One fleeting meeting

‘Thorongil! You're coming with me!’ ‘Where, my lord?’ ‘To the South!’ People were bustling about in the courtyard of the Steward's House, saddling horses. The faces of the servants and soldiers were grim, their gazes anxious. As Aragorn walked up from the main gate to the castle, he noted a sense of impending war and siege. There was no rattling of weapons or boarding up of windows, but there was an uneasiness in the town. As if responding to the mood of the people, the sky was frowning, low leaden clouds covered the mountain tops nearby and descended into the valley, and a cold, penetrating wind blew from the north. It was the end of March. ‘What has happened?’ Aragorn tried to ask the Steward. Lord Ecthelion was very old, walked with a cane, and complained that the lack of senility in the descendants of Númenor was a pure lie. But in moments of excitement he could move with such speed that the long-legged ranger could barely keep up with him. ‘We're going to Belfalas,’ the steward said shortly, not bothering to explain. Aragorn began to scroll through in his head what could have happened on the coast, what worried the ruler of Gondor and what Prince Adrahil could not cope with. A pirate fleet has descended the Anduin? Have the Orcs laid siege to Dol Amroth? But where is the army then? A young man in a tunic of Dol Amroth's colours, blue and silver, appeared on the porch steps. He was as excited as the Steward, his forehead white and his cheeks red as if he had been on a long ride. His long dark hair was dishevelled, and there was sweat on his temples. It was Prince Adrahil's son, Imrahil, who was apparently acting as messenger today. ‘My sister,’ he said when he saw Aragorn, ‘Lady Finduilas, she-’ ‘She's about to give birth,’ Ecthelion finished for him and gave a sign. The young man immediately ran over to hold the lord's stirrup. Ecthelion climbed into the saddle, took a deep breath and waved to the whole cavalcade. Aragorn was also brought a fresh horse. Saying goodbye to thoughts of a bath, clean clothes and breakfast, Aragorn sighed and obeyed. Lady Finduilas, the second daughter of Prince Adrahil, was Ecthelion's daughter-in-law, married to his only son and carrying the continuation of the Steward's line. The elven blood in her veins made her a stunningly beautiful and wise woman, but it also gave her a true elven affliction: intolerance of darkness and evil. The growing threat of an awakened Mordor weighed on her, and while her father-in-law ruled in Minas Tirith, she asked permission to live in her father's lands by the sea. Her husband Denethor was torn between his love for his wife, whose company affected him most - Finduilas alone was said to make him smile - and his duties at his father's court. In recent months he had chosen his wife more and more often, and was angry that in his absence the influence of the "Strider," as he scornfully called Aragorn, was growing. What Aragorn certainly did not want was to take Denethor's place in his father's heart. They were almost the same age, Denethor was a year older, but when it came to wisdom and decisions, many claimed to have separated the advisor and the Steward's son for many years, and not in favour of the latter. Denethor was angry, irascible, and did not like anyone's advice. Yet Aragorn treated him with respect, even if he received quite the opposite in return. He knew that this man would have to take charge of Gondor when Mordor's power became truly monstrous, and he was sure that Denethor could handle it. ‘Why me, Your Grace?’ Aragorn asked, catching up with Ecthelion on the road, already outside the gates of the city, when the line of horsemen stretched across the valley. ‘Shouldn't a lady's husband be first at her bedside?’ ‘He's already there,’ the steward chuckled. ‘He did not leave his wife's side all week, the doctors predicted the deadline, he went to her when the bill went for a few days. Imrahil says that when the harbingers of childbirth appeared, the midwives tried to expel the senator, they say that it is not good for a husband to see his wife at such a time.’ ‘It didn't work out?’ Aragorn smiled, anticipating the answer. ‘Of course he did. He stated that as a husband he had the right to see his wife at any time and from any angle.’ ‘I'm sure she doesn't mind.’ ‘So do I. He'll yell 'pull yourself together and bear me a son' and the child will slip out of her like butter,’ Ecthelion chuckled. ‘My Lord,’ Aragorn shook his head with a smile. ‘I'm just kidding, don't worry. Next to her, he is affectionate and gentle, like a lamb. And I am very happy for him. He is married to the one he loves.’ ‘It's impossible not to love Lady Finduilas.’ ‘Don't say that in front of Denethor, or he'll be jealous,’ Ecthelion threatened with his finger, but immediately laughed, showing that it was all a joke. The Steward was anxious, but his anxiety dissipated on the way and became more and more a joyful expectation. However, he was aware of how abruptly everything could change and how complicated and bloody the birth of a child was. ‘You're right, it's impossible not to love her, and I love Finduilas like my own daughter. That's why you're coming with me. They say you have a light hand and you understand elven medicine. ‘The princes of Dol Amroth are of Elven blood themselves,’ Aragorn reminded. ‘All they have left of the elves are their faces,’ Ecthelion waved away. ‘I trust you to guard the borders of Gondor, and I will entrust its future to a child.’ The steward and his retinue rode all day and all night, stopping only for a short rest to stretch their stiff backs and change horses at the outposts. On the way to the south, the weather changed, a westerly wind blew, by morning it was replaced by a wind from the south, from the sea, and brought the aromas of seagrass and salt. It was much warmer here than in Minas Tirith, despite the short distance. The stone city always felt shady and cold, even in the height of the hot summer, with the chill of the snow-covered mountain tops. But near the sea, the mountains receded, and the jagged black horizon was replaced by the soft outline of the hills, among which flowed warm rivers that carried their waters to the sea. Birds returned here earlier, and in March everything was green and blooming. By lunchtime, nearly twenty-four hours after their departure, the travellers finally saw the Anduin, which had divided into a dozen branches, and the sea, dazzlingly bright in the light of the high sun. A little to the west of the place where the Anduin flowed into the sea, the town of Linhir was situated in a narrow bay. It was small, but very cosy, quiet, even lazy in some places. Lady Finduilas chose it as her residence. As he rode through the streets of Linhir and looked around, Aragorn caught himself a nascent feeling of falling in love with the city. It reminded him of Rivendell, if it had been on the sea instead of in a mountain hollow. Like many of the cities along the coast, it had been built in time immemorial by the elves who lived here. The people took good care of the legacy that had been left to them, and every antiquity here had a settled and cosy look. The narrow streets, leading to the sea in an intricate labyrinth, always led to the sea, long staircases descended down the slope from the houses on the cliff, the walls of the houses and roofs were covered with a thick carpet of ivy. From the seaside the city was sometimes not visible at all, lost in the crowns of trees. Now the young greenery, still transparent, refreshed the streets, but gave no shade, and the sidewalks and houses, made entirely of white marble and coquina, seemed dazzlingly bright. There was no fortress, wall or gate in the city, there was not even a garrison here, but the steward and his retinue were met by soldiers of Denethor on duty on the main street. They escorted the guests to the house. The residence was in a house on the very edge of the cliff. The house was small, only two or three stories, if you counted the turrets and roof terraces. But it had high windows that let in a lot of light into the rooms and a wide balcony overlooking the sea. A wide marble staircase led down from the house, its last steps licked by the waves. Denethor himself was already saddled at the porch, and on the steps to meet the steward came Denethor himself. He was excited, but smiled demurely at the sight of his father. ‘Everything ended well,’ he hastened to inform, without waiting for questions. ‘Finduilas gave me a son at dawn.’ ‘Great news!’ Ecthelion exclaimed. He jumped out of the saddle into the arms of his son, who hurried to support him and frowned, disapproving of his parent's disregard for his health. ‘How is she? We were warned that the birth would be difficult.’ ‘She's fine,’ Denethor replied. ‘The lady fulfilled her duty with strength and fortitude.’ Denethor's speeches were dry, he spoke briefly and in such phrases that would be appropriate at official reports, and not in the family circle. But Aragorn could see how his hands were shaking, and the corners of his lips were constantly lifting. The man who never smiles was absolutely happy right now. He was happy, however, until he saw Aragorn riding beside the Steward. If a glance could kill, the Dunedain strider would have fallen breathless immediately. Ecthelion stepped between the counsellor and his son. ‘I took Thorongil with me, he knows elven medicine and could help if there was a need.’ ‘Tell me what he doesn't know and can't do,’ Denethor said angrily. ‘Thank you, we're fine on our own.’ ‘Oh, yes, you’re fine,’ Ecthelion chuckled. ‘Especially, nine months ago.’ ‘I am sure her husband's presence meant more to the lady than any healers and midwives,’ Aragorn interjected. He greeted Denethor with a short bow and congratulated him sincerely on the birth of his son. He pressed his lips together and replied in silence, but thanked him with a nod. It was only a brief truce in honour of the joyous occasion. ‘Have you just arrived, or are you already leaving?’ Ecthelion asked, nodding at the horse. ‘I'm leaving,’ Denethor nodded. ‘Prince Ardakhil asked to tell him the news and details as they will be.’ ‘I can go instead of you,’ Imrahil said. ‘You'd better stay-’ Denethor gave him a look that made the words stick in his throat. He was not going to take advice about his family from anyone but a boy who was old enough to be his son. Besides, as Aragorn suspected, the desire to leave Denethor now was fuelled by the presence of Aragorn - that is, the omnipresent and omniscient Thorongil, from whom there was no hiding, even on such a joyous day. ‘Hey, have you chosen a name for the boy?’ Ecthelion asked when Denethor was already in the saddle and turning his horse. ‘Boromir,’ he said and spurred the stallion on. ‘No fantasy,’ Ecthelion muttered jokingly. ‘I’m Ecthelion the Second, Denethor will be the second, and Boromir too. Because Denethor the First already had a son, Boromir!’ Aragorn remained silent, only smiled. He did not speak aloud, the time for that had not yet come - but the joke was that he, like his father, was the second of his name. Dunedain's imagination was even worse, Isildur's heirs had names beginning with the letter 'A'. So Boromir was lucky. Boromir... Aragorn rolled the name over and over on his tongue, repeating it to himself, listening to the sound. He was used to listening to his intuition, even if he could not predict the future like his mentor and distant relative Lord Elrond, but he trusted his instincts. Something told him that he would not have to fight with Denethor for the right to the throne, but to accept the crown from that man's hands. Boromir, Denethor's son, born this morning. Lady Finduilas was resting in her chambers. Her bedroom was located on the second floor, in a large room with a balcony. The steward and Aragorn were escorted to her, but without any other retinue, and the healers also demanded to take off all the outerwear that had become dusty on the road, wash their hands and boots. A young mother and a baby needed cleanliness and fresh air. Aragorn knew that this lady was a real beauty, he had seen her before — in silks and velvets, in expensive jewellery, each of which was a gift from her generous husband. But now he seemed to see her for the first time. Finduilas was reclining on high pillows in the bed opposite the window, the sun shone on her entire figure. Her loose dark brown hair fell in large waves over her shoulders, curled on her forehead and temples, and in the sunlight it seemed that a dazzling crown surrounded her forehead. The lady raised her head and smiled happily and wearily at the newcomers. She was holding a bundle of blankets and lace in her hands, barely paying attention to the guests, she again fixed her gaze on her son, as if nothing in the world mattered anymore and did not exist. ‘My girl,’ Ecthelion whispered, approaching the box and, ignoring the chair standing next to it, knelt down next to it. He didn't even groan, he forgot about the cane thrown at the foot of the bed. He took Lady Finduilas's hand in his and kissed it. ‘My girl, how happy you have made all of Gondor today!’ ‘It was difficult,’ the lady smiled wearily. ‘But I am very pleased with the result.’ She pulled back the edge of the blanket so that the ruler and Aragorn, timidly standing next to him, could see the child. The baby was fast asleep, clenched his fists in his sleep and sometimes smacked his lips. ‘Have you found a wet nurse yet?’ The steward asked. ‘No, and we won't look for her,’ the lady replied, gently rocking the baby. ‘I'll feed him myself.’ ‘They say it's better for boys to be taken away from their mother early,’ Ecthelion reminded. ‘I can handle it,’ Lady Finduilas repeated softly and with a smile, but very insistently. The Steward smiled and bowed his head, admitting defeat in a battle that had not even begun. Aragorn smiled as well and sent the lady an approving glance. He knew what the hard and stern Denethor had found in his outwardly gentle and meek wife. A strength that could bend the hardest spine with a single caress. ‘Would you like to hold Boromir?’ The lady asked, addressing both men at once. ‘And I'd like to fluff the pillows because I'm slipping and my back is starting to hurt.’ ‘The boy is not for my aged hands,’ Ecthelion shook his head regretfully, and Aragorn took the infant. While the Steward was helping his daughter-in-law to get comfortable and asking questions, Aragorn went to the window with the child in his arms. It was indeed a big man, even without the blankets, Aragorn mentally estimated ten pounds at least. Apparently the stranger's hands had alarmed him, or the rhythm of his heart sounded different - the infant was awake. He did not cry out, only looked up at Aragorn in surprise with huge blue eyes. Of course, he will not remember Aragorn's face, and in general, many midwives say that newborns do not see well and the faces of their relatives are just spots for them. And Boromir's eyes are unlikely to be blue, rather grey, like his father's, or green, like his mother's. ‘Get married, Thorongil,’ the call of Ecthelion brought Aragorn out of his reverie. ‘Why?’ He looked up and saw that Lady Finduilas and the steward were looking at him and smiling. ‘Fatherhood will suit you,’ said the steward, nodding at the baby in Aragorn's arms. ‘No,’ Aragorn answered sadly, smiling, and a little hastily, out of strange embarrassment, returned the baby to his mother. ‘No, my roads are dark and difficult, I have to walk them alone.’ ‘No one should walk on dark, difficult roads alone,’ Lady Finduilas said softly. Aragorn had no time to answer; the healer came in, banished the visitors, and with obvious reluctance allowed Brother Imrahil, who had been wandering under the door, to see the lady. The Steward and Aragorn went downstairs, where servants were drinking ale for the retinue in the refectory. They raised mugs to the heir of the Steward's family, loud toasts and wishes for his mother's health. After the third mug of light honey wine, Aragorn finally decided to talk about pressing issues. The ones that brought him to Minas Tirith last morning. ‘Come on, spit it out,’ the steward waved his hand. ‘Corsairs of Umbar,’ Aragorn stated very succinctly. ‘But Prince Adrahil defeated them.’ ‘No, he burned the ships on the coast, but they will build new ones. It's not just bandits robbing merchant ships and ruining fishing villages, it's an army of mercenaries.’ ‘And who gives them orders?’ ‘Sauron.’ There was silence at the table. Aragorn knew that it was ruthless to talk about such gloomy things on a festive day, but if Steward Ecthelion wanted to make the world in which his grandson was to grow a little brighter, he had to listen. ‘You claim that Sauron is gathering forces,’ Ecthelion said slowly, looking cautiously at Aragorn. ‘And Gandalf thinks so too.’ ‘And Saruman the Wise believes that without the Ring, he does not pose a threat.’ ‘Saruman is wise, it's true,’ Aragorn said carefully, trying to find the words. ‘But wisdom in him is side by side with pride, and together they lead the mind and heart into a trap.’ ‘Saruman also says that the Ring is long lost, swept out to sea by the waters of the Anduin,’ Ecthelion said with a short chuckle. Aragorn saw a strange glint in his eyes, probably due to the ale. ‘What does Gandalf say about it?’ Aragorn was silent for a moment, considering whether to tell the truth. The subject of the Ring had come up every time Sauron was discussed, ever since the White Council had driven Sauron from Dol Guldur in the forty-first year and the Necromancer had taken on a much more frightening aspect. But the Ring was even more terrifying, and the mere mention of it could sometimes change people, even simple people whose fantasies of power never extended beyond their village. Let alone powerful lords. ‘It is not only Gandalf's words, but my conviction,’ said Aragorn. ‘The fate of Middle-earth is closely tied to the Ring, and it is here. It will be found sooner or later.’ ‘My fate is closely connected with the Ring,’ thought Aragorn. ‘It is foretold to me that I will become a hope in the darkest hour.’ ‘And when it is found, war will begin,’ Ecthelion sighed heavily. ‘Yes. And it will be no less than the one that rumbled here 3,000 years ago.’ ‘Only we will not have the great lords of the elven lands with us, the elves will have all fled across the sea by then, and the dwarves will have burrowed into the mountains. That's a blow we'll have to take.’ ‘That is why I ask, my lord, permission to raise an army to strike at the pirates of Umbar,’ Aragorn fervently admonished. ‘We must prepare for war now, gather forces, just like our enemy. And we undermine it as much as we can.’ Ecthelion slammed his palm on the table. ‘Have it your way. Gather the men, I'll give you an order. I have trusted you for many years, Thorongil, and you have never failed me yet.’ Aragorn really needed the steward's trust, because he was going to do an unobvious thing, strange for military tactics — to allow the enemy to rebuild the ships and gather strength. Prince of Dol Amroth nobly battered them, but in order to inflict a crushing defeat, it is necessary to lure out all the enemy's forces for a decisive battle. And with small forces, they will not linger, seeing an army approaching them, they will scatter along the coast and hide. We have to let them believe that they can win a big battle. The next morning Aragorn said goodbye to Lord Denethor and Lady Finduilas, to little Boromir, to the sea and Linhir. He was in a hurry to go to Minas Tirith and start collecting troops. He still had to return to the south to organise here an invisible to the enemy, but a staunch defence. Already guiding his horse up from the gate of the house, Aragorn turned around. On the balcony above the porch stood the beautiful Lady of Gondor. The healers would not let her get out of bed for long, but she had decided to see Thorongil off to war anyway. Aragorn raised his hand, she waved back and said something to the wrapped bundle she held in her arms.