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Ecthelion II had always been… particular. Not in the sense of shocking his people (though, admittedly, he did so on occasion — but only for good reason). Rather, in all things — his habits, his way of life, his views — he seemed to move quietly against expectation.
He looked every bit the noble lord: lean, silver-haired, and possessed of that quiet steel so often glimpsed in the blood of Númenor. But his daily routines? Entirely unsuitable for a man of his rank. Ecthelion hardly drank, ate sparingly, slept little — and every single dawn found him in the courtyard, clad not in finery but in a simple cloak over an old training tunic, stretching his joints as the City Guard assembled, still blinking from sleep.
The guards had long grown used to it. At first, they blushed and looked away — “awkward to admire the steward like a statue,” they’d mutter. But soon they grew accustomed, and two young recruits even began to copy the movements in secret, hoping that after a few months they too might be saluted with such respect.
Yet the true marvels happened behind closed doors. In his cedar-scented chambers, Ecthelion would kneel, close his eyes — and silence would fall. The world hushed, reduced to a soft vibration, a whisper of the Ainur’s ancient Music — the Elven hymns he once heard in Rivendell. First, the weighty thoughts of Dol Amroth’s letters would fade. Then, the northern roads lost their urgency. And deep in his mind, a warm, resonant chord would rise — like the breath of the White Tree itself.
He could sit for hours, meditating, until the candle burned down to the base and the miruvor, gathered under Lórien’s silver moonlight, shimmered in his cup like amber tears.
And in the evening — the soft glow of a milk-lamp, gentle shadow, and quiet Elvish breath-words, the kind Elrond had once taught him, back when no one yet dreamed Mordor might rise again. A single touch to the right place — and the weight of the day would slip from his shoulders, like an arrow pulled from flesh.
But who said wisdom must dwell in shadows?
This was why the courtyard saw him each morning, though he could’ve stretched in private. Ecthelion believed: example was the best herald. Let the people see their lord did not hide behind marble walls, but shared with them the chill of dew and the fresh light of dawn. And so it came to be: city boys began holding their own “Steward’s workouts,” and market vendors argued whose herbmasters could better reproduce the Steward’s tonic blend.
On that May morning, coppery with sunrise, Ecthelion stood in a pose strange to the untrained eye: right leg lifted, arms extended, spine straight as Gil-galad’s spear. He was perfectly still — like a statue.
“Grandpa…?” came a small, husky voice from the edge of the courtyard, barely breaking the morning stillness.
From behind a tall marble column etched with the ancient sigils of Gondor peeked five-year-old Boromir — tousle-haired, half-asleep, clutching a massive tome to his chest. He looked more like a runaway scribe’s apprentice than the future heir of the Steward. His linen shirt was askew, pillow lines marked one cheek, and under his eyes sat that special kind of weary injustice that belongs only to children who’ve woken too early.
“Why aren’t you at council?” Boromir blinked, clearly baffled by the sight before him: his grandfather, instead of seated in finery at the table of state, stood balancing like an acrobat from far southern lands.
“The council begins when the day blooms,” Ecthelion replied, not opening his eyes or moving a muscle. “And the day begins with balance.”
The boy stepped closer, his grey Númenórean eyes wide with wonder.
“You’ve been standing like that a—awfully long time,” he noted with suspicion, tilting his head. “Are you waiting for your enemies to fall over from exhaustion?”
The Steward smiled just slightly — a quiet, cryptic smile, like stained-glass saints whispering secrets to one another.
“No, young one. I am learning not to fall myself.”
“Oh,” Boromir nodded gravely, straightening to his full (still quite small) height. “Can I do it too?”
With the solemn determination known only to five-year-olds, Boromir placed his hefty tome onto a carved stone bench — with all the gravity of an ancient ritual. Then he hurriedly kicked off his boots — one landed sideways with a dull thunk, but who cared about tidy footwear when something as vital as balance was at stake?
He planted himself beside his grandfather, arms stretching, one leg lifting in imitation of the Steward. The result… was not quite graceful. He wobbled like a sapling in the wind, head swinging as he struggled to regain equilibrium, and then straightened again with fierce resolve.
Heron Pose, as performed by young Boromir, more closely resembled the confused flailing of a newborn chick deciding whether to peck left or right at the air.
“Not bad for a first attempt,” the old man observed dryly, though a faint warmth lingered beneath his voice. “But your breath is uneven — like a spring mountain stream — and your spine curves like the bow of a Gondorian archer.”
“It’s Faramir’s fault,” the boy huffed, nearly losing his balance again. “He cried all night again. Probably ‘cause no one lets him try on real armor yet. That’s why he’s mad all the time, like a baby.”
“He’s barely learned to walk. Armor would be a bit much.”
“Well I’m not a baby anymore!” Boromir said, suddenly animated. “I even dreamed I was wearing real armor on the tallest wall in the city, and everyone was looking at me like… like at Toro—”
He squinted, his face scrunching in valiant concentration.
“Torona… Toron…”
“Thorongil,” his grandfather offered gently, still perfectly balanced, like a statue carved from stone.
Boromir lit up like a sunbeam breaking through morning mist.
“Yes! That’s it! I’ll be a great warrior one day too. Just like him. Only…”
And then the little heron, attempting a heroic pivot, flailed both arms wildly — as if trying to grab hold of the air — and landed with a soft plop on the clean stone floor.
“Grandpa, are your legs made of iron?” he asked, genuine in his bewilderment.
“No, little warrior,” Ecthelion replied. “I’ve simply lived through enough winters to know: in old age, one learns to hold the earth tighter — like an ancient tree clutching deep with its roots.”
“Well, I don’t want to hold the ground that tight just yet,” Boromir said philosophically, yawning so wide it could’ve swept half the courtyard into drowsiness. “I’d rather nap a little.”
And with that, he curled up right at the Steward’s feet, cheek pressed to his beloved tome as though it were a pillow woven from the feathers of legendary Elven swans. Three quiet breaths later, his chest rose and fell in the slow rhythm of peaceful sleep, and on his lips bloomed that rare smile only found on contentedly dreaming children.
Ecthelion opened his eyes and slowly lowered his leg. The stone beneath him gave no sound — though surely it longed to sigh. He bent down, carefully lifted his grandson, and placed a gentle hand on his tousled hair.
“There. Balance,” he whispered — not to the court, nor to the guards, but to the very light of dawn that kissed the high towers of the city.
The guards they passed stood to attention, backs straight — but in their eyes flickered not formal respect, but something warmer: a quiet, almost familial pride.
And if anyone later claimed the Steward skipped half his morning routine that day, Ecthelion would only smile. Physical discipline was a noble virtue — but the strength to stoop for the small and the weary? That was the true might of Númenor.
For balance is easier to keep… once the heart has found its center of gravity.