time up the river, though there was some confusion over the mooring when we arrived.”

Imrahil’s attention had been caught by a flash of blue as a maidservant snatched up and shook out a bedspread that had been hanging over the railing of the upper gallery to air. Further along, a manservant carried a pitcher of water with a stack of linens balanced on top. Down below, another servant was ferrying firewood from a handcart through a broad doorway that surely led to the kitchens, judging by the clatter of dishes that could be heard beyond it. Two more servants had come forward to help Meneldur with the baggage.

Imrahil was half aware, while he took all this in, of Minardil informing his father that Master Ondohir was waiting for them in the small parlour, and his father replying that they would see him directly, and to have refreshments brought, and then his attention was jerked back by his father calling his name sharply.

“Stop daydreaming, lad, and get down. Master Ondoher is waiting and I’m sure has much to report.”

“Yes, sir.” Imrahil quickly slithered off his horse and followed his father into the house. He suppressed a sigh. He was tired and hungry, and had been looking forward to dinner and a chance to bathe, but his father had often impressed on him in the last two years that the affairs of the day must be concluded before a lord could take his ease. Also, that it was not courteous — or sound business practice — to keep stewards and factors idling at their lord’s pleasure.

At least he had a chance to rinse the dust from his face and hands in a basin held by a servant waiting for them in the main hall, and he could take one of the white rolls — but only one — that were served along with watered wine while his father and Master Ondoher talked. It was hard to keep his attention on the conversation, though, as it moved from discussing the craftsmen and traders who wished to meet with his father while he was in the city and could spare time from attending on Lord Ecthelion, to a shortage in some supplies and a subsequent increase in prices, to the names of the several lords who had let it be known they were interested in setting some of their mares to the Dol Amroth stallions in the coming year.

Imrahil could not let his attention wander entirely, for occasionally his father would throw out a question in his direction, or provide some clarification of a detail of the complex web of commerce that supported his grandfather’s princedom.

At last, Master Ondoher had told all his news and departed, and Imrahil could make short work of the evening meal that the servants brought in. Plain fare, for the most part, but the cook had made some of the honey cakes that were Imrahil’s favourite. With his hunger now largely sated, he savoured them slowly, for he was not likely to get them again soon.

He thought again of the honey cakes, and all the other comforts of home and childhood that he was leaving behind, as he stood beside his father in the Hall of Kings, in the presence of the Steward and the rest of the crowd who had come to today’s audience.

“My Lord Steward.” His father bowed. “As is our custom, I have brought my son to offer you his service for a time.”

It was Imrahil’s turn to bow. Ecthelion acknowledged the bow with a smile. “Is it time already? The years run swiftly, Lord Adrahil. Gladly do I accept your son’s service.”

Imrahil drew his sword. It still felt a little strange resting on his hip, for it was only in the past month that he had been permitted to wear it outside the practice yards. Stepping forward and kneeling, he offered the hilt to Ecthelion, looking up into the old man’s stern but kindly face. Ecthelion took the sword and laid it across his lap, and Imrahil put his hand on the hilt.

His father moved up behind him and set his hand on Imrahil’s shoulder. “Here do I swear the fealty and service of my son, Imrahil, to the Lord and Steward of Gondor, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until his lord release him, or death take him, or he becomes a man full grown. So say I, Adrahil son of Angelimir of Dol Amroth.”

“And this do I hear, Ecthelion son of Turgon, Lord of Gondor, Steward of the High King, and I will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: fealty with love, valour with honour, oath-breaking with vengeance.”

Imrahil took back his sword and sheathed it, and then stood and turned to face his father. Adrahil gave him a brief nod and a smile, before he stepped back towards the crowd that thronged the hall. Imrahil took a few paces to his left and back, joining the two pages who already waited there, clad in the livery of the Tower that would soon become his own uniform.

On the other side of Ecthelion, Lord Denethor, who was acting as herald today, announced the next order of business. “Fréawine the Marshal wishes to present a petition from King Thengel of Rohan.”

Two men stepped forward from the press. Both were dressed in the garb of Riders, with their hair in braids, but while one had the fair hair and high colour typical of his land, the other bore a surprising resemblance to the men he approached: dark-haired and pale-skinned and with a long, curved nose set between deep, dark eyes.

The fair-haired man bowed. “Lord Ecthelion, I speak for Thengel King. He petitions you to accept this man, Amdir of the Northern Vales, into your service. Though not born of our people, faithfully and well has he served Thengel King these past twelve years, rising to the rank of Under-Marshal. Loth as we are to see him depart, he now wishes to take service with the Steward of Gondor.”

Ecthelion turned his attention to Amdir. “You are dissatisfied with King Thengel’s lordship?”

“No, my lord,” Amdir spoke clearly, meeting Ecthelion’s gaze steadily, but with no contention in his tone or look. “My service to Thengel King has been honorable and a glad memory to me. But a man may wish to take his skill where he feels it is most needed. And I am already far travelled and eager to learn more of the customs of other lands and their ways.”

The manner of Amdir’s speech was more like that of Gondor than Rohan, though not exactly alike. Imrahil wondered at it — and evidently so did Ecthelion. Leaning forwards a little, he said, “How came you into Rohan?”

“From the North, my lord.” Amdir inclined his head a little. “Down the Great River between the mountains and the woods, and across the Silverlode.”

“And your father?” Ecthelion arched an eyebrow.

Amdir stiffened, his left hand shifting to the pommel of his sword. “I never knew my father, my lord.”

A murmur ran through the crowd behind Amdir. Ecthelion sat back in his seat and regarded him thoughtfully. At last he said into the silence, “The name of a man’s father is of less weight, I think, than the manner of his conduct — and the names of the men who would vouch for him. The favour of King Thengel is not lightly given.” He waved a hand. “So. Come, if you are still resolved to take service with Gondor.”

Amdir did as he was bid. As Imrahil had done, he knelt and laid his sword on Ecthelion’s lap and spoke his oath.

“Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor and to the Lord and Steward of the realm, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, for all the year and a day that is to come, or until my lord release me, or death take me. So say I, Amdir of the Northern Vales.”

Ecthelion smiled down at him. “And this do I hear, Ecthelion son of Turgon, Lord of Gondor, Steward of the High King, and will not forget it. To you will I give such a place, and all that goes with it, as befits your talents, and reward that which is given: fealty with love, valour with honour, oath-breaking with vengeance.”

Amdir took back his sword and stood. Ecthelion directed him to be taken to the captain of the City Guard, to be given his duty. One of the pages beside Imrahil hurried forward to guide Amdir away, the crowd parting and closing around them, while the business of the day moved on.

Imrahil thought no more of the new soldier for a while, for he was busy with receiving his new livery, and settling into the dormitory he would share with three other boys, and learning his new duties and the ways of the city.

It was on an evening a week or so later that their paths crossed again. Imrahil, released from duty at the end of the day, had come out from his lord’s chamber an hour before sunset and made his way to the battlement that looked down upon the Great Gate far below. Resting his elbows on the parapet, he gazed out across the fields — a patchwork of stubble, and yellowed grass, and earth newly ploughed and ready for winter wheat — to where the river gleamed as it bent towards the Harlond. A half-dozen merchantmen were moored at the quays or anchored just off the main channel, while small dinghies and skiffs clustered around them, and a few gulls wheeled overhead. Imrahil sighed heavily.

“You are weary?”

The question made Imrahil start. He turned and saw Amdir had joined him on the walkway, and was also gazing out at the bustle around the harbour. He was dressed now as a soldier of Gondor, his dark hair shorn in the fashion of the city. Imrahil had heard from gossip among the Tower Guard in the Mess Hall that Amdir had been made an under-captain to an experienced captain in one of the ordinary companies, but had proved a quick study and was like to have his own company soon enough. There had been some muttering about damned sell-swords being promoted over good Gondor-born men — and bastard sell-swords at that.

Imrahil now regarded Amdir with a mixture of curiosity and caution. Drawing himself straight, he said quickly, “No, sir.”

Amdir gave him a conspiratorial grin. “It’s all right, lad. I won’t tell.” He rested one arm on the parapet. “Truth to tell, I’m somewhat weary myself.”

Imrahil hesitated a moment longer, but the urge to unburden himself to a friendly ear was too strong to resist. “Not in body, sir,” he admitted. “But in mind, a little, yes. A long day in my lord’s chamber, kicking my heels with no errands to run and—.”

He’d been about to tell Amdir that he was lonely. The other boys in his dormitory were not unkind, but they were older and had all been in the city a year or more already. Imrahil was tired of not understanding the jokes that flowed between them and of constantly feeling stupid about all the things he didn’t know about how the city worked. Where to find a particular street or guest-house, or who Master So-and-So or Captain This-or-That was, or the arrangements for each of the Citadel’s ceremonies. But it wouldn’t do to tell Captain Amdir that, however friendly he seemed.

Instead, he added lamely, “And I miss the sea, sir.”

“You’re the lad from Dol Amroth, aren’t you? Lord Adrahil’s boy?”

“Yes, sir. Imrahil. And I know you’re Under-Captain Amdir, sir. We took service on the same day.”

“So we did.” Amdir turned and gazed back out towards the harbour, harder to make out now in the deepening dusk. “I have yet to see the sea.”

“Oh, you should, sir. She’s beautiful. Wild and terrible sometimes, too, but still beautiful. And when the weather’s right, and the rigging is singing, and the sails are catching the wind just so, and the water and the hull are sweet-talking to each other, back and forth, under your feet.... Oh, what I wouldn’t do to spend a day out on one of those dinghies down there, instead of stuck inside listening to boring talk about boring things from boring old m—.”

He stopped abruptly and turned in alarm to face Amdir. But Amdir was still smiling at him kindly. “I remember feeling much the same at your age,” Amdir said. He laid a hand lightly on Imrahil’s shoulder. “A word of advice, lad, if I may. Don’t pay so much attention to what’s being said, but how it’s being said and by whom. Whom does your lord admit into his company often and who is more likely to be turned away or made to wait? Who carries their point with him — and how do they do so? And how does he speak to them in turn, when he agrees and when he does not? For one day, when you are Prince, you will have to be the boring old man who must have boring talk about boring things.”

With a last friendly shake of Imrahil’s shoulder, Amdir strode away, while Imrahil stared after him in amazement.

Chapter Text

Imrahil thought about Amdir’s advice before he fell asleep that evening, and again the next morning while he practiced his swordplay during his allotted hour. When he slipped into the Steward’s chamber to relieve Forlong, who had been assigned First Duty, he resolved to pay closer attention to the way his lord conducted his business.

In a surprisingly short time, he could be sure that if Ecthelion’s eyes crinkled in a particular way, he thought there was merit in an idea. If Ecthelion also leaned forward a little in his chair, he was likely to approve it. Imrahil grew certain, too, that if Ecthelion began to toy with his wine goblet, turning it slightly this way and that between his fingers, even as his face wore a pleasant expression, he was suppressing a growing irritation and would turn down whatever proposal was being made. Within a few months, Imrahil had gained a reputation among the pages for correctly calling who would prevail whenever there was some dispute that could not easily be resolved — or one that had simply set all the Citadel gossiping.

Beyond these signs, it quickly became clear whose judgment Ecthelion trusted, for they would always be admitted speedily to his chamber, and who was considered a fool and would be left to kick his heels outside for an hour or two. Imrahil noted that Ecthelion made much of these men once they were admitted into his presence, satisfying their pride, though they were rarely permitted to stay long. As he grew in confidence, Imrahil would sometimes even find excuses to humbly interrupt the conversation and give Ecthelion an opening to end an interview if he wished.

There was a lesson, also, in the way Ecthelion would sometimes let an impassioned lord have his say long beyond the point when it was clear to Imrahil that his plea would be refused. With his anger exhausted, and the comfort of having been heard, the lord could be soothed with soft, regretful words, and sent away not wholly dissatisfied. Imrahil also discovered the value of using gentle humour to lighten a tense moment. Though Ecthelion, being a stern if kindly lord, did not use such means often, Imrahil found himself applying it regularly to dispel the petty tensions that often sprang up among the pages, becoming the peacemaker of the group.

Imrahil learned to read others, too. Eradan of the Keys, who oversaw the duties of the pages, would always tap his fingers impatiently against the hilt of his belt knife when he was displeased with an explanation for something done or not done. A quick shake of the head from behind Eradan’s back would warn the poor unfortunate about to receive a dressing down that he should stop talking now.

Of all the lords and captains around Ecthelion, Lord Denethor was the hardest to fathom. No restless movements betrayed his feelings and his expression was almost always stern and unsmiling. Even his anger when he showed it — which was only rarely — burned coldly, like ice.

Of Amdir, Imrahil saw little. By the end of his first month in the city, he had been revealed, besides having an unsurprising skill with horses, to be an accomplished tracker. He was assigned to lead a company of the scouts that patrolled the north-eastern borders of the realm, stretching from where Glanhir fed its waters into the mouths of the Onodló down past Cair Andros to the northern limits of Osgiliath.

Reports came in every few weeks over the course of the winter from the band, but Amdir himself did not return to the city until a fine day in the midst of spring, when the soft rain overnight had cleared away and the sun had driven off the clouds.

Imrahil happened to be attending on Ecthelion when Amdir came to make his report. Imrahil saw, as he followed Ecthelion into the Map Room, that Amdir’s cloak and boots looked like they had seen hard use, but the man himself seemed unwearied as he stood next to the great map table with his under-captain at his side.

Ecthelion acknowledged Amdir’s bow. “I did not expect to see you for another month, Captain.” He glanced at the under-captain. “Either of you. And certainly not both at once.”

“I bring news that I deemed would not wait, my lord. And I brought Thalion with me that you might not doubt the account of a man new in your service and stranger-born.”

Ecthelion arched an eyebrow. “This must be grave and strange news indeed, Captain.”

“Indeed, my lord. We have seen signs that the orcs are building jetties on the Eastern shore, together with a fleet of boats or rafts to launch from them. I believe they plan to swarm across the river soon, within a month maybe. And in such numbers that they could do much harm in Anórien before we could drive them back.”

Ecthelion fixed Amdir with a keen gaze for a moment, before turning his attention to Thalion. “You can confirm this?”

“Yes, sir. I believe Captain Thorongil has the right of it. Or that the orcs have something afoot beyond the ordinary, at the very least.”

“Thorongil?” Ecthelion shot a startled glance in Amdir’s direction.

Thalion flushed. “A nickname, my lord. He has eagle-eyes, and some of the men joked that it was elvish magic from that star he always wears. It... stuck, my lord.”

“Did it, now?” Ecthelion turned his attention back to Amdir—Thorongil and regarded him thoughtfully.

Thalion cleared his throat and added, “Truth to tell, my lord, it was Captain Thorongil who first spotted the orcs were up to something. We would have passed it by otherwise. When we stayed and watched, we saw — something, my lord. I will not pretend that I saw all that the Captain reports, but many other times before this, he was the first to see something at a distance and give an account of it that proved right when we drew closer. I do not doubt him on this, my lord.”

Ecthelion still regarded Thorongil sternly, but the other man met the look steadily. At last, Ecthelion gave a sharp nod. “So, show me.” He gestured towards the map that had already been spread across the table. “And tell me all that you have seen.”

Thorongil moved to study the map. “The course of this channel has shifted north a little since this was drawn, I think.” He traced a line along the edge of the most southerly mouth of the Onodló, before moving his finger to a spot on the eastern shore of the Anduin. “The orcs are at work here, where the reeds provide some cover. I think they must be cutting and shaping the wood elsewhere, for there is no sound of such work, but you can hear their orders and curses from time to time, and every now and then the wind will bend the reeds enough to show something of the work. But a man must watch a while and a while to see it. A patrol might easily pass by without noticing it.” He drew a line across the river with his finger. “I believe they will make for the sandspit here. We found some signs that orcs had been there since the snows melted.”

Ecthelion rested his hands on the edge of the table and stared down at the map. After a long pause, he said, “And what course of action do you advise?”

“A raid, my lord,” Thorongil answered promptly. “Send a few men across the river to set a fire among the works. I think it too much of a risk to send a large enough force to destroy the orcs entirely. We do not know how many there are, and the raiding party would have little chance of retreat if things went ill. But we might at least delay them for a season or two, and force them to choose a less favourable place, if they do not abandon the idea entirely.”

Ecthelion went on studying the map for a few moments, before turning towards Imrahil, who had taken up station by the door. “Go first to Lord Denethor and request that he attend us here as soon as might be. After that, summon Captain Galador of the Rangers, or such of his under-captains as may come to us at once. And last, go you to the errand riders and have two of them make ready.”

“Yes, my lord.” Imrahil hurried away and quickly found Denethor at his desk in the Captain-General’s office. Galador was also close at hand, supervising practice in the covered archery range in the sixth circle. But by the time Imrahil had swung by the quarters of the errand-riders and then made his way back to the Map Room, slipping back into his place by the door, Thorongil appeared to be finishing up a more detailed description of what he had seen.

Ecthelion turned to Denethor, who was standing on the far side of the map table from Thorongil and Thalion. “What think you, my son?”

Denethor was regarding Thorongil with narrowed eyes, his hands clasped around the pommel of his sword. At last, he said, “Tell us again.”

Thorongil stiffened a little. “As I said before, my lord, we were patrolling the Western shore of the Great River, close to the southernmost outflow of the Onodló, when I saw a movement beyond the reeds on the Eastern bank that did not seem to be a bird or beast or even the wind. I stayed a while to watch and, after a few minutes, saw the reeds shift, and beyond them a glimpse of wooden workings of some kind. And I heard also what might have been an orc-voice, faint across the water. I called in Under-Captain Thalion and some of the other men and had them watch a while, too.”

“And, again, what did they see and hear?”

Thorongil began to describe uprights driven into the river, and long shapes low down near the water that did not look like river debris, and the occasional orc voice or ring of metal on metal, while Denethor peppered him with questions or interrupted him to ask Thalion what he had seen himself. All the while, the two men held each other’s gazes.

At last, Denethor seemed to have heard enough. He put out a hand to cut Thorongil off. “And you suggest we send a small party across the river to destroy these works?”

Thorongil nodded. “I deem it unwise to attack the orcs directly while we have no clear idea of their numbers. But a dozen men, in two boats, with oil or pitch, from north and south, could hinder their work.”

Denethor gave him a cold smile. “We cannot easily or quickly send boats so far north without the risk they will be seen and attacked on the way.” He paused and then added, “But a party of Rangers approaching from the eastern side could get close enough to mount an attack.” He looked down at the map. “You could find the place again from the other bank?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You are sure?” Denethor looked back up at Thorongil and now Imrahil saw the open challenge in his expression.

Thorongil gave him back look for look. “I am certain of it, my lord.”

“Very well.” Denethor turned to face his father. “If it please you, my Lord Steward, I will have Captain Galador lead a small party from the eastern side, to find and fire these works, if they exist. Captain Amdir—.” He paused and then inclined his head a fraction in Thorongil’s direction. “Captain Thorongil will go with them, to guide them. Under-Captain Thalion will return to his company and send men to watch the way from the western shore and signal across the river if aught is amiss. And, as you have proposed, I will send errand-riders along the northern foothills to warn the settlements that a raid may be at hand.”

Ecthelion nodded. “Let it be as the Captain-General wishes.” He turned back to address the others. “May the Valar speed your errand.”

With a final nod, he swept from the room. As Imrahil hastened after him, he heard Denethor say, “Captain Galador, I would discuss certain matters further with you. Thorongil, Thalion, you are dismissed, but make yourselves ready to depart in the morning.”

Chapter Text

Imrahil didn’t see Amdir — or, rather, Thorongil, for so all men called him now; Imrahil thought the name suited him well — before he left the city again. Yet he often wondered in the days that followed how he and the Rangers who had gone with him were faring. He would have liked to thank Thorongil for his advice before he left, and to let him know he’d made good use of it.

There was no news until a messenger from the Rangers rode in some two weeks later with a brief report that the raid had been successful. Galador, Thorongil and the rest of the company followed after another three days, with never a man lost, though the stories the Rangers told in the Mess Hall, repeated over and over to those who had not heard them first hand, spoke of furious orcs pursuing them once the fire had been set, and hunting them halfway back to Cair Andros.

The chief share of the praise was for Captain Thorongil, for the keen sight which had first raised the alarm, his cunning in leading the Rangers past the orc sentries unseen, and his valour and prowess with a blade when saving more than one life during the retreat. Having heard Captain Galador’s report to the Lord Steward and the Captain-General for himself, Imrahil knew the tales circulating in the city were, in the way of these things, somewhat exaggerated.

Nevertheless, Thorongil had conducted himself admirably. Thus it came to pass that, a few days after his return, he was summoned to appear before the Lord Steward during one of the smaller morning audiences.

When it was Thorongil’s turn to stand before the Steward, Ecthelion gave him a warm smile. “Captain Thorongil, you have done us and our land a great service, and we wish to honour and reward you in a fitting manner.” He took a small but heavy bag from the servant who stood at his shoulder and held it out.

Thorongil did not move to take the bag, but gave a slight shake of his head. “My lord, I thank you for the honour, but have no need of gold to reward me for serving you according to the oath I gave.” His lips curved into a smile. “But perhaps I might ask of you a small boon of another kind.”

Ecthelion set the bag back into the hands of the servant. “What is it, then, that you would ask of me?”

Thorongil bowed slightly. “I told you when I took service with you, my lord, that I wished to learn the customs and ways of other lands. I have some skill with a small boat upon a river but have never learned how to handle sail. I understand one of your pages, Imrahil of Dol Amroth, is skilled in this. I ask that you spare him from his duties now and then to teach me this upon the Great River yonder.”

Imrahil stood stunned. To have a chance to be out on the water again! He was aware that Ecthelion had turned his gaze towards him and tried to keep his excitement out of his expression. He must not have succeeded very well, for an amused smile lightened Ecthelion’s face. He turned back to Thorongil.

“This is perhaps not so small a favour after all, Captain Thorongil, but one I am minded to grant. Lord Eradan, will you see that suitable arrangements are made?”

“I will, my lord.” Eradan bowed, before shooting Imrahil a slightly annoyed look for the extra work and the disruption to the pages’ schedule.

So it came to pass that, whether by Eradan’s own choice or at the urging of Thorongil, Imrahil found himself three days later staring open-mouthed at the craft that had been provided for them. He had thought it likely he would be helming one of the small but serviceable fishing smacks that worked the reaches of the river below the Harlond, or perhaps a light cargo boat, more usually employed in plying the trade routes between the city and the nearest of the southern fiefs. Instead, waiting for them at the mooring, was one of the sleek pilot cutters that, as well as ferrying pilots out to the great merchantmen, sometimes carried important travellers and urgent messages and valuable merchandise quickly up and down the river.

He became aware that Thorongil was watching him. “It’s not to your liking, lad?”

Imrahil managed to gather his thoughts. “Quite the opposite, sir,” he croaked. “She’s a beauty.” He stepped on board and laid his hand against the mast, taking a moment to feel how she dipped under him lightly and how easily she rode the rippling current streaming past her.

“Permission to come aboard, captain?” Thorongil’s voice, breaking through Imrahil’s distracted delight, contained a hint of amusement.

Imrahil turned back to face him. “Are you mocking me, sir?”

Thorongil’s eyes still gleamed with merriment, but he shook his head. “Not at all. You’re the captain here and I’m the ignorant landlubber.”

Imrahil regarded him doubtfully for a moment longer and then laughed, catching Thorongil’s mood, and for the sheer joy of the boat under him. “Well, then you’d best come aboard and learn, sir.”

After a short lesson on how the sails were fashioned and rigged and controlled, during which Thorongil proved a quick study, Imrahil had him cast off the mooring rope. Imrahil then sailed them carefully out of the bustle by the quays and downriver, until he found a shallow reach out of the main channel. There, he showed Thorongil how to set the sails and trim them according to the wind, how to tack and jibe, and how to judge the shape and depth of the river bed from the way the current ran and the colour of the water.

Thorongil proved to have a fine sense for how the wind was blowing, though he was somewhat less adept at reading the water, and was soon able to follow the directions called out by Imrahil as they circled and crossed their backwater. Imrahil only had to reach across once or twice to correct their course and avoid them grounding on a sandbank.

So intent was Imrahil on the task in hand, and so deep in the joy of wind and water and craft, that it was with a start that he realised the afternoon had sped by and the sun was dropping behind the mountains. Taking the helm back from Thorongil, he reluctantly guided them back upstream to their mooring.

Watching the ease with which Thorongil stepped ashore and secured them to the mooring post, Imrahil sighed inside. While they were busy tying down the sail and making sure all was left ship-shape, he said quietly, “You learn quickly, sir. I don’t suppose you’ll need me to take you out again.”

Thorongil paused in twisting a rope around a cleat and turned to give Imrahil a searching look. Then he bent back to the task in hand. “You suppose wrong, lad. All I have learned today is how much I still have to learn.” He gave the rope a final turn and tugged on it to pull it tight. “I believe it will be quite necessary for us to do this every week for as long as we are both in the city, and I will make sure the Lord Steward and Lord Eradan believe it, too.”

They managed three more outings on the water before Thorongil was sent down to Lebennin for the summer, in charge of a company of engineers that were to assess the state of the defences across that land’s five swift streams and repair and strengthen them as needed. He returned to the city with the first chill winds of winter and the Mess Hall was soon full of the tale of how, when a marsh fever laid low several of the men, Captain Thorongil had put aside his rank and laboured alongside the rest to see the work was finished on time.

It was also said that, later in the summer, he had skilfully brokered a dispute when there had been a disagreement over the work to be done between the chief of the engineers and Arthad, one of the lords of Lebennin, whose lands ran along the banks of the River Serni from Linhir to the sea. “’Twould have been easy enough to go for the quiet life and let old Arthad have his way,” one of the sappers had said one evening, after the ale and grog had flowed a little too freely, “but the Captain, he always listened to us as knew the work. I dunno as how he did it, but Lord Arthad thought we was doing what he wanted, but we was mostly doing what we’d wanted all along. Guess the Captain must’ve got himself a silver tongue to go with that silver star of his.”

As for Imrahil, the summer had passed swiftly, his duties now familiar and his place among the pages firmly cemented. Even the routine business of the Lord Steward’s councils seemed to drag less, now that he understood more of what was at stake — which was not always the same as the matter under discussion. But he still had trouble keeping the grin from his face when Lord Eradan informed him that he would be spared his usual duties the following afternoon to take Captain Thorongil out on the water again.

The weather was less kind than it had been in the spring, the wind gusting hard and turning the occasional sharp shower to stinging needles. Either Thorongil had forgotten some of what he had learned, or he was foxed by the extra weight of the sodden sail and the currents running cross-wise in the wind, for he struggled to steer at first. After the boat yawed abruptly for the third time, he muttered, “Do we really want to be out in this?”

Imrahil, sitting next to Thorongil in the stern, with the rain dripping from the brim of his oiled leather hat and forming droplets on the outside of the thick woollen cape that was keeping him dry, laughed. “This, sir? You should try being out on the open sea in a full gale. This is just a bit of a blow.” Seeing Thorongil’s frown deepen, he added, “A boat’s a bit like a sword or a horse, sir. Don’t choke her or fight her.”

He put out a hand gloved in sealskin to take the line Thorongil was using to control the sail, and let the tension on it loosen a little, before easing it back again. Everything was suddenly much quieter, as the edge of the sail stopped flapping, the canvas bellied out smoothly, and they leapt forwards through the water. Scarcely conscious of what he was doing, Imrahil pushed the tiller a degree or two to port, feeling the press of the current against the hull through all the places where his body made contact with the boat.

Thorongil snorted quietly. “It seems I have learned nothing.”

Imrahil shook his head. “I’ve been sailing since I was a boy, sir. My first memory is of being out on a boat like this with my father. And trust me, I’ve ended up dumped in the water or stuck on a sandbank or limping back with a torn sail more times than I want to admit. Besides,” he cast a glance across at the older man, “if you want to rise high in the world, it’s important to know when a thing is being done well — and why — even if you can’t always do it well yourself, isn’t it?”

Thorongil stared at him for a long moment, his gaze narrowed, and then he began to laugh. “That it is.” Sobering, he put his hand back on the line next to Imrahil’s, his touch light enough not to take over but enough to feel the play in the rope.

“Ready?” Imrahil asked after a few moments. When Thorongil nodded, Imrahil let go, relinquishing control. The boat bucked a little and then settled to running more smoothly through the rough weather.

They did not speak again for a while, both busy with their own thoughts, but once they had turned for home, sooner than usual because of the failing light, Thorongil said suddenly, “You think I wish to rise high in the world?”

Imrahil shifted uncomfortably. “Well, that’s what men say, sir.”

“And what do you say?”

Imrahil hesitated. “That there’s no shame if you do, sir. But I think... I think you want to earn it, sir. Not—not just take it because you think you’ve a right to it.”

They spoke no more of it and soon they were too busy navigating their way through the traffic around the quays to have time for idle chatter.

When the time came, in the autumn of the year, Thorongil again swore service to Gondor for a twelvemonth. That winter, Ecthelion kept him in the city, assigning him to the Captain-General’s office to oversee the communication and supply lines to both north and south. Imrahil was at first pleased, for he thought it would mean more outings on the river. But Denethor proved a hard taskmaster, keeping Thorongil busy with reviewing men and materiel to see if the resources needed to support the beacon chains could be reduced. Imrahil and Thorongil managed two afternoons out on the water, favoured with bright sunshine and light but kindly winds, before the snows came down and Denethor decided Thorongil should visit the beacons along the southern flanks of the White Mountains to determine how best they could be resupplied and re-garrisoned in the depths of winter.

Imrahil’s own situation also took something of a turn for the worse when Denethor requested he be assigned regular duty in the Captain-General’s office. Imrahil was unsure at first why he was there, for there were always junior clerks to run messages when needed. Only when Denethor had him fetch some maps of Anfalas that had been prepared by the archivists and, spreading them out, asked Imrahil if he knew the various ways the coast could be defended, did he realise that Denethor was sparing a little time amongst his many cares and duties to tutor him.

Thorongil returned after the turn of the year, carrying a letter from Lord Deruhir of Morthond that made Denethor’s face darken slightly before he threw it down on his desk. Gathering Denethor’s papers together later that afternoon, Imrahil saw it contained a glowing report of Thorongil’s conduct.

“I don’t think Lord Denethor likes you very much,” Imrahil confided when they were next out on the water and well away from prying ears and eyes.

Thorongil, his attention focused on reefing the sail, smiled grimly. “He doesn’t have to. But there is no need for us to be at odds more than needed, either. Nor for you to ever repeat what you just said to me.”

“I just wanted to warn you to take care,” Imrahil muttered, a little hurt at being brushed off.

“I will.” Thorongil gave Imrahil a reassuring smile. “But Lord Denethor is not a foolish or intemperate man. If I fall or fail, it will not be within the walls of the Guarded City.”

“But he could arrange for you to be sent somewhere—.”

“Stop worrying.” Thorongil laid a hand on Imrahil’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “My future rests in the hands of the Lord Steward, not Lord Denethor.”

“For now,” Imrahil pointed out.

“Yes, for now.” Thorongil settled himself more comfortably in the stern and took the tiller. “Don’t borrow trouble, Imrahil. It will find you soon enough by itself.”

Chapter Text

Snow still lingered in the hollows on the shadowed slopes of the barrowfield as Imrahil rode up the track to the gates of Edoras. Denethor rode ahead of him and behind them came a half dozen men-at-arms and a string of pack ponies. King Thengel had sent word half a month ago that there had been increasing trouble over the winter from small bands of orcs raiding across the Isen. Ecthelion had decided to send Denethor to assess the danger and to consult with Thengel and his Marshals on a remedy.

“A small party will be sufficient,” Denethor had suggested. “We can ride swiftly and King Thengel’s table will be too bare at this time of year to host a great company.”

Ecthelion had nodded. “A wise choice. Take Thorongil with you, as he knows the land well and was close with many at King Thengel’s court.”

Imrahil, who was present at the meeting at Denethor’s bidding, had caught the way Denethor’s eyes narrowed for a moment, and the deep breath he took to contain his anger before he spoke. “Too close, perhaps. He may feel his loyalties divided.” Denethor had tilted his head in Imrahil’s direction. “I thought to take Imrahil with me. It is past time he met with our allies, and he and the King’s son are not so distant in age.”

Ecthelion had let out an amused chuckle. “I think you have forgotten that the difference between sixteen and twenty three is an age of the world when you are sixteen or twenty three. But yes, it would be good for him to make the acquaintance of his distant kin.”

At the gates of Edoras, Denethor and Imrahil dismounted and followed a pair of guards up the broad track to the great hall set on its high terrace. Imrahil did his best not to stare around him at the wooden houses with their richly carved gables and doorposts. The great hall itself, though as wide and lofty as the Hall of Kings in Minas Tirith, was dim. Dust-flecked shafts of light fell through windows set high below the eaves, lighting up the patterned stones beneath their feet in places. The gilding on the carved pillars was darkened by smoke and the great tapestries that clad the walls seemed half-alive as they rippled in the slight air currents that stirred in the hall.

Past the fire upon the long central hearth, King Thengel sat waiting for them. A younger man stood at his shoulder, so alike in face that there could be no doubt he was Théoden, Thengel’s son. A half dozen riders were also gathered to either side of the dais.

Thengel did them the courtesy of rising. “Hail and be welcome, Denethor son of Ecthelion. It is good to meet with you again, and see that the long years since I left your city have treated you kindly.”

Denethor bowed in return. “Hail, Thengel King. I thank you for your welcome, and glad am I to see you seated thus in the High Hall of your people, with your son full-grown beside you.” He gave a slight wave of the hand to urge Imrahil to take a pace forward. “I bring with me Imrahil, son of Adrahil, grandson of Angelimir, Prince of Dol Amroth, who serves my father the Lord Steward for a time.”

Thengel gave Imrahil a smile. “It is good to meet the son of an old friend and battle companion. But come.” He extended a hand, inviting Denethor to join him. “You have ridden far and fast to hear our woes and give me counsel. Let us eat and talk.”

As Denethor followed Thengel towards the private chamber behind the King’s throne, Imrahil was surprised to find Théoden coming down to meet him. “Well met, Imrahil of Dol Amroth. I am Théoden, Thengel’s son. I have never seen your home, for I was but a small child when we removed from Minas Tirth, but I hope I may one day visit, for I hear you have the finest bloodstock in Gondor.”

“Sir.” Imrahil saluted him after the fashion of Gondor, with his hands upon his breast. “And you have heard aright, sir. They say the line is descended from Felaróf himself.”

“Do they, indeed?” Théoden seemed amused as he indicated Imrahil should fall in beside him and walk with him. “That is a mighty lineage!”

Ahead of them, Denethor had checked in the doorway for a moment before entering Thengel’s private quarters. Following after, Imrahil saw that one of the chairs set around the brazier was already occupied by an old man, dressed all in white, with long white hair and a long beard still flecked here and there with strands of black.

Denethor inclined his head slightly. “My Lord Curunír. It is many years, I think, since you left your tower.” He moved forward and placed a proprietary hand on the back of a chair.

“Lord Denethor.” Curunír acknowledged him with an even briefer dip of the head. His voice was low and musical. “King Thengel felt these orcish incursions were a matter for my concern also, as the foul creatures must at times pass close by the walls of Angrenost.”

Imrahil realised he was looking at one of the fabled Istari. He had known that one dwelt in Isengard, and that another, the Grey Pilgrim, visited Minas Tirith now and then, but neither had been seen in Gondor in Imrahil’s lifetime.

Théoden gave Imrahil’s elbow a gentle nudge as Denethor sat, indicating he should take one of the remaining seats. Gathering his wits — he was unused to being one of the honoured company — Imrahil did as he was bid, while Théoden served them wine.

Denethor and Curunír were regarding each other in silence. There was no open challenge between them, but neither seemed minded to give way to the other. It was Curunír who withdrew his gaze first, turning to Thengel as Théoden took the last seat.

“I confess, Thengel King, that there is little I can report to you regarding the orcs.” He tilted his goblet in a gesture of regret. “Perhaps you would tell us what you have suffered.”

Thengel sighed heavily. “We are no strangers to raids across our borders. But until now these have come most often from the East, and the tracks lead back to the East Wall and thence across the Great River to the North. But this last year, and especially this last winter, our homesteads and pastures in the Westfold have been attacked. There were some six or seven raids between full moon and full moon last. The orcs drive off our horses and cattle, steal our grain, and fire what they do not steal. Their trails are hard to follow, but the Fords are well manned and we know they do not cross that way. We fear they are passing through the Entwood. Or perhaps they have crossed the Isen far down towards the sea, where it is wide but slow, and made camp somewhere between Isen and Adorn.”

Denethor raised his goblet a little, indicating he wished to speak. “If that is so, we should look to our western borders also. We have had no news as yet of trouble from Pinnath Gelin or Anfalas, but the mountains of Andrast may be little defence if these orcs grow bolder.” He gave a slight shake of the head. “But your need is more pressing. What would you ask of us, Thengel King, to call us hither?”

“For Gondor’s part, an extra company to strengthen your defences along our southern border and, mayhap, to be stationed even in the Eastfold above the Entwash, as far north as Rauros.” Thengel gave Denethor an apologetic smile. “Well do I understand that Gondor must look first to the line of the Great River and the coastlands, but fewer of your men in Anórien leaves our southern flank open to a spear-thrust. And did you not send word a year ago of a scheme among the orcs to cross the Great River on rafts?”

Denethor turned his eyes downwards, pondering Thengel’s request. At last, he nodded. “There is merit in your suggestion, Thengel King. I will take thought to what aid Gondor can spare for you.”

“As for myself,” Curunír said, “I have not given much consideration to the need to defend my walls, with such kindly neighbours. But perhaps I might beg leave to seek out some among your Riders who would serve me. And it would be a kindness if you could lend me also some stout captain to set over the garrison for a year or two.”

Thengel nodded. “That would be wise, my lord, and I will gladly grant your request.” He turned to Théoden. “What think you, my son? Is there one among your captains — Westfold-born, perhaps — fitted for such a task?”

Théoden frowned for a moment. “Herubrand Guthláfsson, maybe? Or Grima, son of Gálmód?” Thengel nodded.

Denethor took another sip of his wine. “And would you have aid from Gondor also, Lord Curunír? As you hold Angrenost at the pleasure of the Stewards — until the King should come again — we surely owe you succour if you have need of it.”

Curunír inclined his head. “It is kind of you to think of us, Lord Denethor, but if King Thengel grant our request, there is no need for you to trouble yourself about the matter. We can manage well enough without.”

Again, Denethor and Curunír exchanged a long look in which it seemed each strove to daunt the other. At last, Denethor gave a shrug. “As you wish, Lord Curunír.”

So it was decided. Lord Curunír departed the following morning, with Grima son of Gálmód at his side. In the days following, Denethor and Thengel discussed how many men Gondor would supply, and where they would be stationed, and in what manner Thengel might command them. Imhrahil also attended their conclaves, though he played no part in them beyond that of an observer. Yet he did not count the days wasted, for when their lords were not in debate, Théoden took Imrahil to inspect the studs and brood farms of the Royal Stables, questioning him in return about the qualities of the Dol Amroth bloodlines. Though it was not openly said, it was clear to Imrahil that Théoden would welcome his return in a few years, when he was of age and with authority to discuss a trade of bloodstock.

Imrahil was thus sorry to leave Edoras — and sorrier still, once they had crossed the Glanduin, to find himself questioned by Denethor at every meal about his time among the Riders. He realised Denethor had brought him along because he hoped their hosts might speak more freely before a mere youth and reveal more of their own internal alliances and divisions and weaknesses. Though he could not but help admire Denethor’s guile, a part of him was sickened that such measures should be necessary with an ally, especially after he had been treated with such courtesy and welcome. The rest of him was, under Denethor’s fearsome glare, mostly wishing he had taken more note of what he had seen and heard.

Still, Denethor seemed not displeased with his conduct. Indeed, Imrahil thought Denethor chose to make rather more of him than he might otherwise have done when, attending on Ecthelion to make their report, they found Thorongil also present.

Ecthelion waved away Denethor’s objection — mildly voiced, but Imrahil had seen Denethor stiffen in the instant he became aware of Thorongil’s presence. “Captain Thorongil spent long at King Thengel’s court and may have valuable counsel,” he reminded Denethor.

Denethor did not object further, but simply gave his account of what had been discussed and agreed. He spoke also of the impressions he had gained of the strength of Rohan’s defences, and what aid or resources Thengel might be prevailed to give at some future time, as well as whether there was any dissension in his court about his policies.

At the end of his questioning, Ecthelion turned to Thorongil. “Do you have anything more to say, Captain?”

Thorongil was silent a moment, regarding Denethor, and then turned to Ecthelion. “I mistrust this scheme of Curunír’s, my lord. Why not request an éored of Riders to be stationed at Isengard, or even half a company of Gondor’s men, since he holds Isengard from Gondor? Yet he wishes to raise his own force.”

Denethor gave a slight shake of the head. “Would any lord with lands—“ He paused for a fraction of a second and gave Thorongil a piercing look. “—not wish to defend them himself?”

Thorongil gave him back look for look. “If it were any other lord, I would not dispute you, Lord Denethor. But Curunír is one of the Wise. I have met with him only once, but I know Mithrandir a little. From him, I had understood the Istari seek to provide counsel and build alliances, not rule.”

“Perhaps one who travels here and there as he wishes, demanding guest-right for as long as it pleases him, has no higher aim than to whisper now and then in the ear of his host.” Denethor’s voice was cold. “No need, in such a case, to commit to the hard labour of defending a land and its people, as Lord Curunír seeks to do.”

Thorongil held Denethor’s gaze. “Perhaps,” he said at last, “but my Lord Ecthelion asked me for my counsel and I have given it: be wary of Curunír and rather put your trust in Mithrandir, if you would trust any of the Wise.”

Ecthelion raised his hand. “And I have listened to you — both of you — and listened enough for this time. Leave me now and I will think further on this matter.”

Thorongil withdrew his gaze from Denethor’s and turned and bowed to Ecthelion. “As you wish, my Lord.”

Denethor did not move until the door had closed behind Thorongil. Then he turned and also made his bow. “With my lord’s leave, I have other duties that call to me. But perhaps a son who has been absent from home for a while might dine with his father this evening.”

A smile warmed Ecthelion’s face. “Your father would like that very much. But go now, for I know you have much else to attend to.”

That proved true enough, once Denethor and Imrahil reached the Captain-General’s office. If Imrahil had hoped for an easy afternoon to reacquaint himself with the city, he was sorely disappointed. Denethor had him — as well as half the clerks in the office — running messages here and there.

Imrahil was on his way back from delivering a message to a minor noble in the fifth circle when he was stopped by Bregor of Calembel. “May I have a word with you, sir.”

Imrahil almost looked around to see who was coming up the main road behind him, but caught himself just in time. Bregor was standing right in front of him and looking straight at him. But Bregor was only just older than Imrahil; he’d been one of the oldest pages when Imrahil had first taken service, and had returned to his father’s lands a few months later when he’d turned eighteen and his service was complete. Imrahil had been aware that Bregor had arrived back in the city with his father, Lord Bergil, a short while before he and Denethor had left for Rohan, but they hadn’t spoken. He had no idea why Bregor would be calling him sir or what he wanted.

That mystery at least, was soon cleared up. Imrahil had barely had a chance to gather his scrambled wits together before Bregor said, “Would you care to have a drink with me? There’s a horse I thought to purchase and I would welcome your opinion.”

Imrahil blinked. A drink? A horse? Now? He and Bregor had never been that friendly, even when they had served together. And Bregor surely couldn’t have forgotten that Imrahil would be attending the Lord Steward or the Captain-Gen—.

Suddenly, everything became very clear. Imrahil stepped sideways. “I’m on duty, Bregor. You must know that.”

Bregor caught his arm. “Perhaps later?”

Imrahil shook him off. “There’ll be no later if I keep Lord Denethor waiting much longer.”

He strode away. Behind him, Bregor called out, “Tomorrow, then?”

It happened a second time the following morning, as Imrahil returned from carrying a message to Ecthelion and was caught by one of the suitors waiting outside Ecthelion’s chamber. And a third time in the afternoon, as he was on his way to make a request of the Captain of the Tower Guard: Lord Dorlas of Nen Calen ambushed him as he was about to step out into the windswept Court of the Fountain.

Imrahil thought he was in for yet another awkward encounter— with less chance to escape — when, with his duty finally over, he sat down in the almost empty Mess Hall with his evening meal and someone slid on to the bench beside him. He was relieved when he saw it was only Thorongil.

The older man pushed a flagon of ale along the table towards him. “You look like you could do with a drink and a sympathetic ear,” he remarked quietly.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to provide the friendly ear?” Imrahil muttered. He dug his spoon into his stew. “And then a friendly word to Lord Denethor?” Lord Dorlas had not been in the least discreet when making his request.

Thorongil set his own flagon down and laughed softly. “I doubt even you could intercede successfully for me with our Captain-General.”

“I doubt I’ll be much help to anyone at all.” Imrahil waved his spoon in the direction of the rest of the world. “I just wish they all knew that.”

Thorongil gave him a thoughtful look. “I wouldn’t be so sure. I heard Lord Denethor ask for your opinion at least twice today, and that was only when I was near enough to overhear. And he trusted you to find the right words yourself when he sent you to the Captain of the Tower Guard. He favours you, Imrahil — as he should, for you will be among his chief counsellors one day — and men see it. There was talk of it while you were in Rohan.”

“I’d rather have your favour, sir.”

“You honour me.” Thorongil gave him an amused smile and dipped his head. “And you have it. But it may not be a wise thing to wish for, when Lord Denethor and I are so often at odds.”

Imrahil sighed and scraped up the last of his stew. “I just wish I knew what to say to them. I suppose this is another thing I’m here to learn, even though nobody told me.”

“It is.” Thorongil gave him a sympathetic look. “All great lords must become skilled at managing the petty vanities and demands of lesser men, and turning them to the advantage of all. But the Lord Steward and Lord Denethor are both masters in this and you can learn much from their actions and words. For so you must.” He clapped a hand on Imrahil’s shoulder. “I came also to tell you that the Lord Steward sends me to the coasts for a season, to Pelargir and then on to your own home in Dol Amroth. A chance to see the sea at last.”

Imrahil suddenly felt very homesick. “I wish I was going with you.”

Thorongil laughed softly. “So do I. But I must go where I must go and you must stay where you must stay. For now at least.”

Chapter Text

That summer proved to be a miserable one. Not only was there no prospect, with Thorongil out of the city, of going sailing, but even if there had been, there wouldn’t have been a breath of wind to stir the sails. The fine weather that had been welcomed in late spring had stretched on and on, with never a breeze or a cloud to mar the blue sky that pressed down like a great hot hand. The crops in the fields of the Pelennor wilted, the wells ran dry, and men laboured to raise water from the river and cart it to spread on the cracked earth. Even the lofty stone halls of the Citadel grew stifling and stepping outside into the Court of the Fountain was like entering a furnace. Denethor spent long hours with his father, their faces grave, as they took account of the stores — or likely lack of them — for the winter to come. The one bright spot for Imrahil was that anyone who could flee the city did so, and he was no longer stopped twice a day by someone hoping for him to put in a good word with the Lord Denethor.

At last the weather broke, a few fat splashes at first and then the heavens opening. Imrahil, on his way back from carrying a message to the Rangers’ Duty Captain when it happened, stopped in the middle of the Court of the Fountain and turned his face upwards and laughed and laughed and laughed as he let the rain drench him. Denethor had been less amused when Imrahil had squelched back into the Captain-General’s offices, water dripping from the hair sleeked against his head and from the hem of his surcoat. Imrahil was ordered away to change and dry himself before he splashed any of the documents spread across the desks. But as he made his way back outside, Imrahil saw that even Denethor’s face was lit by the ghost of a smile as he glanced out through the nearest window at the rain sheeting down outside.

Another two weeks brought a messenger to the Steward — for his attention only — from the Prince of Dol Amroth and the Lord of Pinnath Gelin both. They wished to inform the Lord Steward that, if he was minded to grant it, the Prince’s granddaughter, the Lady Ivriniel, elder daughter of Lord Adrahil, would wed with Lord Hirgon, eldest son of Lord Halmir. Imrahil, in attendance on Denethor as usual, learned the news as he listened to Ecthelion and Denethor discuss it, and heartily wished he was elsewhere as the two of them dispassionately considered the fate of his sister and whether there was a better match to be made.

Imrahil knew it must be so. His own marriage would also be a matter of alliances and trade and resources and as little to do with any inclinations of his heart. Yet he was very glad, when the match was approved by Ecthelion and announced, to receive letters from both his sisters that made it clear Ivriniel liked Hirgon well enough, and that they would likely be happy together.

Finduilas wrote, too, that she and Ivriniel and Hirgon would be coming to the city for a while around mettarë, for Ivriniel wished to buy wedding clothes and other goods for her new home, and Hirgon had promised her a gift of jewels. I am sure you will also be pleased to learn that we will be escorted by Captain Thorongil, who returns to duty in Minas Tirith. He has spoken to me several times of your kindness in teaching him to sail and showing him friendship when he first came to Gondor. I am glad for your part that you have his friendship, for he has been a very pleasant companion when his duties here have allowed him to form part of the company at grandfather’s hearth.

Imrahil sighed as he read the letter, imagining how much more enjoyable it would have been to spend the summer at the coast rather than in the city, But another year and he would be done with his time here, free to return home and—. He laughed ruefully to himself. Free to return home to the duties assigned to him by his grandfather. But at least there would be a chance of spending time out on the water, even if he drew shore service — and there was surely hope of a regular spell or two on one of the patrol boats.

Imrahil put the letter away and went back to his duties. He was the oldest of the pages now and Eradan had assigned him to supervise the newest and youngest, Forbeleg of Lossarnach. Remembering how lost and lonely he had felt in his own first days in the city — it seemed a lifetime ago! — Imrahil did his best to be patient and kind with Forbeleg, though it was often a sore trial of his temper.

Slowly the days shortened and the turn of the year approached. On the day his sisters were due to arrive, Imrahil was excused all duty so he could greet them and dine with them. The town-house was already a-bustle when he made his way down to the sixth circle, with servants airing rooms and laying in provisions and preparing food. He felt quite at a loose end; and when, for a third time, his offer to lend a hand had been met with a puzzled rejection and the question had been turned back to him — “Is there anything I can do for you, sir?” — he had beat a retreat to the small parlour.

The fire had already been laid, so it was but a moment’s work to light it and make sure it was drawing properly. Then he fetched out the chequered gaming board and the jade and ivory fox and hounds pieces, and began to play against himself.

To be sure, the manservant who blundered in half an hour later looked at the crackling flames in confusion and then spent five minutes unnecessarily adding more wood, and tidying around the hearth, and asking Imrahil if there was anything else he could bring him, while Imrahil awkwardly tried to reassure him that there really wasn’t anything he needed.

Imrahil was quite aware that a whole army of hidden servants made sure the pages had clean clothes and bedding, and fresh washing water, and empty chamber pots, but he’d grown more used to waiting on someone else than being waited on. He supposed that the subtle dance of master and servant was something else he would have to figure out once he returned to Dol Amroth.

At last, he heard a splurge of noise in the courtyard that included the clatter of hooves. By the time he hurried outside, Hirgon had helped Ivriniel down from her horse. She immediately embraced Imrahil in a long fierce hug and then pulled away to peer up at him, ‘How you’ve grown!” They’d been of a height when Imrahil had last seen her, and though he’d needed several visits to the tailor in the past two years, he was still startled to discover he was almost a head taller than her now.

She reluctantly let go of him and turned to wave Hirgon forward and introduce him to her brother. They greeted each other formally, cordial but cautious. Then Imrahil turned to Finduilas. Thorongil had helped her down from her horse and she still had her hands on his arms from steadying herself as she set her feet on the ground. Imrahil heard her ask, her voice as soft and gentle as always, “Will you dine with us this evening. I am sure my brother would welcome it.”

Thorongil shook his head with a sad smile. “Alas, my lady, I must report to the Captain-General’s office and perhaps to the Lord Steward also. But I hope we may all meet together soon.” He stepped back from her and, catching sight of Imrahil, nodded towards him. “See, here is your brother come to greet you now.”

Finduilas turned and a smile lit her face. She took an eager pace forwards and held out her hands to Imrahil. He took them and squeezed them as he returned her smile. “I’ve missed you, my little swan.”

He laughed at the childhood nickname. “And I you, little nightingale,” he answered, using her own childhood name. “But I’m glad to see you’ve been tempted out of your hiding place.”

Finduilas sighed. “Only because Ivriniel begged me to come, and because I’d see you.” She took his arm and swung him round, gesturing for them to follow Ivriniel and Hirgon, who were already making their way inside. “I want you to tell me everything that’s happened while you’ve been here.”

Imrahil turned to look back over his shoulder to see where Thorongil had gone. He would have liked to catch a word with him, too. But there was no sign of him on the far side of the gaggle of horses and pack ponies and servants that filled the courtyard.

The four of them passed a merry evening together. Hirgon proved sensible and intelligent, if more reserved than Ivriniel — who was not? — and Imrahil saw his kindness in drawing out Finduilas and bringing her into the conversation. Though, in truth, she was more of a chatterbox than usual, regaling Imrahil with stories of how a pair of turtle doves had nested in the fig tree in the Ladies’ Garden at the start of the summer and fledged four chicks, and of the rebuilding of the eastern quay, which had been damaged in the winter storms, and of going out sailing with Captain Thorongil, and of Captain Thorongil teaching everybody a song about Amroth that even Minstrel Aerandir had not known, which Captain Thorongil said came out of the north, and how grandfather had launched two new patrol boats and Captain Thorongil had gone out on one of them for a month.

Imrahil noted that Thorongil’s name came up quite often in his sister’s tales. It might only have been because she knew they were such good friends and he would be interested in hearing how Thorongil had fared in Dol Amroth. He wasn’t sure how to feel when it struck him, towards the end of the evening, that there might be more to it than that.

He had no chance to find out the truth of it, for it grew late enough he must return to the Citadel if he was not to break curfew. Busy with his duties, he saw little of his family over the next few days. As mettarë approached, many of the great lords began to host supper parties and balls, but Imrahil was often required to attend Lord Denethor, and his sisters were not always invited to the same events. When they were, he all too often found himself kicking his heels in a distant library or private parlour — or even trapped at the side of the main hall — listening to Denethor talking business and politics while others danced and laughed.

If he was honest with himself, he didn’t mind having such duties as much as he had the previous year. It saved him from having to accept any of the several invitations he received in his own right. He had no desire to spend an evening not only fending off young men eager to make friends but young women who were clearly looking to catch more than a dance partner. Those who did try to engage him while he was attending Lord Denethor could be met with a polite bow and a regretful apology.

The evening of mettarë itself was reserved for a grand gala, hosted by the Steward, in Merethrond, the Hall of Feasts. Ecthelion was seated on the high dais at the end of the hall, but Denethor was holding court next to one of the two great fireplaces set on either side of the room. Imrahil was kept busy watching for those among the earlycomers who clearly wished for a word with Denethor, murmuring their names to Denethor and signalling who should come forward next according to Denethor’s instructions.

Denethor was in the middle of a slightly tense discussion with Lord Bergil of Calembel about road repairs — of all the things to be talking about on mettarë of all days! — when he suddenly stopped dead between word and word, his gaze turned in the direction of the wide doors at the far end of the hall where newcomers were joining the throng.

“My Lord?” Lord Bergil prompted. When Denethor made no reply, his head still turned towards the doors, Lord Bergil cleared his throat and tried again. “My Lord Denethor?”

Denethor almost seemed to shake himself as he withdrew his gaze and turned back to Lord Bergil and picked up the thread of their conversation. Imrahil, turning to see what had caught Denethor’s attention, had his own moment of distraction as he caught sight of his sisters and Lord Hirgon in the crowd.

He was aware of Denethor wrapping up his conversation, and Lord Bergil bowing and departing, and was hastily trying to remember who was still waiting for an audience, when Denethor caught him by the arm. Denethor’s attention was once more fixed on the far side of the room. “Who was the lady who entered just now with Lord Hirgon?”

Imrahil gaped at Denethor for a moment and then managed to stutter, “Do... do you mean my sister, Lady Ivriniel, sir?”

Denethor shook his head impatiently. “No, the lady with them. The one standing next to your sister in the blue dress.”

Imrahil swung round to check, to be quite sure, because—. “That would be my other sister, my lord. Lady Finduilas,” he managed to get out.

Denethor nodded to himself. “Yes, of course. She has a look of your mother.”

He went on staring at Finduilas, his gaze following her as she moved deeper into the room. Imrahil coughed. “My lord, Lord Tarondor is waiting to speak to you.”

Denethor seemed to come back to himself. He let go of Imrahil’s arm and turned and beckoned Tarondor to come forwards. Yet Imrahil saw how, as they talked, Denethor’s gaze strayed again and again towards where Finduilas stood. He desperately wished he could run across the room and—what? Warn her that Lord Denethor was staring at her? Unless something about his sister’s dress had deeply offended Denethor, Imrahil could imagine only one reason for Denethor’s behaviour, as unlikely as that seemed.

Perhaps he could catch Captain Thorongil’s eye and indicate he should—but no, that would likely only make the situation a thousand times worse. Casting about, Imrahil saw that, in any event, Thorongil was standing on the dais next to Lord Ecthelion, deep in conversation.

Above the hubbub of voices, the group of musicians in the corner of the hall struck up the lively tune that signalled the dancing would soon start, and the centre of the room began to clear. Denethor, like Imrahil, must have heard the music, for he raised an abrupt hand to stop Lord Tarondor mid-sentence and gave him a perfunctory bow. “Forgive me, Lord Tarondor. We must continue this later.”

Then he was striding across the widening space forming in the middle of the hall. People turned to look at him and a faint murmur ran through the crowd. Lord Denethor almost never danced these days, and certainly not the first dance of the evening.

Imrahil, scurrying behind him to catch up, saw a momentary look of panic cross his sister’s face as she realised Denethor was heading straight for her, before she managed to compose her features.

Denethor stopped in front of her and bowed deeply. “Lady Finduilas.” She made a low curtsey in reply, but before she had fully risen and could speak, he added, “When first you entered, I thought the Queen of Heaven herself had come down to grace us with her presence.”

It was a pretty compliment and not entirely inapt, for Finduilas’s dress was the blue of a deep summer night and her raven-black hair was caught in a net studded with tiny pearls. But Imrahil heard an indrawn breath from more than one of those who stood nearby, and a stirring ran through the crowd. It seemed to Imrahil that even the music had faltered for a moment.

A faint flush coloured Finduilas’s cheeks. “You are too kind, my lord.” Her voice trembled only a little as she answered.

Denethor held out his hand. “May I have the honour of the first dance, my lady.”

Mutely, Finduilas put her hand on his and let him lead her into the centre of the floor. The rest of the set formed up beside them, the crowd almost silenced by what had just happened, and the little orchestra struck up the first bars.

Though he danced rarely, Denethor danced well, with the light step of an expert swordsman. Imrahil, watching fearfully from the edge of the room, saw his sister gradually begin to relax. Denethor did not speak to her while the first figure lasted, though his normally stern features were often softened by a smile when he looked at her, but once they had moved down the set, he began to talk to her during the promenades. To Imrahil’s surprise, by the end of the dance, Finduilas was smiling back at him and taking at least an equal share in the conversation. He even caught her soft laugh in response to something Denethor had said. What they were talking about, and how Denethor had wrought this miracle, Imrahil could not imagine.

At last the dance was done and the final bows and curtseys made. Denethor led Finduilas back to where Imrahil stood. He turned to face her, her hand still on top of his, and dipped his head. “Alas, my lady, I must allow others the pleasure of dancing with you, but I hope I may claim another dance before the evening’s end.”

Finduilas let go of his hand and curtseyed. “I hope so too, my lord.”

Another bow and Denethor was moving away. At once, several young men who had been hovering a few feet away on either side began to converge on them. Imrahil sensed Finduilas grow tense again. Though he should have been following Denethor, and it was ill-mannered for a young man to dance with his sister, he turned towards her, intending to ask her to dance himself. Before he could speak, another figure strode forward between the nervous young lords who were jockeying closer.

“Lady Finduilas.” Thorongil bowed to her. “Lord Ecthelion has just reminded me that I gave my word to you yesterday that I would dance with you this evening. He suggested that I ask you now, lest I find myself forsworn.”

Finduilas, with a relieved look, quickly accepted the hand Throrongil held out to her. “Of course, Captain.” She cleared her throat and added carefully, “I am sure none here would wish to see you forsworn.”

Thorongil exchanged a brief nod with Imrahil as he led Finduilas away to the dance. Imrahil, feeling quite as relieved as his sister, looked around and saw Denethor had resumed his conversation with Lord Tarondor and he hurried to join them.

Denethor’s gaze still sought out Finduilas from time to time. Imrahil read a flicker of annoyance in his expression when he first realised she was dancing with Thorongil, but the third or fourth time he looked at them, a ghost of a smile crossed his face. Imrahil, turning to watch them for a few moments, saw they were conversing politely when the dance allowed, but that his sister did not smile so often at Thorongil as she had at Denethor, and seemed to speak only to reply to some remark Thorongil had made.

Imrahil was glad to see that, when the dance was over, Thorongil guided Finduilas over to join Ivriniel and Hirgon, and stood talking with them a short while. This seemed to discourage all but one bold fellow from approaching Finduilas for the next dance. Since there was no risk of causing offence by favouring one young man rather than another, Finduilas gravely accepted his offer. After that, there was an orderly procession of young nobles leading her out.

The dances grew livelier as the evening wore on: less time for conversation, but more catching of hands and whirling around. By the time the great beeswax candles set around the hall had burned down to a third of their length, Imrahil saw that Finduilas was tiring. She held up her hands to refuse the next dance with an apologetic shake of the head and then cast a look in Denethor’s direction, evidently wondering if he still wanted to dance with her again or if she could leave. Denethor must have seen it, too, for a few moments later, he sent Imrahil to instruct the musicians to play a more stately tune and, disengaging from conversation, claimed his second dance.

The ball ended soon after. Imrahil, who had been fighting a yawn for the past hour, was able to stumble wearily back to his dormitory, glad that he had late duty the following day.

Chapter Text

When he finally woke, Imrahil had just enough time to wash and dress and snatch some food and still present himself in the Captain-General’s office before the bells for the fourth hour had finished ringing. Denethor seemed to have been awake since first light, judging by the stack of documents that had already been reviewed, but he worked on through the noon-meal, tearing through the reports even more quickly than usual.

When the bell for the seventh hour rang, Denethor set aside the report he was reading — the latest intelligence on sightings of Corsair ships, gathered from the fishing fleets of Pelargir and the patrol boats of Belfalas — and waved Imrahil forward. “Go to the Lady Finduilas, your sister, and let it be known to her that I will be waiting in the garden of the Houses of Healing. If it is still the lady’s will to see the garden, she should have you bring her there at her convenience.”

Imrahil stared at Denethor for a long moment, open-mouthed, before he managed to collect his thoughts. “Yes, my lord.” He bowed and hurried out of the Captain-General’s office, across the Court of the Fountain, and down through the long tunnel that led out of the Citadel.

He found Finduilas sitting with Ivriniel in the ladies’ parlour, a book open on her lap. Remembering himself, he delivered the message as a page of the Citadel and not as a younger brother agog with questions.

Finduilas listened to his words gravely and then said calmly, “It is kind of the Lord Denethor to remember his offer.” She found her bookmark, marked her page, set the book down neatly on the table and rose from her chair. “I will come. Let me fetch my cloak and change my slippers.”

She was gone for less time than Imrahil would have expected, just long enough for Ivriniel to say, “He really asked—? He wants to—? He’s waiting for her?” and for Imrahil to nod. Then Finduilas was back, her cloak flung around her shoulders and her gloves in her hand.

Once they were outside in the courtyard, Finduilas put up her hood and pulled on her gloves, for the wind was icy. Imrahil offered her his arm and she took it.

It was not far to the Healers, a few short turns. As soon as they were out in the street, Imrahil took his chance and burst out, “Are you... you want this?”

Finduilas gave him an amused look. “Of course. I told Lord Denethor when we were dancing last night that I find the city very fine but sorely lacking in gardens. Dol Amroth has the advantage there. He said at once that he must show me the Healers’ gardens.”

“Yes, but you know he’s... that he....” Imrahil couldn’t quite bring himself to say it and settled for wretchedly blurting out, “You’re happy with this?”

Finduilas patted his arm reassuringly. “Don’t trouble yourself about me, my little swan. All is well. Besides, his interest in me may be over in another hour or two.”

They were already at the door of the Houses of Healing and Imrahil had no chance to reply.

Though a scarce quarter hour had passed since Imrahil had left Denethor, they found him already in the garden, speaking with one of the gardeners. The gardener bowed and moved away as Imrahil brought Finduilas forwards. Once Denethor had taken Finduilas’s arm, Imrahil withdrew to the entrance to the garden and watched them.

They paced among the plants, stopping now and then so that one or other of them could reach out to touch a leaf or twig or a petal on one of the few herbs that flowered in mid-winter. Imrahil couldn’t fully hear what they were saying, but the little he did catch suggested they were talking about herbs and how to prepare them and how they could be used. At one point, Denethor was evidently reciting some lore-verse while Finduilas tipped up her face to listen. At another, she seemed to be unconsciously miming how she prepared a particular remedy. Denethor looked more alive — more at ease — than Imrahil could ever recall, and his sister seemed like a tight-curled bud unfurling in the morning sun.

After an hour, a servant brought refreshments: spiced wine and seed cake. Finduilas refused the seed cake but cupped her hands around her goblet to warm them, for the day was bitterly cold, and sent the servant to serve Imrahil some, too.

Denethor walked Finduilas home himself, with Imrahil following at a respectful distance. He bid her farewell at the door and then, with Imrahil now a step behind, strode back to the Citadel. They did not exchange a word on the way, nor speak of it once they were back in the Captain-General’s office, but by the time Imrahil had made his way to the Mess Hall for a bite of food before he went to bed, news of it seemed to have spread. Imrahil had to grit his teeth as first one man asked with a grin if Imrahil could put in a good word with the Captain-General for him, “now he’s about to be one of the family”, and then another wondered if there would be a holiday to mark the happy event and added that Imrahil had better order his new brother to hold the wedding on a fine summer’s day and not a wet weekend in Narquelië. Imrahil had wolfed down his dinner and made his escape as soon as he could.

His mood was lightened a little when he found a note in his quarters from Lord Eradan informing him that, as the day after next was expected to be fine, he had been granted leave for the whole of it to take Captain Thorongil sailing and should meet him at the gate of the Citadel at the ringing of the bells for the third hour.

Imrahil met Thorongil at the appointed time and they walked down the winding main road together. They were aiming first for the livery stable in the lowest circle where they could usually hire horses to ride out to the Harlond.

“You picked a good day, sir,” Imrahil remarked, looking up at the pale blue sky and the pennants fluttering above the gate to the next circle. “Should be fine sailing.”

Thorongil laughed as they waited for a small wagon drawn by a donkey to pass up through the gate. “Well, you’re the one who picked it.” When Imrahil gave him a confused look, he added, “Lord Eradan sent word that the Captain-General’s office had granted us both a day’s leave if I wished to take advantage of it. As I am like to receive a new posting in the next few weeks, it seemed wise.”

“Well, I didn’t ask for it, sir, but I’m very glad of it.” He wondered privately if Lord Denethor had ordered it to please his sister, but he didn’t voice the thought. It might not be something his companion wanted to hear.

“So am I.” Thorongil grinned across at him as they sauntered on down the road. “I trust you will find me a better sailor after my time in the south.”

“You went out on one of the new patrol boats?” Imrahil asked eagerly, remembering what Finduilas had told him.

“I did. The Falathran. She’s a fine ship — as much as I am any judge of these things. But your father and grandfather seemed very pleased with her.”

“I can’t wait to see her. She’d only just had her keel laid down when I left home. They were saying she’d be faster than any other ship in the fleet.”

They talked on until they reached the stables and secured their horses. They were just leading them out of the side street into the court behind the Great Gate, which was busy with men pushing handcarts and a great wain being unloaded and many people on foot going about their business, when a loud voice cried “Make way! Make way for the Lord Denethor!” and a party of riders came down the main thoroughfare. Imrahil, looking up from settling his horse, which was shifting impatiently at the delay, saw to his astonishment that Finduilas was riding next to Denethor, with Ivriniel and Hirgon behind them. Two of the city’s men-at-arms rode ahead of them, while two of the manservants who had come to the city with his sisters and Hirgon brought up the rear.

Only when the group were passing out through the gate did Imrahil risk a look at Thorongil. He was staring after them, a deep frown between his brows.

“Hey, get going, why don’t you?” someone grumbled from behind them and Imrahil realised that he and Thorongil were now the ones blocking the way. Thorongil seemed to realise it too, for he clicked his tongue and encouraged his horse to move on.

Outside the gate, they turned aside from the main stream of traffic and mounted. As they did so, Imrahil saw that Denethor and the others had turned towards the north east and were riding easily through the farmlands that stretched out in that direction. Thorongil had his face turned resolutely to southwards. As soon as Imrahil came alongside, he urged his horse into a gentle canter.

They spoke not a word more than necessary to each other until they had cast off the boat and were far enough down the river that they had left most of the other craft behind. This time, Imrahil had trusted Thorongil to navigate them out of the bustle by the quays. Now Thorongil had the little ship running sweetly before the breeze. He turned at last to catch Imrahil’s gaze. “Well, I suppose we should talk about the oliphaunt in the boat.”

Imrahil swallowed. “You mean Lord Denethor, sir? And—.” He stopped and took a breath and then blurted out, “I didn’t want to say anything, sir, because I thought that you, that you... that you and my sister, that... that she might be dear to you, sir.”

Thorongil gave him a grave smile. “And so she is. Lady Finduilas is a fair lady and wise, and I esteem her greatly. But I do not seek a wife in Gondor. And if her heart has turned at all towards me, even a little, I have done all that I can to see it is not more than that. I would not see her grieved on any account, least of all mine.”

Imrahil felt a small measure of relief. “So you don’t mind...?”

“That Lord Denethor courts her?” Thorongil shook his head. “For my own sake, no. But it troubles me, nevertheless. Your sister has a gentle heart and Lord Denethor is a stern man — such is Gondor’s need in these times — and his wife will be wedded to duty as much as husband.”

“My sister would not shirk her duty, sir,” Imrahil said hotly, a little stung that Thorongil might think it.

“No, she would not. I have no doubt of that. But it seems to me that she finds it hard to be overmuch in company, like a cut flower in too hot a room that wilts before the evening is over.”

Imrahil nodded. Finduilas had always been the quiet one: happiest on the edge of the crowd rather than in the centre of it, and content with her own company.

Thorongil shook his head and added quietly, “And Lord Denethor must have an heir, but I fear he will consider no other now he has given thought to your sister.”

“He does seem very eager to make her like him.” Caution bred out of long habit made Imrahil look around, although only the rustling reeds along the edge of the river could have heard him, before he admitted, “I didn’t know he could be like that.”

Thorongil laughed. “Love makes fools of us all. Even Lord Denethor.” Then his expression grew sober. “But I have known of only one other man to have fallen as deeply in love as quickly as this. I trust that Lord Denethor’s feelings for your sister will endure as long as that love has.”

The wind shifted a little and the sail began to flap noisily, and for a few moments Thorongil was busy with trimming it, until they ran smoothly again. Then Imrahil burst out plaintively, “But what can I do?”

Thorongil gave him a kind look. “Nothing. You cannot change a man’s heart, or a woman’s either. But I will speak to Lord Ecthelion. He knows his son favoured your sister at mettarë, but he may not know how swiftly matters have moved since.”

Chapter Text

Two days later, Imrahil followed Denethor as he answered an urgent summons to the Lord Steward’s private chamber. As they turned the corner, they saw that Thorongil was being shown out. The two men exchanged chilly nods as they passed.

Forbeleg, who was doing duty as Ecthelion’s page that day, admitted them. He and Imrahil took up their places on either side of the door as Denethor approached Ecthelion. “You wish to speak to me, father?”

Ecthelion, who had been gazing at the glowing charcoal in the brazier, looked up and smiled and waved Denethor into the seat next to him. “I do, my son. Come, take some wine.”

When Denethor had served himself and settled back into his chair, Ecthelion gave him a piercing look. “I have been given to understand that, for the past four days, you have been courting the Lady Finduilas of Dol Amroth. Is this true?”

Imrahil closed his eyes for a moment, wishing he was anywhere else. When he opened them again, he saw that Denethor’s gaze had narrowed, but his voice was very level as he answered. “It is.”

“Yet you did not ask for my permission to pursue this course.” Ecthelion gave a small snort and added, “Though I confess, the news was no great surprise to me after the partiality you so unwisely showed at the mettarë ball.”

Denethor's gaze narrowed still further and for a few heartbeats he made no reply. Then he said carefully, “I meant no disrespect, my lord. I did not think your permission would be required. You have long urged me to wed, and the Lady Finduilas is of a noble line. And would it not be wise at this time to renew the ties between our house and that of Dol Amroth?”

Ecthelion sighed. “Perhaps. It is one of many things to be considered.” He shook his head. “But it is not her lineage that I doubt, but her temperament. I am told it may not be equal to the burdens of a Steward’s wife.”

Denethor leaned forwards and set his wine down with a sharp click. Though he did not raise his voice, there was venom in it when he spoke. “But perhaps suited to be the wife of a sell-sword bastard foreigner?”

A flash of anger crossed Ecthelion’s face. “Have a care to how you speak of those I take into my service, Lord Denethor. But I will say this now, so that there will be no doubt between us. I will never permit a daughter of Dol Amroth to marry an outlander of uncertain parentage, no matter how highly I esteem him.”

He sighed again and sat back in his chair, suddenly looking much older. “Captain Thorongil is not your rival in this, or in any other way, my son. And I do not forbid this marriage — for now. But I would have you be sure you do not judge only with your heart, but choose a wife who will be a fitting hostess for these halls. I understand that, though she hides it well, the lady is easily wearied by company. Yet she is also still young and has not yet reached the age at which our women are accustomed to wed.”

Denethor’s expression had eased as his father had spoken of Thorongil. Now he said in a conciliatory tone, “What would you have me do, father?”

“You will not pursue this further at this time. In any event, Lady Finduilas and her sister are to return to Dol Amroth on the fourth day from now. If in three years, you still wish to wed her, and she — understanding all that will be asked of her as your wife — is willing, I will permit it. You may not see her again until then, except once before she leaves, to explain this to her and to make it clear to all that you do not now scorn her. And you may write to each other, that you come to know each other better.”

The set of Denethor’s shoulders told Imrahil he was unhappy with this, but he bowed his head. “As you wish, my lord.” Then he rose and bowed again and left, with Imrahil at his heels.

To Imrahil’s relief, he was not present when Denethor spoke to Finduilas the following day, but he was permitted to dine with his family before they departed and could gauge his sister’s mood. Finduilas seemed neither distressed nor glad. “Lord Ecthelion is wise,” she said. “We will have time to understand ourselves and each other. I am sure three years will pass swiftly enough.”

A week after Imrahil’s sisters left Minas Tirith, Thorongil also departed, sent to Osgiliath to command the defences there for a spell. He and Denethor had been civil to each other, but it was clear to all that neither wished to be in the other’s company. For half a month after, there was talk in the Mess Hall — hastily shushed whenever Imrahil’s presence was noticed — that the two of them had fallen out over the Lady Finduilas. Which Imrahil supposed was true enough, if not quite in the way everyone thought. But soon the gossipmongers had other wares to peddle and, with Thorongil out of sight, it was spoken of no longer.

For Imrahil, the year passed swiftly. In the spring, he was again assigned duty with Ecthelion, over Denethor’s objections. “You have had him under your wing long enough and I scarcely know the boy,” Ecthelion had pointed out, as Imrahil stood before them, trying not to blush as they discussed him.

The duties were not so different: admitting those who would talk to the Lord Steward; running errands; and summoning servants to fetch refreshments and take them away. In the little leisure time that Ecthelion’s audiences and councils and other duties afforded him, he would question Imrahil about his home and his childhood, or share stories about Imrahil’s grandfather and father when they were younger. Often, too, he would ask Imrahil to read aloud to him, for his sight was growing weaker with old age.

At last, autumn came, and with it the end of Imrahil’s service in Minas Tirith. His father came once more to the city, to receive back his son and accompany him on the journey home. Imrahil again knelt before Ecthelion, this time for the words of release to be given, and discovered he was now a little heartsick for the city he would leave behind and the friends he had made there, for all that he was eager to see home again.

It was time, also, for Thorongil to renew his service. He had come back to the city for a few days, and Imrahil was eager for the two of them to speak before they went their separate ways. So busy was Imrahil with thinking of how he should catch Thorongil at the end of the audience that he almost missed the familiar words of Thorongil’s oath turning into something quite unfamiliar. For instead of swearing to serve from this hour henceforth, for all the year and a day that is to come, or until my lord release me, or death take me, Thorongil offered up his service “from this hour henceforth, until other tasks and a greater duty call me, or until my lord release me, or death take me. So say I, Thorongil Northsson.”

An uneasy muttering swept through the crowd, but Ecthelion must have known beforehand what Thorongil would say, for he accepted the oath and made his response without hesitation.

The room was still abuzz with it when, a short while later, they were all dismissed. Outside, in the Court of the Fountain, Imrahil managed to make his way over to Thorongil and draw him away from the throng. “What did you mean by that, other tasks and a greater duty? What kind of oath is that?”

Thorongil made a slight bow that had only a hint of mockery. “That is between me and my lord, Lord Imrahil.” Then his expression grew more serious. “One day, my people will have need of me, and I must be free to serve them as I see fit. Lord Ecthelion understands this, but would still have my service while I may give it.”

“Your people in the North?” And then, as Thorongil nodded, Imrahil’s thoughts caught up with his ears and he blurted out, “Lord Imrahil?”

Again, Thorongil bowed, but his eyes were smiling and there was laughter in his voice as he said, “You are my equal now, are you not? No longer a Page of the Tower but the son of a Lord who will, fate willing, one day take up your father’s and grandfather’s titles.” He held out his hand to Imrahil. “But, above all, as long as we both draw breath, I hope that you will be my friend, Imrahil, as you have been these past years.”

Imrahil took a step forward and clasped Thorongil’s forearm. “That I hope also... Thorongil.”

Chapter Text

Home turned out to be both familiar and strange. Ivriniel was gone, married in the summer and learning the ways of her husband’s household in the Green Hills. Grandfather was also less of a presence than Imrahil remembered: still sharp enough in his mind, but seeming smaller and frailer, for he was older even than Lord Ecthelion. He had handed over much of the daily business of managing the fiefdom to his son and Adrahil was now often away from home, reviewing the coastal defences, or discussing the next year’s planting with the lords who held lands from him, or inspecting the latest seams being worked in the copper and tin mines in the inland hills.

After a month or so, Adrahil began to take Imrahil with him on these journeys, preparing him for the time when these cares would be his. The following summer, to Imrahil’s great joy, his father sent him to serve for a turn of the seasons on the Falathran as a — very junior — officer.

Mother, of course, was still a whirlwind of busyness, moving from dairy to stillroom to kitchen to laundry, handing out both orders and praise as if there was never enough time in the day, and leaving servants scurrying and breathless behind her. But the greatest change was in Finduilas.

She had never been idle, for she had always taken on her share of their mother’s work, but she had, for preference, spent her time quietly within the castle walls, on tasks Ivriniel had been glad to cede to her. Now, though, she often walked or rode out into the town, visiting the sick and wounded, or the widowed and orphaned, or the families of sailors who were away risking life and limb on the warships and fishing boats and merchantmen, delivering aid where it was needed or lending a sympathetic ear when that was all that was required. More and more often, too, it was Finduilas who greeted noble guests and visiting merchants, seeing to their comfort while they waited to speak to the Prince or his son.

Though she hid it well, Imrahil had a glimpse from time to time of how much it cost her to do these things, and how much it wearied her. Yet she seemed determined to learn to like them — or, at least, to learn how to endure them — and it was not hard to guess her reason.

Two full turns of the seasons and a half turn more had passed before Lord Denethor sent word that he would ride to Dol Amroth to speak with the Prince and Lord Adrahil on many matters of mutual concern. And so, on a blustery day in early Lótessë, with his ship anchored in the harbour below, Denethor rode in through the sea gate, with a company of twenty or more scribes and officials and junior officers at his back. Imrahil, waiting with the rest of his family to receive them, was delighted to find Thorongil among the party.

After the formal greetings had been made, the guests had washed the dust from their hands, and the refreshments had been served, Imrahil made his way over to Thorongil and they clasped hands.

“I did not expect to find you in Lord Denethor’s company,” Imrahil told him.

Thorongil gave him a wry smile, acknowledging he was both unannounced and an unlikely choice of travel companion for the Steward’s Heir. “I have an errand from Lord Ecthelion that brings me to the coasts for a month or more. It was convenient for me to take ship with Lord Denethor.”

“What errand?” To go journeying around the coast with Thorongil would be a fine thing, if there was a way for Imrahil to attach himself to the task.

Thorongil glanced around at the cheerful company and shook his head with a grave look. “We will speak of it later, perhaps. But you, how do you fare? I was not sure if I should find you at home.”

Imrahil shrugged. “All is well with me, though father has duties for me this year that keep me ashore. But I was out on the Falathran last year. She’s everything you said she was. And proved her worth many a time when we surprised a Corsair ship and gave chase — they did not outrun us often if the weather was fair, though we lost two or three that gave us the slip in fog or risked more sail in a storm than we deemed prudent.” The two of them carried on exchanging news of the last two years, until a bell rang to signal it was time for dinner.

The meal that evening was an intimate affair. A great feast had been planned for the next day, with many lesser lords and local worthies, and jugglers and musicians to entertain them, to which the rest of the company would be invited. But for tonight, the family was joined only by Lord Denethor, Thorongil and Denethor’s second-in-command, Under-Captain Mardil.

Denethor had been placed at Grandfather’s right hand, with Imrahil’s father opposite, and their talk was mostly of recent trading difficulties and last year’s disappointing grain harvest, as well as news of fresh orc-raids into Rohan.

Finduilas was seated next to her father and though Denethor rarely spoke to her, his gaze turned often in her direction. She talked mostly with Thorongil, given a place on her other side, and with her mother, presiding at the end of the table. It fell to Imrahil to entertain Mardil, who was only a few years older than him. Hailing from the vales of Lossarnach, he had never been so far south before and was full of questions.

When the meal was over, Denethor invited Finduilas to show him the gardens before the light faded. “For I feel I know them so well already from your letters, and yet am eager to know them better with my own eyes.”

She quietly accepted his arm and let him lead her outside. Thorongil, meanwhile, was asking for a private word with Imrahil’s father. Imrahil managed to attach himself to them and follow them into the study, while Mother took Grandfather and Mardil into the parlour.

Adrahil raised an eyebrow when he saw Imrahil had joined them, but made no effort to dismiss him, only pointedly remarking that, as he was there, he could make himself useful by pouring them all a drink.

Thorongil took a sip of his wine, and made an appreciative noise, before setting his goblet down. “I think we are both much disturbed, Lord Adrahil, by the reports we have received in the past two years regarding Umbar. It seems to me that the Corsairs have increased their activity greatly. But the intelligence reports from the ships’ captains and shore wardens contain little more than bare numbers and the briefest of accounts of these incursions. I have therefore obtained leave from Lord Ecthelion to speak with those who man the coastal defences and the warships and have seen these actions for themselves, to make a fuller assessment of the threat.”

Adrahil inclined his head. “That seems wise. How may we aid you?”

“I would discuss my thoughts with you before I make my tour of the ports and coast towers, as well as after. I would also be grateful if you would furnish me with a guide and horses.”

Adrahil again dipped his head in agreement. “That we can do. We shall speak tomorrow morning, if that is agreeable, and I shall give thought to the guide.”

Imrahil cleared his throat and said carefully, “He’ll need someone who can confirm he’s acting with your authority, sir. Otherwise people might think he’s a spy, asking all those questions.”

“Indeed.” Adrahil gave his son a sharp look. “I suppose you think that it should be you?”

“Yes, sir,” Imrahil answered promptly “The Falathran visited most of the ports while I was aboard, and I’ve met the wardens of all but a handful of the coast towers this past year. I could make some introductions, maybe even run into an old shipmate or two....”

Adrahil took a deep breath and then said in a blighting tone, “I’ll consider it.” He turned back to Thorongil. “But tell me, how is Lord Ecthelion? I heard he took a touch of the fever this last winter.”

Adrahil and Thorongil talked on — with occasional interjections from Imrahil — for an hour or more before they rejoined the others in the parlour. It was now fully dark outside, but Denethor and Finduilas had not returned. Nobody remarked on it, and it was another hour before they appeared. Both looked quite serene, neither as happy nor distressed as Imrahil had expected.

Soon after, Denethor pleaded tiredness after the long day travelling — though he looked anything but sleepy — and suggested the guests withdraw. Imrahil, trying to demonstrate tact and insight, offered to show them to their quarters, leaving Finduilas alone to talk to his parents and Grandfather.

He expected news of the betrothal to be made known at the feast the following day, but no word of it was spoken. Denethor and Finduilas were, it was true, seated side by side at the high table, which would not have been the usual arrangement, and seemed to be quietly enjoying each other’s company. But on the few occasions Imrahil was able to observe them, he saw no other evidence that they held each other in special regard.

However, it was difficult for him to watch his sister often. Having spent the morning attending on his father and Thorongil, and trying — without appearing too eager — to show what an asset he would be to Thorongil’s expedition, he had been assigned to host the various junior officers who were seated at a table just below the dais. He was not sure if it was an honour or a punishment. In either case, he could only see Finduilas from where he sat by turning around entirely.

The next morning, still wondering at the lack of an announcement, he caught Finduilas after breakfast. “Didn’t he ask?” he demanded.

Finduilas gave him an impatient look. “Of course he asked. It was the first thing he said to me. But he wants me to be sure, quite sure. And I want to be sure, too. And, really, we hardly know each other. There’s no harm in taking a little time to find out if we really like each other and will be well suited.”

“And do you? Like him?” Imrahil asked anxiously. In his time in Minas Tirith, he’d come to admire Lord Denethor, as a commander and as a politician and even as a lore-master, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever liked him. But his sister was undoubtedly seeing a different side of Denethor.

Finduilas flushed slightly. “I do. Like any fine lord, he can make a pretty speech, but he talks to me of serious matters, too, and is interested in what I have to say. I do not think he will have me sit on his council when he is Steward, but I think he wishes for a wife to whom he can speak his thoughts in private, so as to understand them better. And... he is not displeasing to look upon.” The pale skin of her cheeks turned a little redder.

“Enough!” Imrahil held up his hands in mock horror. “I have no wish to hear more!” Then he reached out and caught Finduilas’s hand and gave it a squeeze. “Just be happy, sister. That’s all I want for you.”

Chapter Text

The betrothal was officially announced three days later, and the wedding set for the spring of the following year. A messenger had been sent the day before to carry the news to the Steward with all speed, though it was certain he had already given his blessing. Now the heralds cried the news in the town and fanned out to spread it throughout the Prince’s lands. Shortly after, Denethor took ship north again. In two days more, Thorongil set off for his tour of the coast, with Imrahil beside him.

A week later found the two of them sitting in an inn in a fishing port to the south of Linhir. Both of them wore workmen’s clothes — a master and his journeyman, perhaps — and the horses they had stabled at a guesthouse on the edge of town were of good quality, though not the finest that the Dol Amroth stables could have provided.

The inn itself was a plain but respectable place — there was a much less respectable place just behind the waterfront where pleasures beyond food and drink could be purchased — and it was busy with fishermen and craftsmen and a few merchants and scribes, all digging into the excellent fish stew that was being served for the evening meal. There was even a large group of women in one corner — mostly around Imrahil’s age, though a few were more matronly — who, judging by their work-roughened and scarred hands, were probably employed in the gutting sheds.

In the course of the afternoon, Imrahil had managed to find a mate from a deep-water fishing boat whose acquaintance he’d made when the Falathran had put in here for fresh water and supplies. The mate had, in turn, introduced Imrahil and Thorongil to his friends among the crews of the other boats. Now they were all eating dinner together while Thorongil skillfully steered the talk around to the run-ins the sailors had had with Corsair pirates.

Imrahil was only half paying attention to the conversation. Once most of the inn’s patrons had finished eating, and called for more drinks, the men and women had begun to mingle. They were obviously all old friends and there was much teasing and laughter — and more than a little flirting. Most of it was evidently not very serious but, here and there, a couple would exchange a more meaningful glance or have their heads bent close as they spoke.

Perhaps it was just the candlelight and their evident joy, but Imrahil — watching enviously — thought there was scarcely a plain face amongst the women, and that one or two of them would have been called fair in any company. Now and then, a few of the women even glanced over in Imrahil’s direction and smiled at him, although none approached their table. Evidently they were seen to be discussing serious business — as they were — and should be left alone.

Their own dishes were cleared and another jug of ale was ordered up. Leaning past Imrahil to set down the pitcher, the serving woman laid a hand on Imrahil’s shoulder to steady herself, and then left her hand there as she straightened. “And is there anything else I can offer you, my handsome young lordling?”

Imrahil looked up and saw it was the woman who had been working behind the bar, who had seemed to be in charge of the place. She was maybe five years older than him, with a fair face framed by corn-gold hair. Her dress, though modestly cut, made the most of her shapely figure, and she carried herself like a queen.

She bumped his shoulder lightly with her hip and raised an eyebrow. “Hmm?” she prompted. “I’ve a fine bottle of Blackroot brandy behind the bar and I’d trade a shot for a little conversation.”

Imrahil’s surprise increased as he realised the woman wasn’t selling but looking to buy. Or, rather, it seemed, for an equal trade.

Sighing inwardly, he carefully lifted her hand from his shoulder and gave it back to her. “Thank you, but not this evening,” he said gently, though with genuine regret in his tone.

She pursed her lips. “Pity. Well, let me know if you change your mind.”

The talk at the table seemed to have continued largely uninterrupted, but the man sitting next to Imrahil nudged him in the ribs. “You should count that as an honour, you should. It’s a rare man takes Mistress Lalaith’s fancy enough to get her out from behind her counter to make an offer like that. Must be those pretty manners of yours.”

To Imrahil’s relief, the man let the matter drop, but Imrahil took note of his words. He couldn’t remember saying or doing anything out of the ordinary, but he supposed he had been the only one to thank the serving girl with more than a nod when she’d brought their food. He made a note to match his manners to the company in future.

He thought Thorongil, sitting two places away from him, hadn’t marked the exchange at all, but when they were back at the guest house and preparing for sleep, Thorongil said in a careful tone, “Is it that you don’t like women?”

Imrahil, wrestling to pull off his boots, huffed out a frustrated breath. “No. I do. And they seem to like me. Or at least I had plenty and plenty enough offers whenever I had shore leave on the Falathran. But what’s the use? I’ll end up marrying whichever noble lady is chosen for me. And I wouldn’t wish to condemn an accidental by-blow and its mother to the fate that awaits a child who doesn’t know who his fa—.” He abruptly broke off what he was saying and looked up at Thorongil, the heat rising in his face. “I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean—.”

Thorongil held up his hand. “It’s all right. I only ever said I never knew my father, not that I didn’t know who he was. And my mother loved me and was in turn well-loved and well-cared for by her family and her friends. But you have the right of it, that it’s something an honourable man should look to, for all a woman offers herself willingly and freely. But you should not despair entirely. It may be that you will share the good fortune of Lord Denethor and marry the woman you love. I do not envy our Captain-General much, but that I do envy him.” He sighed deeply and then added, “But let us get some sleep. We must be up early and on our way again tomorrow.”

For the rest of the month, they travelled along the coast, slowly uncovering a picture that had not appeared in the official reports but which was being passed from one to another amongst those who made their livings on the sea. The Corsairs had always used small, fast ships that, unless they came in great numbers, could often as not be beaten off. But now the sailors were reporting growing numbers of ships that were still fast but much larger, with up to fifty men aboard — not taking account of the many slaves manning their double rows of oars. Most of these craft had also been fitted with great crossbows that could dismast a ship or reduce its sails to lace. Even a single one of them was hard to escape from, and often they hunted in packs of three or four.

There were rumours, too, of great supply ships that would sail far out from shore to re-provision the smaller raiders, allowing them to spend longer at sea and sail further from land. The crews of the handful of merchantmen who regularly travelled far to the south to trade in exotic cargoes spoke of having to take ever more westerly courses.

The traders had also heard tell that the Corsairs were making more and more raids to the south of Umbar, too. Not just to plunder but to kidnap young men and boys to man the oars of their war galleys. Those few men of Gondor who survived the attacks on their boats were thought to suffer a similar fate.

On their last evening before they returned to Dol Amroth, Thorongil sat in their quarters shuffling through the notes they had made. “There is surely some new guiding hand at work here,” he muttered. “Umbar has harried Gondor since the days of the Kinstrife, but it has mostly been a petty thing. This is being done with forethought and planning....”

“A new lord?” Imrahil suggested. “Or the line of the usurpers has in its turn been usurped?”

“Perhaps.” Thorongil frowned. “More than that, I fear the hand of the Enemy here. He has been checked a little along the line of the Great River, but now he tests Rohan from the west. Perhaps this is his plan for the south.”

Imrahil nodded. It had only been a few years before his own birth that Sauron had openly declared himself in Mordor. “What should we do?”

“Make our report, I suppose, and then I will see what action I can stir Lord Ecthelion to.”

The next day, Thorongil shared their findings with Adrahil before departing north. After that, Imrahil saw little of him for a while. Finduilas and Denethor were wed the following spring, with a great celebration in Minas Tirith, but Thorongil was away on an errand for the Steward. The year after, Grandfather passed away — though not before Ivriniel had given him his first great-grandchild — and Adrahil succeeded him as Prince. Imrahil went with his father to the Guarded City to witness him take his oath to the Steward and had a merry reunion with Thorongil for a few short days.

But their joy at renewing their friendship was tempered by the knowledge that Ecthelion was still not willing to take action against the Corsairs. Imrahil had continued to send Thorongil any news that came to his ears as he travelled about Dor-en-Ernil on his father’s business, for their attacks had not abated. Nor had the manner of them changed, except that the Corsairs grew ever bolder.

Adrahil had been Prince for three years already when, on a day when winter had barely loosened its grip, Imrahil made his way down to the quays. Adrahil had handed over much of the day-to-day supervision of the fleet to his son in the past year and Imrahil had wanted to talk to the captain of the Falathran, who had made port the day before.

Imrahil had finished his business and was just setting off back towards the sea gate into the fortress when a cry came from the lookout tower at the end of the breakwater that a messenger boat was coming in. Imrahil turned back, eager to hear what news it carried. To his surprise, he saw Thorongil at the tiller, skilfully guiding the boat into the mooring while he called commands to his two crewmen.

Imrahil stepped forward and caught the flung mooring rope, making a twist around an iron cleat set into the dock to hold the boat steady while a second rope was thrown and the boat drawn in close to the sea wall. Tying off the first line, Imrahil made his way along the quay for a few yards so that he could grin down at Thorongil in the stern.

“I see you are making good use of my sailing lessons!”

Thorongil looked up at Imrahil and laughed. “And hope to make better use of them yet. But this is well met, for I had hoped to find you at home, if not here to greet me.” He sprang on to the quayside. “Come, take me to your father, unless you still have business here, for I must speak to him also.”

Adrahil was not at home and Thorongil would not reveal his errand until he returned, but there was plenty else for them to talk about.

“How is my sister?” Imrahil had wanted to know first. “Does—is all still well between her and Lord Denethor?”

Thorongil took a sip of his wine before answering. “Yes, I believe so. They seem very happy when they are together — but I think that is not as often as either of them would wish. And she seems to tire more easily since the birth of your nephew.”

Imrahil nodded. “She wrote to me that she did not have an easy time, but promised me that all was well afterwards. But I suppose she would not want to worry me. I hope I may soon see for myself. But how is my nephew?”

Thorongil’s face cracked into a grin. “A terror to his nursemaid — and everyone else — since he learned to walk. But he grows well and learns quickly and looks ever more like his father from day to day.” He cocked his head. “But here comes your father now, I think.”

When Adrahil had greeted Thorongil and made his own enquiries about his daughter and grandson, Thorongil revealed his purpose.

“The Lord Ecthelion has at last listened to our counsel regarding Umbar. He has given me leave to gather a small fleet and do what I can to lessen the threat to the southern fiefs.”

“Finally!” Adrahil slapped his hands together in grim satisfaction. “And you come to us for aid? What would you ask of us?”

“Firstly, your son to help me recruit such ships and men as are willing to risk their lives on this venture. And then, if you will let me risk his life also, that he come with me. His skill on the water is far greater than mine will ever be, and I will need someone to take command if I fall.”

“The first, gladly. The second....”

Adrahil turned to look at his son and Imrahil returned his look steadily. He was eager for the fight, but he knew it was no light thing for Thorongil to ask his father to risk his only heir. It would be many years before any of his daughters’ sons would be of an age to take Imrahil’s place.

Thorongil cleared his throat. “If you have some other captain you wish to send....”

Adrahil sighed and shook his head and turned back to Thorongil. “How can I send another man’s son if I will not send my own? He is full ripe in age for such ventures and I know you are bold but not reckless with other men’s lives, Captain Thorongil. You may have him as your second. But what is your plan?”

“To sail to the great haven itself. We have long known that much of the Corsair fleet gathers there for the turn of the year, waiting out the worst of the weather, and that it will be two months or more before they sail out. It will be rough sailing for us, too, this time of year, but I hope to catch them by surprise and fire the ships and lay waste to the quays, if we can.”

“You have spoken to the men who were freed from the Corsairs last year?” Imrahil asked. A pair of vessels from Dol Amroth had managed to overpower one of the small dromunds and bring the slaves from its rowing decks back to Pelargir.

Thorongil nodded. “Between them, I think they have given us a good enough picture of the defences and works as they stand now, and I have sketches in my pack to show you. I think we may sail in far enough to do some goodly damage and yet bring most of our fleet safely out again. But I would show you what I have planned and hear your advice before we act.”

Chapter Text

The three of them spent the next two days discussing how best to undertake the raid and what manner of vessels and crew they would need. Small and swift, but carrying as many men as could be borne, was the order. Adrahil could offer four ships and they judged they would need another dozen at least.

Then, while Adrahil saw to provisioning the fleet, Imrahil and Thorongil rode far and fast to quietly call on those captains they thought best suited to the venture. All who wished to come were instructed to assemble their ships in the lee of the great isle of Tolfalas with as much secrecy as could be managed.

In the end, twenty four ships were gathered off Tolfalas by the date set for their departure, carrying nearly two hundred men between them, for all the captains knew the danger of Umbar and wanted to play their part. And so, a month after Thorongil first came south, with the wind blowing hard from the north, they set sail.

Ten days more and dusk saw them lying off the coast close to Umbar, but beyond the sight of those on land. Imrahil had drawn his boat alongside Thorongil’s and crossed over for their last debate. Thorongil spread out the recently revised map of the Haven on the deck and confirmed their plans with each of the leaders of the four groups that would mount the attack. Then they returned to their own ships and prepared for action.

The moon was just rising, laying down a silver trail across the sea, as Imrahil, leading the second group, slipped his boat in through the narrow entrance to the great landlocked harbour. They were running dark, and the dip of the paddles wielded by two of Imrahil’s crew made barely a splash as they met the water.

Ahead of them, a string of lights and the faint sound of voices and music carrying across the water showed where the dockside taverns were busy, but around them the tall masts and dark hulls of the Corsair fleet rocked almost silently on the slight swell. A few faint lights had been hoisted high on some of the larger ships.

Imrahil led his group off to starboard, towards where most of the larger ships were moored. Creeping along the line of ships, he swung the boat sideways next to a looming dromund moored only a hundred yards from the main quay and peered forward into the darkness, seeking for a signal from the stern of Thorongil’s boat.

For a long moment, the world seemed to hold its breath, and only the sound of wind and water reached Imrahil’s ears.

The signal came at last, two short flashes and one long, confirming that Thorongil’s party had drawn up alongside the dock. “First volley,” Imrahil called softly, and one of the crewmen in the centre of the ship hit the pin on the catapult that had been erected there and let fly a cluster of small barrels towards the Corsair vessel. A series of soft thumps and cracks marked where they had hit and broken. The catapult was already being reloaded when Imrahil called “Arrows!” He instinctively turned his head away from the dull glow of the uncovered firepot, and the sudden sharp flames that sprang up a moment later along the cloth-wrapped arrow tips of the two archers who stood in the bow.

And then light was blooming in the great ship that bulked above them, turning the water of the harbour golden, as the arrows found the spilled oil. Another flame leaped up on the other side of the harbour as his counterparts began their deadly work there.

For a heartbeat, it seemed a world of only light. Then somewhere in the town, a warning bell began to toll, and then a second, and the faint voices from the taverns grew into a splurge of cries as men spilled out into the alleyways that led down into the water. Flames were now leaping along the dockside, too, carried from place to place by dark figures with torches in their hands. In the uncertain light, Imrahil caught sight of the flash of swords as they rose and fell: Thorongil and his company were busy with their bloody work ashore.

The two crewmen midships had already re-loaded the catapult and the archers had set fresh arrows to their bows. Imrahil signalled to the men with the paddles to move them back towards the harbour entrance, to position them alongside their next target. A face appeared at the railing of the ship’s foredeck as they approached, it’s mouth open in an O of surprise and horror, but Imrahil ignored it as he gave the order for the next volley.

Another ship and another fell to his onslaught as they slowly made their way back towards the harbour entrance. At the further end of the line, the second of the ships under Imrahil’s command was engaged in the same grim task. In the midst of the line, he could see the black shapes of the two small fireships — little more than rowboats piled high with barrels of tar — being cast loose from the third of his boats and swum deep into the heart of the moored ships by the strongest and bravest of the mariners.

As his crew fired another ship, he became aware, two ships further on, of a handful of men scrambling down to a longboat tied to the ship’s stern. He snatched up his own bow, propped ready against the transom seat, and took aim as steadily as he could against the rocking of the boat. His first arrow took one of the Corsairs in the longboat in the arm, but his second went wild and his third buried itself in the port gunwale.

One of the archers in the bow had sent a flame-arrow into the longboat, but it was quickly smothered. Now the longboat was almost upon them. Dropping his bow, Imrahil called out for hard-a-starboard and swords. His own sword was in his hand by the time the boat swung round and the Corsair dinghy came alongside. The Corsair in the bow of the longboat lunged forwards with a knife in his hand, but Imrahil’s reach was longer. He thrust the sword through the man’s throat and the Corsair fell backwards with a gurgle. Imrahil drew his sword back and thrust at the next man, ducking a whirling chain that whistled towards his head.

More hard handstrokes — and then the longboat was fully on fire and Imrahil’s crew were crying “Ware! Ware!” and pushing it away with paddles and boathooks. The last Corsair tried for a moment to beat out the flames and then, with a despairing cry, leapt into the water and began to struggle in the direction of the moored ships. The last Imrahil saw of him, he was clinging to an anchor chain, wide-eyed and with blood trickling from a wound on his head.

A sudden whoosh from deep within the fleet, followed by flames rocketing up to starkly outline the forest of masts, signified that the fire-pot on one of the fireships had been allowed to fall. A moment later, the second fireship went up.

Imrahil sent up the call for them to stand off. As they moved away from the mooring lines, he scanned the flame-lit water, seeking and seeking until—. “There!” he cried. “Port bow.”

Two dark heads showed above the low waves. The oarsmen moved Imrahil’s boat closer, until the men midships could haul the swimmers aboard. Then they were back to firing another of the great ships with the last of their oil.

Even as they drew back towards the centre of the harbour, Imrahil heard a horn from the quayside, sounding for the raiding party to retreat. He called for sail and turned his ship towards the harbour entrance, standing ready with his bow as they made for the narrow gap.

But the ships Thorongil had left around the harbour entrance had also done their work well: ranks of archers, with the help of two small landing parties, had picked off any Corsairs that had tried to close the gap against them. Before the sun had done more than lighten the eastern sky, the victorious fleet was all out beyond the harbour walls and turning towards home.

Only one ship had been lost, and a mere half a dozen men, while all but a handful of the Corsair ships had been burned and the docks had been ravaged. Thorongil himself had overthrown the Captain of the Haven in battle upon the quays. There were none left — or none with heart enough, perhaps — to pursue them as they sailed north again.

The wind was less kind on the way back than when they had set out, but they were well provisioned for the return journey and there was no need for haste. At last, with Tolfalas on their left and the mudflats and sandbanks of the estuary to their right, they sighted the signal tower that marked the entrance to the main channel of the Great River and turned for home.

They made slow going against the current, and news of their return — called across to a boat that rowed out to meet them — raced ahead of them, carried speedily north by the flags of the signal towers. By the time they reached Pelargir, a great crowd had gathered on the dockside to meet them, with the Governor and the Harbourmaster and a dozen other such worthies to the fore.

Imrahil was weary enough that he would have foregone the welcome speeches — and the feast to be held the following day to honour them — but glad enough for the warm baths and hot meals and soft beds provided. He washed away the salt-rime, ate his fill, and fell asleep almost before his head touched his pillow.

It was late when he woke the following morning. He had just finished dressing in clean clothes when a servant brought a message that Captain Thorongil wished to speak to him. Imrahil made his way along the corridor and tapped on Thorongil’s door, before he pushed it open.

“You wanted—?” He stopped in the doorway and took in the sight of an open pack on the table and Thorongil stowing rations of dried fruit and salted meat and bread in it. Imrahil carefully closed the door behind him. “You’re leaving?”

Thorongil kept his attention on the pack. “I need you to sail me across the river.”

“What?” Imrahil took a step closer. “Why? All is being prepared for you to return to Minas Tirith, where much honour awaits you.”

“You must go in my stead.” Thorongil still didn’t look up. “And you must carry a message to Lord Ecthelion for me. Tell him: Other tasks now call me, lord, and much time and many perils must pass, ere I come again to Gondor, if that be my fate.”

Imrahil’s stood silently, trying to understand what—why—why now—where—? At last, he said hoarsely, “I will not ask you this time what other tasks call you. Only what aid I may give you.”

“To sail me across the river and deliver my words to the Lord Steward is all I ask.” The pack was full and Thorongil laced it closed. Then he looked up and gave Imrahil a swift smile. “And to know that if I return one day from the eastern shore, I will find a friend still in Gondor.”

Imrahil held out his arm for Thorongil to grasp. “Always.”

Too long and yet not long enough seemed that final journey together on the river. When they reached the eastern shore, Imrahil nosed the little craft in amongst the sandbanks until he could run the bow lightly aground where the land grew firmer. Thorongil hoisted his pack onto his shoulders and, embracing Imrahil one last time, leapt ashore. Turning back, he gave the boat a quick shove to free it, and then set his face once more towards the Mountains of Shadow.

Imrahil let the boat drift aimlessly until Thorongil had vanished into the low scrub at the edge of the foreshore. Then, with a heavy heart, he gathered the sail tight and pushed at the tiller to bring the boat around and set course back across the river.

Chapter Text

Above the press of the battle, Imrahil heard the trumpets sounding the retreat to the Gate. He risked a glance to his right as another orc fell beneath his sword and was trampled under his horse’s hooves. In the clear morning light, he saw the tall masts of a slow-moving ship on the river, its black sails bellying in the freshening breeze as small figures scrambled to furl them, and behind it, a second ship, and a third.

Imrahil’s heart sank, even as his courage rose to counter his despair. Almost mechanically, he dealt death to yet another of the foul creatures that swarmed about them. Fight on they must and fight on he would, though ship after ship was now hoving into sight.

And then the lead ship turned and the standard on its foremast broke and Imrahil sat amazed, all else forgot for a dozen heartbeats, as he beheld not just the tree of Gondor but the stars and crown of Elendil above it.

He did not have longer to give rein to his wonder, for the battle rushed back in, and he must beat back another wicked blade, and another. But now hope had surged again, lending new strength to his arm, while the enemy faltered before him.

At last, as the sun began to fall and the light faded and foes grew few and must be hunted, Imrahil, wearied beyond belief, saw not far off a knot of horsemen. In their midst were two banners, one with a white horse on a green field and, beside it, the tree of Gondor and the stars and crown of the King flaming in the last of the day’s light. Imrahil had lost sight of his own banner-bearer a while and a while ago, but only now did he have time to draw breath and wonder what had happened to him and hope he had survived.

Putting the thought aside, Imrahil slowly rode towards the horsemen. King Éomer it must be, with the white horsetail flowing from his helm, and the other—.

The two men were deep in conversation. Éomer noticed Imrahil first and nodded his head in his direction. The other turned to look.

Imrahil reined in his horse and began to laugh. How could he not have known? Even as a boy, how could he not have guessed?

The other man gave him a quizzical look. “My lord?”

Imrahil managed to control his mirth enough to bow. “Other tasks called you indeed, my lord, when you left me on the eastern shore and bid me carry your message to Lord Ecthelion. Though perhaps you would be kind enough after all these years to tell me your true name at last — Captain Thorongil.”

A broad smile broke over Thorongil’s face. “Imrahil! Of all the joys of this day, this is not the least. Well met indeed.” And riding forwards, he clasped Imrahil’s arm as if they had parted only the day before.