Coming of Age

Minas Tirith, in the Fourth Age

There had been times, during the early days of the kingdom, when Aragorn had doubted the wisdom of the Steward and his wife having their family so quickly. While he and his own wife proceeded about the whole business in a much statelier fashion, the Prince and Princess of Ithilien, within a couple of years, produced two small children, and, not much later, a third. This while holding down the eastern borders, establishing their principality, acting as two of his closest advisors…

One was his key counsellor, minister, fixer, negotiator, and expert in the arcane minutiae of the South Kingdom. The other, not content with becoming a healer, proceeded to establish clinics throughout the city, took her mission to improve the condition of women and children to the vales, and, when her husband's duties kept him away, was Ithilien's chief warden and magistrate. Also, somehow, Ithilien's roads had been rebuilt, the wine and olive industries were flourishing, and there were many new schools.

Nevertheless, there had been one memorable occasion, early on, when a treaty was coming unstuck, a fraught appropriations matter was in danger of splitting the council, and three small children were back at the Steward's House stricken down with chickenpox, when Aragorn, unable to rouse his Steward by the simple expedient of hammering on the door of his office, had walked in to find him asleep on the floor among a nest of papers. He had shaken him awake and Faramir had opened his eyes, stared glassily up, and said, legendarily, "It's fine. Everything is fine."

Madness. Still, he could hardly blame them. Both had lost parents young, and their own childhoods had been blighted by this and the ever-growing threat of war. No wonder they wanted to fill their lives as quickly as possible with the noise and bustle of children. Their offspring were singularly vivid, usually the right side of eccentric, and, notably, coming of age… The King, his own three still under the age of ten, and a fourth imminent, was beginning to think that the Prince and Princess had not been so rash after all.

Their eldest, Elboron, was now eighteen years old, and the first of his generation to swear his oath to the King. A fine crowd had gathered in the High City – two kings; two queens; many princes and princesses; lords and ladies of Gondor and beyond. Friends from many other places: Elf, Dwarf, Halfling. All here to see this boy become a man.

Elfstone and Evenstar, followed by the Prince and Princess of Ithilien, came to take their places at the front of the gathering. Having helped the Queen settle comfortably in her seat, the King smiled down at her. "The day I came of age," he said, "I learned my true name and met you."

"I forget now where I was," said his wife. "But it was a very long time ago."

"Yes," Éowyn said, rather distantly. "A different time."

"I was laid up at Cair Andros," offered Faramir. He held up his left hand. "I'd broken my finger—"

Éowyn began to laugh, as her husband had no doubt intended. "Oh, Faramir!"

"What? I didn't mind. It was warm and dry, and I had a pack of cards."

The King went to his seat at the front, facing the company. When all was quiet, he called the young man to come before him. Elboron, son of Faramir, Lord Cormallen of the House of Húrin, heir to the Stewardship and the Princedom of Ithilien. A weighty burden for a young man, thought Estel, as Elboron approached him. This one, though – aye, he was its equal. Guided and nurtured by the best in the land, and daily becoming his own man – dedicated; thoughtful; courageous.

Faramir and Éowyn's son came to stand before his king. He offered him his sword, which Elessar took. Then he knelt, and laid his hand upon the hilt. The sword had been his father's, Aragorn knew, given to his mother on their wedding day, for her to guard and give, in time, to their firstborn son. It was a plain thing, the sheath rather battered. Boromir would have received the heirlooms of the house, of course, and they had gone with him, to the end of his journey, wherever that may be. But few swords had served Gondor so steadfastly, and so well.

Elessar, laying his hands upon the young man's, said, "Speak," and Elboron offered his oath. When their words were exchanged, Elboron, at the King's touch, rose to his feet. Elessar, standing, returned his sword to him, which Elboron sheathed.

Éowyn, he saw, was shining like the sun. Faramir, by far the more sentimental of the two, was wiping his hand across his eyes. But this was not their moment. This moment belonged to this young man. The King drew Elboron into an embrace, and said, softly, for him alone to hear, "Now we begin our task of becoming friends, Bron."

The young man, flushing, bowed his head. "Sire," he said. "King's servant."

"Aragorn."

Elboron smiled, like the bright moon rippling on swift-falling waters. "Aragorn," he said, and nodded.

The King released him back to his family. They gathered him up within their arms: mother; father; sister; brother. He caught his wife's eye. The years fell away, and he recalled their meeting – his youth, her beauty, their never-ending hope.

A/N: January 14th 2020 is the eighteenth anniversary of my joining this site, reading some truly wonderful stories by Dwimordene and Isabeau of Greenlea, and thinking, "I'm going to try and write a story about Faramir myself…" That was a momentous decision, so I thought I'd write something to commemorate.

Altariel, 13th January 2020