One fleeting meeting

The ships under the white banners of the House of Stewards were sailing up the Anduin. The strong tailwind was bringing the valiant warriors home. It was spring again, as it had been when Aragorn had asked Lord Ecthelion for permission to go to war against the corsairs of Umbar. Almost two years separated little Boromir's birthday and tonight. And how many events fit into those two years. Aragorn regularly wrote letters to the capital, keeping the Steward informed of his every move and decision. And in return he received news of the little heir. It is not known whether Ecthelion had been such a tender father during the infancy of his own children, but now he doted on his grandson. He gave one page of the letter to matters of state, and then he would spend three pages describing Boromir's struggle with stairs, door thresholds, crib sides, and his mother's stern "no". And for a moment Aragorn caught himself thinking that he enjoyed reading these stories. As if this child had something to do with him, as if Aragorn had a family. This feeling grew stronger during the whole time of the military campaign. Prince Adrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth, did not go on the campaign with Aragorn, but equipped ships and men and gave his only son to help him. And in two years Imrahil became as close to Aragorn as a younger brother. The boy grew a lot during that time, not in body but in spirit, turned into a brave man, a brave warrior and commander, and called Aragorn his mentor. They shared bread, a tent, the hardships of war time, and the joy of victories won. More than once or twice this young man stood between Aragorn and death, and Aragorn paid him the same. Now that the sea shores all the way to Harad were drenched in the blood of invaders, corsair ships sunk, shipyards burned to the ground, Imrahil spoke more and more often of home. He was going to marry, and also gently but insistently reminded Aragorn that he had another elder sister. ‘Who are you writing to?’ He asked, sitting down on the bench beside Aragorn and looking delicately away from the written pages. It was evening, the quiet river swayed faintly, and soon Osgiliath would be just beyond the bend. ‘The bride?’ ‘No,’ Aragorn replied with a smile. He was writing a difficult and long letter to Steward Ecthelion, and Imrahil was not making it easy. And the only task was to say goodbye. ‘I don't have a fiancée, and I won't for a long time.’ ‘Why? That you are a strider is not an argument, you have earned a name, Thorongil.’ Imrahil pronounced the name Aragorn used to introduce himself, loudly, raspily, emphasising the 'r'. ‘Anyone would be happy to be yours. Even a princ…ess.’ ‘She must love not only me,’ Aragorn pointed out with a serious look, ‘but also the life in the hovel. Literally. A bed of stones and grass, a bath once a month when crossing the river, and a meal of whatever he had to eat every three days.’ Aragorn laughed sadly. ‘No princess would want or need to live such a life.’ ‘But is that so necessary? We have won the world for Gondor, we can settle down at home and taste a little of the fruits of our labours.’ ‘You'll taste them soon enough,’ Aragorn assured him. He dotted the letter, put the quill away, and closed the inkwell, glad that there was no rocking and that Anduin had allowed him to finish the letter without blotches or smudges. ‘The Steward will have a feast in honour of the heroes' return, mark my word.’ ‘I wish!’ Imrahil responded with youthful enthusiasm, showing that the boy was still alive in the young man. It was good that he was alive, Aragorn wished he had never lost that smile. ‘I promise not to drink too much. And introduce you to my fiancée.’ ‘I trust you won't get drunk,’ Aragorn nodded. He slid the candle to him, heated a piece of sealing wax, dabbed it on the parchment, and sealed the envelope. He had no seal of his own, and he did not wear Barahir's ring in Gondor so as not to raise questions. So he put the tip of his sword to the pool of hot resin. There was an impression of the fine pattern of the head. ‘This is a letter to Steward Ecthelion,’ Aragorn said gravely. And turned to Imrahil. ‘Give it to him.’ ‘And what about you?’ The young man asked fearfully and as if in disbelief. ‘Why write about something that can be said like this? I mean, we're leagues away from home, Thorongil…’ ‘This is not my home.’ Aragorn shook his head. ‘Not yet, no.’ ‘But it’s yours!’ cried Imrahil, and he jumped up. ‘You have done so much for Gondor, the Steward will give you title and lands, you may stay!’ ‘I don't want title and lands,’ Aragorn exhorted gently. ‘And Gondor will be my home. When the time comes, I will return, never to leave it again. But it won't be today.’ ‘Don't sneak away,’ Imrahil said very quietly, looking into Aragorn's face and seeing the determination. ‘Please.’ 'Long farewells mean more tears,’ Aragorn shook his head. ‘My lord will not let me go; he will question me, persuade me, as you did. And I must go, I have work to do.’ Imrahil was silent, twirling the envelope in his hands, smearing the undried sealing wax with his finger, burning himself. He lowered his head and did not look into Aragorn's eyes. ‘Sometimes I think,’ he said at last, ‘that I've known you forever, that you're my own brother. And then a minute later I realise I don't know anything about you.’ He twitched his cheek and turned away. Aragorn sighed heavily and rose from the table as well. He thanked providence that there was no one in the tiny quarters but he and Imrahil, otherwise the conversation would have been even heavier and there would have been more heartbreak. He put his arms around the young man and turned him toward him, kissing his forehead like a child. ‘Don't think it is easy for me to say goodbye,’ he said, looking into Imrahil's eyes and seeing the unshoed tears. ‘But this is my fate. To return home one day forever, I must leave now.’ ‘Because of some stupid prophecy?’ Imrahil sniffed childishly, gritted his teeth maturely, pulled himself together, and breathed more evenly. ‘In a way, yes.’ The embrace, though firmly friendly, alas, poisoned by sadness, fell apart. Aragorn blew out the candle and slipped out of the cabin and onto the upper deck. The people were already milling about, the ship was docking at Osgiliath's eastern wharf. Without listening to the speeches, the surprised shouts, the name-calling, Aragorn was the first to disembark and immediately dived into the darkness of the narrow streets of a city that had been in ruins for a thousand years. His path was once again eastward. The garrison of the city let him out without question, and in obedience to the Steward's order to assist Thorongil in all things, they gave him a horse. Aragorn rode out of the ruined gates and onto the old road that once led to Minas Ithil, now a stronghold of the darkness of Minas Morgul. The black towers of the once glorious Gondor fortress rose into the sky, the fiery glow of Mordor above them. Imrahil, as promised, delivered Aragorn's letter to the Steward and his family. There were a few lines for everyone, even two-year-old Boromir, who could not read yet. Aragorn found words of gratitude for Denethor, who was the only one present at the council who felt joy at the separation and did not hide his relief. Lady Finduilas was sad, but kept silent so as not to upset her husband. The Steward Ecthelion was angry. His anger was painful and irrepressible, and he shouted at Imrahil, asking why he had not tried to restrain Thorongil, why he had not ordered him to be put in chains and brought to Minas Tirith. Eventually, the Steward's anger subsided and turned to deep longing. When he heard where the wilful northerner had gone, which road he had taken to leave Osgiliath, the Steward said quietly and sadly: ‘That is all. Within the confines of this world, we will never meet again.’ These words were prophetic, but they came true in a different way than it seemed to many of those present. The roads that Aragorn travelled, long and difficult as they were, did indeed bring him many deaths. After passing through the pass of Cirith Ungol, he descended south and travelled towards Lake Nurnen. The terrible truth of the full power of Mordor and the depth of its evil lay before Aragorn. Here, far from the Mount Doom, far from Barad-dûr, on the shores of a lake once full of water but now drying up, lived slaves. Thousands of men, not Orcs in chains, worked day and night to feed Sauron's army. They raised cattle for meat, horses for war, tried to grow bread in the rocks and sand. Among the slaves were captives from Gondor, northerners from the shores of the Sea of Run, but most of all were men from Harad. They were more adapted to the scorching sun and the land. But even the hardiest of them ran out of strength, and when slaves fell from fatigue, wounds, and disease under the blows of the lashes, they were killed and immediately fed to the orcs in front of everyone else. But even this was not the height of Sauron's malice and cruelty. He found a way to get unquestioning loyalty from his slaves, for with his black heart he also had a cunning, sophisticated mind. Sauron allowed and even welcomed relationships between slaves, men and women were kept in the same prisons, and if a woman conceived a child, she was relieved of her labour — and many took advantage of it. Children were born who no longer knew freedom; they were born in shackles. They, in their turn, gave birth to the same people who did not know freedom and peace. Aragorn spoke to them. The first-generation slaves who had been taken from their native land and taken to Mordor remembered their past lives with longing, but there was still hope of liberation in them. Their children, born in Mordor, were distrustful of Aragorn's words and stories, for they knew nothing but scorched earth and whips. Their grandchildren laughed at Aragorn and spat in his face. From the latter, Sauron's servants selected the toughest and healthiest, trained them and taught them military skills. Thus, in addition to orcs, humans also became under the banners of the Enemy. After following the course of the Strlith River up to the Khand Path, Aragorn headed south again. He skirted the Ephel Dúath mountain range and went deeper into unfamiliar lands. Here, too, Mordor's hand was felt. All of near Harad, all the way to the bay of Belfalas in the west, was Mordor's domain. The people had long forgotten their friendship with Gondor, but they paid tribute to Mordor. Some gave their last to save their lives, and others waited gloatingly for Sauron to wipe proud Gondor from the face of the earth. No one remembered how they had traded with Gondor, how there had been merchant ships in the bay of Umbar, not corsairs, how gold had flowed southward. Aragorn spent almost four years in his wanderings in the south. He healed the sick, taught those who wished to learn, and told the doubters of the war that Middle-earth was waging with Sauron. He learnt the Haradic language and translated into it the old songs and legends that told of Númenor, of its fall, of the creation of the kingdoms of men. He hoped that a grain of truth would germinate in this ungrateful soil. At the end of the year 2987 of the Third Age, Aragorn felt his longing for home and his native land, his friends and his familiar speech becoming a pain. He went to the sea and hired a small ship, which took him to the mouth of the Anduin in a week and a half of sailing along the coast. He saw his native shores again, again, years later, the little bay west of the flooding river, and the town on the slopes of the high cliff. The winter, usually very mild in these parts, had been snowy that year, and the white town glistened in the sun now with drifts and icy roofs. The sun was already blazing, but it could not yet melt the ice. But its rays penetrated Aragorn's heart and warmed him, healed him. Aragorn found the house where he had been a guest at the Steward's invitation almost six years ago. He expected to see a boy, or perhaps more than one, frolicking on the porch, servants, guards, his mother laughing, but the house was silent and dark with empty windows. When I asked where the owners had gone, one of the fishermen setting nets on the shore below the cliff said that Denethor himself, the Steward's son, had come a couple of days ago and taken his wife and children — yes, the boys were two — to Minas Tirith. They say Steward Ecthelion is very bad, one foot in the grave. Aragorn bought a horse at the market here in Linhir. He drove it to its death, driving it without mercy. He had already crossed the fords on the River Erui, just a few leagues from Minas Tirith, and he knew then that he was too late. Even from afar, he looked for the white and gold cloths on the spires of the tall towers of the Steward's house, but they were not there. The Steward was dead and all the banners were taken down in mourning. Thus the prophecy of Ecthelion was fulfilled. Aragorn sneaked into the city after dark. He was stopped at the gate, confused by the sight of his unfamiliar clothes, much of what Aragorn now wore he had bought in the markets of Harad. ‘I am Thorongil,’ Aragorn introduced himself by his old name. He no longer had the Steward's letter of transportation or orders, and would they have been valid if the signer had died? ‘Thorongil?’ The guard stared at him in disbelief. ‘Alive, look at that! Is it true…’ he glanced around, as if someone might have overheard him. ‘Is it true you were in Mordor?’ ‘True,’ Aragorn nodded. He spread his hands, allowing the soldier to look more closely at the fine clothes. ‘I was even held captive for a few weeks, caught by a slave trader who was sending people to Mordor.’ ‘I'd ask you,’ the guard said regretfully, ‘but you and I don't seem to have enough time.’ ‘And the one for whom the story was intended has plenty of time now, but he will never hear it,’ Aragorn bowed his head, and he and the guard stood in silence for a moment. ‘Go,’ said the guard, letting Aragorn out of the guardhouse at the gate. ‘Go straight to the tomb, it is not locked at night. But if they ask you how you entered the city.’ ‘I sneaked in with a haystack, never saw you before.’ Aragorn nodded and smiled gratefully. Wrapping himself in his cloak, he slipped into the deserted streets. Minas Tirith was quiet today, all the inhabitants sitting in their homes, the soldiers serving in mournful silence. Not even from the taverns on the first tier came songs. There was a guard around the White Tree at the steps of Ecthelion's tower, but the men, lost in their gloomy thoughts, paid no attention to the silent shadow. The door of the tomb of the kings, which was also the last resting place of the Stewards, was open wide. All the torches were extinguished, but dozens of candles burned around the stone table on which the body of the deceased rested. Shadows bounced along the walls, wicks crackled in the silence, wax dripped onto the cold marble. The Steward Ecthelion slept an eternal sleep, his face smoothed and younger than Aragorn remembered. His sword rested on his chest and a white banner covered him to the waist. Denethor knelt at the foot of the table. He heard footsteps and looked up. The man who had never smiled was now crying, tears glistening on his cheeks. Unlike his father, now serene, Denethor had aged greatly in those four years. Old age and sickness had sapped Ecthelion's strength, and more and more of the care of Gondor had fallen to his son. And now he was all alone. Denethor blinked and frowned, as if the tears that covered his eyes did not immediately allow him to recognise his guest. But he did. He rose, staggered heavily, and grasped the edge of the burial table. ‘How dare you,’ he whispered, almost a hiss, looking at Aragorn with hatred. ‘How dare you come back?’ ‘I had to say goodbye.’ Aragorn bowed his head and dropped his gaze to the dead man's face. If Denethor was trying to stir up guilt in his old enemy, it was unnecessary - it was already burning Aragorn from the inside. ‘Say goodbye?’ Denethor growled, taking a step toward Aragorn. ‘Say goodbye! You should have said goodbye four years ago!’ He changed from a whisper to a menacing growl, echoing in the stone walls. ‘He loved you more than he loved me! Your departure saddened him more than my death could have! And you just disappeared without a word! He mourned you. He spoke only of you. My greatest praise was when he said, "Thorongil would have done the same." And you managed to be late for his deathbed!’ ‘I did not know,’ Aragorn replied softly, meeting the angry gaze. ‘No messengers or letters were sent to me. I returned to Gondor at the call of my own heart. But I cannot look into the future and see what is a thousand leagues away.’ Denethor gave Aragorn a scornful look. The longing and pain in his gaze mingled with anger, and that anger gave him strength. He stepped closer, levelled with Aragorn, and threw without turning his head: ‘You're getting out of the city this morning.’ ‘Have mercy,’ Aragorn replied quietly. ‘It is two days since I set foot in Gondor, half an hour since I entered the city. Give me at least a day's rest from the road.’ ‘And buy some decent rags.’ Denethor grimaced, glancing at what Aragorn was wearing. ‘All right. Tomorrow morning,’ he said as he strode toward the gates of the tomb. ‘To rest, buy some rags and talk, lord,’ Aragorn called out to him. Denethor froze upon hearing the new address. It was cruel, perhaps, to remind him that the title had already found a new owner. But it was necessary, neither anger nor grief should allow the ruler to forget the task at hand. ‘I have much to tell you of what I have seen in Mordor.’ Denethor turned slowly. His gaze flashed with ill-concealed triumph. ‘Is Sauron raising an army of slaves? I know,’ he said, grinning grimly. ‘The eyes of the White Tower are much sharper than you think. I don't need little spies like you.’ He walked out, leaving Aragorn alone with his dead friend, doubts, guilt and anxiety.