Chapter twenty-six: The Gift

From Captains of the West by Faramir of Lamedon, F.A. 831

The war was short, and soon it was over. As I have said before, history is the story of great men, and the proper occupation for great men is war. The people of Rohan once knew this, and sang many songs of battle, but in recent centuries, they have become altogether too fond of peace. They still sing of war, but more often, they sing of green fields and proud horses.

Many of my fellow historians like to write about such things. They pass over battles and squander all their words on peace. They trace the development of farming techniques and building styles and clothing. They are interested in ordinary people. When they write about kings, they write about the tedious business that they must attend to in peace time. They write about laws and the management of royal households. They write about politics: war without honour or glory.

But this is not my tale. I have told you of battles and troop movements. I have described how Elessar ordered his army, and what Éomer said to his men before their charge. I have related how Faramir coordinated the defence of the coastal fiefs and how Imrahil and the other lords commanded their levies. I have told how Umbar was defeated.

Umbar was defeated. What more is there to tell?

They were standing ten deep in the streets of Osgiliath and spilled across the fields of the Pelennor. "They have come to see us, of course," Éomer had told his men, when they had first caught sight of the crowd that awaited them. A thousand fine Riders of the Riddermark, fresh from their triumph! Truly it was a sight worth travelling for!

Flowers were thrown in his path, and he urged his horse to the side, trying to avoid trampling them. He wished he could scoop them up and bring a thrill to the heart of whatever maiden had thrown them, but it was impossible from the saddle. Then a spring of blossom arced above him, and he darted out a hand and caught it, grinning.

Perhaps he ought to be solemn. Aragorn rode beside him in calm dignity, like a carved statue of an ancient king. But then Aragorn saw Éomer looking at him, and he, too, smiled. Éomer tried to stop himself, but could not. He laughed. The crowd liked it, though, but whether they were cheering his laughter or their king's smile, Éomer did not know.

He heard singing behind him: his own men, singing the songs they had already written about this war. Two battles had they fought, one against the strike force that was coming in from the river, and one a mighty charge into the flank of the main army from Umbar. It was the sort of battle that the Eorlingas loved: swift, decisive and dominated by a glorious charge of horses. They had lost only a handful; only a handful of names for sorrowful singing in the lists of the dead.

And now they were returning home, back to the fields that they tended; back to the crops that they were free to raise, now that the threat of Sauron was gone. They were riding with Éomer almost to Minas Tirith, and then taking the long road home. As for Éomer, he would stay in Gondor for a while. He had come here to visit his friends and his sister. He would have spent time in Emyn Arnen, and he would have visited Imrahil by the sea. No time for that now, but at least he would have some time in Minas Tirith in peace, before he and the hobbits headed home. Lothíriel's babe would be born before the start of autumn, and he missed her more with every day.

The hobbits were here now. Along with Éowyn and Faramir, they had ridden out to Osgiliath the evening before, to share in the triumph. Although they had been forced to stay in the city, they had fought great battles of their own. The army from the Brown Lands had returned, and although they had not drawn their swords in anger, they, too, would receive the cheers of the crowd.

Éomer whipped his sword from its scabbard, and held it aloft in the sunlight, gleaming. He was at the heart of a sea of cheering. Behind him in the procession, even the hobbits were cheering, too. Éomer laughed again, and perhaps it wasn't the dignified behaviour the people of Gondor expected from a king, but what did it matter? He was who he was. He was Lord of the Eorlingas, and he was returning from war. He was Lord of the Eorlingas, and his people were returning home to reap the fruits of peace.

Bedir had never seen the king of Gondor. Sixty years ago, his face had been hidden by the gloom of the cave. Now all faces were hidden by Bedir's near blindness. But he did not need to see him to know him. He had learnt how to judge people by the things that they said and the way that they said them, and he could see the king of Gondor very well, he thought.

His inability to see the city of Minas Tirith was a greater blow. When the sun shone fiercely upon it, he saw the white glow of her walls. He could see that her gate was black and glistening, but he only knew that she was as tall as a mountain because he had climbed the snaking path that led from the gate to the Citadel at the top. Even there, he was not at the highest point of the city. He walked through a patch of cool shadow, and they told him that it was the shadow cast by the Tower of Ecthelion, reaching up to the sky.

But today he was down on the plain again. Birds were singing, and he could hear the wind whispering through leaves. In the distance, people were singing: farmers, the king told him, busy with their work. These were the fields of the Pelennor, once more ripe with crops and orchards.

Fourteen years before, they had been a grave.

Bedir walked alone, following a hedgerow with the tips of his fingers. Hedgerows were as new to him as orchards. At home, hunting grounds were delineated by natural landmarks: rocks and outcrops and the gaps between hills. They were fluid things, shifting as the clans fought. Here in Gondor, the people tamed the land and settled on it. They forced shrubs to grow in straight lines and used them to mark the boundaries of their land.

How strange, he thought, and I would never have known about it, if I hadn't come here. It had never even occurred to him to wonder how people elsewhere in the world marked out their land. He would have lived and died without knowing the word 'hedgerow,' and although it might seem like such an unimportant thing, he thought that his life would have been poorer without that knowledge. And hedgerows were just the start of it. He had discovered fountains, dabbling his hand in a shower of water made by men purely for their pleasure. He had run his fingers up and down the delicate stem of something called a goblet, made from blown glass. He had listened to an instrument called a flute, more smooth and delicate than the pipes of home.

Small things, of course. Tiny things. But a thousand small things, taken together, defined a people. For years, he had heard stories about the men of the west. Everyone knew that their ways were barbaric and strange, but at the same time, Bedir knew that if he asked any one of his clan what the men of Gondor drank out of, they would assume they used a vessel just like their own.

"You're different from us," he said.

"Not much," said the king of Gondor.

Bedir stopped, feeling the shape of a single leaf, rubbing a cluster of berries with his thumb. "Yes," he said. "Different. Different in oh so many ways." But the same in many others, of course. Whether they used a flute or pipes, both their peoples sang. They both drank wine, although Bedir's people did so from beakers. Their blades were different, but they both fought.

"But does it matter?" asked the king of Gondor. "Does it have to lead to enmity between us?"

Bedir took another step. The hedgerow came to an end, and his cheek was touched by a breath of wind. It brought with it whispers. Long habit made him close his eyes, although it was years now since he had seen anything other than blurs. Was this the touch of the restless dead? He had never been able to feel them, although there were some who said that they could. He had never been able to hear them, although sometimes the wind went wailing through the trees. When he had begun to lose his sight, he had thought for a while that he could see them, as strange shadows had swirled in his eyes.

There were no shadows now, just the near darkness that he had lived with for so long. Yet he believed that the dead were there. No, he knew it. They had not died in any cause that he would claim as his own. They had marched here under Sauron's banner, while Bedir had endured exile rather than bow to such a lord. He believed that their cause was wrong, but most of them had had no choice but to follow their lords. And right or wrong, they were still his people. They were his people, and they had died far from home, and would wander forever, lost.

"Be at peace," he murmured. He raised his hands, inviting them in. "I am Bedir…" Bedir of the Red Sun, he almost said, but it was time to say goodbye to all that. All the clans were distant kin from afar, and one day soon, if Samir got his way, they would be one people again. These dead were not Bedir's clan, but they would flock to him, he thought: the first voice in fourteen years that spoke their tongue.

"Be at peace," he said, as he crouched down. The king of Gondor had given him a casket, and Bedir filled it with earth scooped from the fields where his people had fallen. When his year in Gondor had ended, he would scatter it on the barrows of each clan, a pinch on every one.

"Be at peace," he whispered, as the wind stroked his cheek one more, and then faded away. All was still and silent; just the distant sound of singing and the liquid music of the birds.

"But some things are the same," Bedir found himself saying, just because he needed quite desperately to hear a living voice reply. His voice sounded hoarse, and he cleared his throat. "You and Samir are not that very different, I think."

"How so?" asked the king of Gondor. He touched Bedir, too, a quick, firm touch on the shoulder.

It was what he needed. When Bedir spoke again, his voice was no longer hoarse. "In some things, anyway," Bedir said. "I have keen hearing. I heard how those guard captains of yours wanted to come with us today in case the old, frail, blind man should suddenly try to kill you. I heard how you dealt with them. You were entirely polite, but you told them in no uncertain terms that you were coming out here alone. Why shouldn't you? After all, you are king." He smiled ruefully. "Samir would have been the same, but less polite, of course."

The king said nothing, but Bedir wondered if he had offended him. There were doubtless nuances of interaction that he was yet to understand. He had only scratched the surface of the realities of Gondor and her king.

But he had a year to learn them. News of Samir's victory in the east had reached Minas Tirith just yesterday. His homeland was safe, or would be. Everything depended on what Samir chose to do next, of course, but Bedir thought that he would honour the truce. No, he vowed, he would make sure of it. He would spend this year making sense of Gondor. He would turn them from a faceless enemy into friends, and then he would go home with his casket of earth and his tales of goblets and hedgerows; with pictures of the city, and stories of the folk who lived there.

Be at peace, he thought, but this time, he saw not the dead, but the living: the people of Gondor and his own people alike.

At length, Mínir was well enough to go outside, but not well enough to go far. He didn't join the crowds that flocked to the squares and fountains to hear the heralds announce victory, but he heard the cheering. He stayed in the Houses of Healing, although he was probably well enough to leave. He asked the healers if they needed his bed, but they seemed happy for him to stay. "Most of the rash young men have gone off fighting," one of them explained. "Fewer left behind to have silly accidents which they expect us to patch up afterwards." By his tone, it was clear that they classed Mínir as one of these rash young men. Mínir smiled, but he stayed.

Letters started arriving in Minas Tirith. Mínir was not without visitors, and they told him all about it. Such-and-such a woman had received a letter from her husband, saying that he was quite well, not even the slightest wound. She had cried aloud with relief, dropping her basket of oranges right there in the street. Someone else had danced in the street when they got the news that their son was coming home.

"Good," said Mínir. "That's good."

They brought him other news, too, of course. He had no friends outside his trade. Although he went out drinking with them sometimes, these were still men who came to him for orders. They were still men who brought him news, and were paid for their vigilance with coin. And so they ensured that as he recovered, he was kept properly up-to-date with all the happenings in the seedier parts of the city.

He listened, nodded, and forgot almost all of it as soon as they walked away.

There were three of them with him today. They were outside in the garden, and Mínir had quite deliberately chosen to sit in the middle of the lawn, basking in the full sun. All too often, his job took him to dark places, and kept him there. Even in daylight, it was a shadow part that he played, but for today, let him have the sun!

He was slow to notice Lainor arriving, and almost missed him completely. Lainor had made it half way across the lawn, had seen that Mínir had friends with him, and was about to turn and walk away, assuming that Mínir wouldn't want to speak to him.

Mínir beckoned him over, and Lainor joined them, sitting awkwardly on the grass. Conversation stuttered on for a while, until one by the one, the others wished him well, and left. I'm sorry," Lainor said, when only the two of them remained. "I didn't mean to drive your friends away."

"You didn't," Mínir said, then decided that honesty was best. They had been too little honesty in his life these last few years. "Well, you did in a way, but I don't mind. Do you know what I am? What part I play?"

Lainor shook his head. He was toying with a blade of grass, twisting it around his finger, then letting it spring free. "You said you came on the king's business." It was said tentatively, almost as a question.

"I did," said Mínir. "I do. You see, there are some threats of Gondor that the king and Lord Faramir can't confront openly. Some can be fought with armies and swords. But others… Others can't. Some threats come in the form of spies, men who disguise themselves and cause trouble in the shadows. An army is no use there. A company of shiny soldiers can't sniff out such a spy."

"But you can," Lainor said, still playing with the blade.

"Sometimes." Mínir gave a wry smile. "But it's not just spies, not just threats against Gondor itself. It's smaller things, too. Gondor should be a place where people can walk in peace, without fear of attack. It doesn't matter if the person who attacks them is an enemy from Umbar, or their own neighbour with evil in their heart. It shouldn't happen. Armies can't stop it."

"But you can," Lainor said again. This time he said it with confidence, no question in his voice.

Mínir laughed; he couldn't help it. "And those 'friends' of mine are people like me. They were busy reporting snippets of intelligence they have gleaned from lurking in unsavoury inns and standing at street corners with their ears flapping. It's not the sort of talk they want to be overheard." Especially not by a man who had been the target of their attention for many days; a man who even now, they doubtless suspected.

"Oh." The blade of grass snapped, and Lainor started again on another one. "I tried to go with the army," he said. "Did you know that?"

They had told him, yes. It was one of the few reports he remembered, but he said nothing, just shook his head.

"I thought…" Another blade snapped. "I thought if I joined, I could…" He didn't finish. He didn't need to. Mínir what it was like to seek redemption from a past mistake. Lainor shook his head. "They turned me down. They said it wasn't like the last time, when they needed every able-bodied man. This time they just wanted men with military experience; men who done their forty days' service every year. They smiled as they said it; said it as if it was a good thing, because it showed that things weren't that bad, that they weren't desperate."

Mínir wondered what to say. He wondered what would help. Last time they had needed every able-bodied man, Lainor had said, not realising that he was talking to an able-bodied man who had hidden when the call had gone out. At least Lainor had answered the call, even if he had subsequently run away. "But you tried," he said at last. "You didn't have to, but you tried. That's what matters, isn't it?"

"That's what matters." Lainor had plucked another blade of grass, and was shredding it, his fingers smeared with green.

"And I know what happened," Mínir said. "When I was being…" He half raised his hand to his head. He remembered so little. It wasn't something he liked to talk about. "When this happened… You ran towards it. You could have run away. You could have stayed where you were; assumed that somebody else would be dealing with it. That's what most people would have done. But you ran towards it, and got hurt yourself as a result."

Lainor's face twisted with pain. "But you were only there because I sent for you. You must think that-"

"No." Mínir stopped him. "It wasn't anything to do with you. I know that." It wasn't entirely true, of course. It was not something that he knew for sure, merely something that he believed.

"But…" Lainor protested.

"No." Mínir shook his head, and pressed his hand to his face, fingers kneading his brow between the eyes. Oh, but he was weary! He was a man of the shadows, who sniffed out secrets and acted alone. He was someone who listened, not someone who spoke. He wasn't the sort of person that everyone listened to; a person that people came to when they needed comfort and advice. And yet here he was… "Put it behind you," he said. "It's hard, I know. Put it behind you, and carry on."

It was the only thing to do. Mínir himself had languished in bitterness and regret for three years. The king himself had been the one to set him right, but it was too much to hope for that to happen again. This time, Mínir had to find his own way out. And he could do it, he thought. How had he failed this time? All he had done was lower his guard for a moment, and let the king's token get taken from him. But his was a dangerous line of work, and he was no soldier. If he was constantly looking over his shoulder for an attack, he would get nothing done. And no lasting harm had been done by it. Lord Faramir himself had made that very clear.

"Carry on," Lainor said. But how? his eyes said.

"I could offer you a job," Mínir said, "if…"

He trailed away. Lainor's head snapped up. "You'd trust me with that? Even now?"

"I'd trust you," Mínir said. "There's not much coin in it. Some men work for me all the time, while others work in other trades, but keep their ears open as they do it."

"I…" Lainor closed his eyes. He let out a breath, then opened his eyes again, looking up at the treetops where small birds darted. "I'm a weaver," he said. "I should…" Another long sigh. "No, I want. I want to be a weaver again. I want to go back."

Mínir wondered whether to say it. He wondered if it was even true. But then he found himself saying it, even so. "Everyone I know sniffs out secrets for me. It would be nice to have a friend who talks about other things once in a while. A whole evening hearing about the finer points of weaving, while downing a few pints…" He chuckled. "There's an appeal in that."

"A friend?" said Lainor.

Mínir smiled, and lay back in the grass, looking up at the vast blue sky. Why not? he thought.

Daerion woke up one morning, and found that he had made his decision.

Was it because he had been wounded, they asked him. He shook his head, although he knew that he could have defended himself better if he had been ten years younger. He was slow to heal, too, and even a month later, he found that he wearied fast.

Was it because he had let himself get attacked, and thereby caused the people of Gondor to doubt their own defences? Nobody said as much out loud, and perhaps he was the only one thinking it. But that wasn't the reason, either.

It was just that he was old, too old to be a soldier. They were at peace again now, and he hoped that no enemy armies would come within a hundred leagues of the Great Gate of Minas Tirith. He wanted the job to be a peaceful one, without its holder ever needing to draw his sword in anger, or order the gate to be barred and defended. But even though he hoped that the Captain of the Great Gate would never have to draw his sword, he knew that he needed to be young enough and fit enough to draw it.

And I'm tired, he thought, and I've given so many years.

He had come close to the decisions weeks ago, but then the king had been attacked, and he hadn't wanted to walk away when Gondor was in need. And in truth, he had clung to his rank. This had been his life for so many years. He was Captain of the Great Gate, and there were young men in his company who had never known anyone else to hold the post. It was part of him. For over fifty years, his life had been shaped by his oath to Gondor.

That oath still bound him. It bound him to do what was best for Gondor, even if it cost him bitter pangs of regret. But now he thought that the pangs would not be bitter, merely bittersweet. He could spend whole days in his family's tavern, surrounded by his great-nephews and nieces. He could sit there dozing in the sunshine, and when the horns blew for the change of watch, he could open one lazy eye, and sit there dozing still.

Ah yes, he thought, the decision was made. It was a bittersweet one, perhaps, but he would not regret it.

Sunlight woke her, as it so often did. Éowyn sat up and threw off the blankets. She swung her feet off the bed, placing them on the floor where she had killed a man. Faramir was still asleep beside her. Good, she thought, remembering those dark days when she had usually woken to find that Faramir was already up and working hard. He looked comfortable, too, his wounds healed and no longer paining him.

Éowyn had accepted Arwen's offer of a guest chamber for just one night. Then, bracing herself, she had returned to their bed chamber. It was necessary to face such things. Everyone who had lived through the War of the Ring had endured dreadful things. Life was about moving past them; about finding the strength to look to the future, rather than to the horrors of the past. Whenever she travelled from Minas Tirith to Emyn Arnen, she saw the place where Théoden had died. She saw it, she lived with it, and she had come to love both Emyn Arnen and Minas Tirith, and the road that ran between them.

But she still found it difficult to shut the curtains around the bed. It was too hot, she told Faramir. The curtains kept the heat in, so why sleep with them closed in the summer? "Why indeed?" he agreed, but with the curtains open, there was nothing to keep out the sunlight. There were gaps around the shutters, and their bed chamber faced east, and caught the first fierce light of early morning.

She stood up and headed for the window. With her robe wrapped around her, she half opened the shutters. A broad strip of sunlight fell across Faramir's face, and he stirred a little, but did not wake. As a Ranger, he had grown accustomed to sleeping outside, of course, while she had spent those same years closeted in Edoras with a failing king.

She looked out at the morning, and her hand went down to her belly, where the babe was beginning to show. What now? she thought. The campaign against Umbar was over. The king was back in Minas Tirith, and the Prince of Ithilien had been too long away from his own domain. Éomer and the hobbits would stay for another week, but then they, too, would need to leave. It was a long journey back to the Shire, and although it was still the height of summer in Gondor, autumn would be well advanced before the hobbits reached home. If they lingered too long, they would risk getting caught by the start of winter.

Lost in thought, she did not hear Faramir getting up. She gasped, startled, when he was suddenly there behind her, wrapping her in his arms. If he felt the sudden pounding of her heart, he spared her, and did not comment.

"The babe is growing fast," he said, his hands moving down to cover hers.

She nodded. It seemed like half a lifetime away, when she had worried about being sent back to Emyn Arnen to see out her pregnancy in quiet seclusion. Now, I want to go home, she thought, and as soon as she thought it, she knew that she meant it.

She had spent her summer close to great events. There had been times when there was nothing she could do, and times when she had made a difference. Faramir had been comforted by her presence, and she had helped him wrestle with some hard decisions. Most important of all - oh, more important than anything! - she had saved her husband's life. The old ladies of Gondor wanted her to be a docile wife, but would a docile noblewoman of Gondor keep a sword by her bed? Would a docile noblewoman of Gondor know how to wield one, and have the nerve to strike? Éowyn was a shield maiden of the Riddermark, and they would never change her.

But she was also a woman of Gondor, and she had chosen this life. She had chosen to lay down her sword and move away from her home and surround herself with gardens in the hills of Emyn Arnen. The shield maiden would always be part of her, but she was also the lady of Emyn Arnen, and she was here by choice.

"I want to go home," she said. "Can we go home to Emyn Arnen?"

"Oh yes!" said Faramir with feeling.

She opened the shutter wider, letting the sunlight in. "The old ladies want me to stay there," she said. "They say it is only proper. But if…" If I'd been proper, then you might be dead. She did not say it. "I didn't want to be banished like that," she said, "but I don't want to cause gossip. You have a position to uphold."

"Let them gossip!" Faramir said. "Stay in Emyn Arnen for as long as you wish, but if you want to return to Minas Tirith when you are fat and waddling…" He broke off, laughing, as she slapped his roving hand. "Let them gossip," he said, sobering. "I said as much when I asked you to marry me, and you wondered what they would say about me, that I had chosen a wild shieldmaiden from the north. We live in a new age, and the world is ours for the changing. We can make it the way we want it, now that the war is done."

The sky had clouded over when the time for leaving came, and a cool wind was blowing in from the river. It was still summer in Gondor, and would be for many weeks, but it was a long journey back to the Shire, and it would be autumn by the time they reached home.

Crowds had gathered in Minas Tirith to see them leave, but perhaps Aragorn had given a discreet command, because few tried to follow them out of the gate. People were labouring in the fields, of course, and they paused in their work to watch the party pass, but Pippin was glad to see them. Normal life continued. Crops still grew on the Pelennor, and just like in the Shire, the farmers of Gondor liked to lean on their spades and watch as travellers went by.

Aragorn and Faramir were riding out with them, with Arwen and Éowyn, Legolas and Gimli. They would only come for a few miles, but when the time came for parting, their farewells would be private.

"It seems like so long ago since we came riding the other way," Pippin said. "Remember that morning when you came sneaking up on us from the trees? When you'd sneaked out of the city in disguise?"

"I do," said Aragorn, "but today there is no need to hide it. I will say farewell to my friends in whatever way I choose."

Pippin smiled at him, then turned away, sighing. So much had happened since they had ridden the other way, but at the same time, it seemed as if they had done hardly anything. Few of the proposed visits had happened. They had spent no time in Emyn Arnen, and they still hadn't visited Legolas in Ithilien. Instead, they had spent the time in Minas Tirith, waiting for news.

But, "I'm glad we came," Pippin said, and he meant it. He really did.

"But you are glad to be going home. Nay," said Aragorn, raising his hand, "there is no need to apologise for that."

"I… am," said Pippin. "I miss my wife and my little one." And my own bed, he thought, and the view from my window and the smell of mushrooms frying in the pan. "But when I'm at home, I miss you all. I miss Gondor. Sometimes I climb to the highest hills in the Shire and I look out to the east, and I wish…"

He trailed away. "It is the way of things," Aragorn said quietly, "when you travel."

What place did Aragorn think of as home? Pippin hadn't thought to wonder that before. Aragorn had been raised in Rivendell and spent much of his life in the north, but now he lived in Gondor. And what about Arwen, who had lived for thousands of years in Rivendell and Lorien, but now lived amongst Men in a stone city in the south?

Ah yes, he thought, it was indeed the way of things when you travelled. He was a hobbit of the Shire, and when he was at home, he would cherish it, and when he was away, he would cherish those friendships he had made so far from home. He had roots in both places now, but it was in the Shire that his roots ran deepest.

"But I don't think I'll be coming back to Gondor for a while," he found himself saying. "I've got a family now, and I don't want to leave them for this long again. And then... And my father is…" He sighed, shaking his head. "I'll be Thain before too many years have passed, I think. It's not a title that means much, but it means something, and I think… I think I should make it mean more."

And he was in a unique position to do so, he thought. Between them, Pippin, Merry and Sam would hold the three chief offices of the Shire, and they had seen both the best and the worst of what the outside world could offer. For too many years, hobbits had hidden themselves away, ignoring the outside world, and ignored by it. Pippin and the others could change all that, introducing the Shire to the delights of the wider world, while ensuring that it retained everything that made it so special.

It was a responsibility, yes. It meant that Pippin could no longer drop everything and ride away to Gondor for half a year. How he had worried about those responsibilities on the long ride south! He had always been the youngest of his group of friends. He didn't feel old enough. Surrounded by men, he didn't feel tall enough. When solemnity was called for, he was prone to smiles and chatter.

But he would do what was needed, and he would enjoy it, he thought. This war with Umbar had reminded him of how precious their way of life was, and how fragile. It deserved to be cherished, and it was worth fighting for. He was no king and no warrior. He was only a hobbit, and his skills were few, but he would do what he could.

They all would, he thought; every one of them who had ridden out today to say their farewells on the road. Every one of them would strive to their best of their ability to build a better world. At times they would sacrifice their own desires to the demands of duty. They would stay at home when they wished to travel, or travel when they wished to stay at home. But they would know that by doing so, they were helping to change the world.

"And what gift could be greater?" he said out loud.

"Greater than what?" asked Merry, coming up beside him.

"Than getting the chance to shape a glorious new Age," Pippin said.

"Indeed," said Aragorn. "What gift could be greater than that?"

What gift could be greater? Aragorn thought, when all goodbyes had been said, and Éomer and the hobbits had dwindled into the distance.

The clouds were parting above them, showing stray patches of blue. The sun was still hidden, but when he turned, he saw that it was shining on the walls of Minas Tirith, far across the fields.

It was time to return. The war had ended, but there were many tasks for them all to perform in the aftermath of any war. There was damage to the coastal regions, and there were ships to repair. There were rumours that Corsairs still roamed in Lebennin. There were prisoners to sentence, and stragglers to round up. Scouts had to be sent into the south, to guard against fresh moves from Umbar. There was a truce to be maintained in the east, and one day, perhaps, even friendship.

Éomer and the hobbits had gone, and Faramir would soon return to his own domain. Within weeks, Gimli and Legolas would depart for their own homes. Summer would fade into autumn, and the lords of Gondor would return from their fiefs, ready to resume the politics of peace. But Emyn Arnen was just a stone's throw away. Gimli and Legolas had not yet departed, and it was still summer on the fields of Gondor.

Duty called, as it always did, but there was always a balance to be drawn between duty and desire. There were times when duty came first. All of them, at times, had to bow to the wishes of others, and sacrifice their own wishes for the sake of what needed to be done. But did he not wish to rule over a kingdom in which there was no room for choice. There was no slavery in Gondor. Even the humblest of his subjects, or so he hoped, had times when they could put duty aside and take pleasure in whatever they pleased.

Sunlight was sweeping across the Pelennor, lighting the dark trees one by one, making their leaves shine like jewels. "Shall we take the long way round?" he suggested. An hour spent riding purely for pleasure. An hour spent with good friends. A hour spent in the sunshine in a land that been saved from the ravages of war; a land which, he vowed, would thrive and become glorious.

Yes, he thought, what gift could be greater?

From The Shadow of War, by Hanion son of Hannor, loremaster of Osgiliath, F.A. 942

Swift though it was, the war with Umbar was a wake-up call for Gondor. It is too much to say that Gondor had grown complacent in the early years of the Fourth Age, because that was far from the truth. The horrors of Sauron's ascendancy were still a recent memory, and there were many wounds to be healed.

However, the people of Gondor have always been resilient. They have always healed quickly, and when a thing cannot be mended, they have learnt to endure it. They were quick, perhaps too quick, to settle down into a life of peace. A new Age dawned. Sauron had fallen, and never again would enemy armies ravage the realm of Gondor now that the king had come again!

It was not true, of course. It was never true. Even in those early years, there were many fierce battles against orcs and other fell creatures who still resided in the wilds. Yet these battles took place in distant hills, and were waged by warriors, and not by levies of ordinary men. The people of Gondor knew that the wild places were being cleansed, but they failed to see how dangerous and challenging the process was. They thought the outcome inevitable. They expected nothing but victories, and for fourteen years, that was what they got.

Maybe complacency is not too strong a term, then. When the so-called "Easterling" assassin was discovered in the heart of Minas Tirith, it rocked Gondor to the core. When the true enemy was revealed, the blow was even worse. In the Corsairs, the people of Gondor faced an old nightmare returned. They were allies of Sauron, and they had thought them gone forever, along with their dark master.

Umbar was swiftly defeated, of course, and peace returned, but the people of Gondor would no longer take that peace for granted. Sauron was gone and they had a king again, but they had learnt that their way of life could still be threatened. It goaded them to take responsibility for their own future. They had found their voice, and never again would they lose it. The future of Gondor lay in their own hands, not just in the hands of the king and the Steward and the great lords of the realm.

It could have made them more warlike, more distrustful, more fierce for revenge. Instead it made them cherish the peace that they had earned. The gates of Minas Tirith remained open, and they took pride in that. When ambassadors came from the east, they welcomed them. Because they knew that peace was fragile, they became determined to preserve it.

They had hoped to see a golden age. Now they resolved to make one.

And they did, of course.

The end

Note: Thank you to everyone who's stuck with this to the end, and especially to those who have commented. I haven't been able to reply to all of them, since editing and posting a chapter a day has been quite a hard workload, but I have really appreciated every one.

There will now follow some long and self-indulgent authorly rambling about the writing process.

I first had the idea for this story well over a year ago. The initial idea was for a Fourth Age story told entirely by future historians, many of them biased, and some plain wrong. With their knowledge of the characters, readers would be able to pick their way through the contradictory accounts and piece together the true story.

I quickly realised that although this would be fun as an intellectual exercise, it would probably be rather dull to read, lacking in emotional involvement. I therefore changed the plan to a Fourth Age story that was half "normal" story, and half told by historians.

And that was how it stood for nearly a year. I still had no idea about the plot, merely that it would probably have to involve a war, because I wanted some of the historians to be "enemy" ones. The lack of actual plot ideas and the sheer scale of the thing daunted me, and for months, I did nothing at all.

At length I decided that I just had to bite the bullet and start writing something. I came up with the idea of a leader in the east uniting the clans and coming against Gondor, but this not being the true threat. As assassination attempt was going to kick things off, I realised, so I decided to sit down and write the assassination and let the rest of the plot reveal itself as I went along.

I knew nothing about this culture in the east, but as I wrote the viewpoint of the assassin, certain hints emerged. This was when I realised that I needed to write a short story about the "Easterlings" first, in order to develop their culture. Trials of Manhood was the result, incorporating some of those hints, and exploring things much further. It was only afterwards, when the comments started coming in, that I realised that there could be a much closer link between the two stories than I had originally thought.

Returning to this story, I soon realised a problem with my whole "future historians" idea. Historians write from hindsight, but my story was concealing a big secret: the revelation that the clans in the east weren't the true threat. It was quite inhibiting to write those historian scenes without giving away spoilers. After a few chapters, it became clear that the historians would generally be limited to one scene per chapter.

I didn't do a huge amount of planning ahead, although the long sequence between Aragorn and Samir was foreseen – and eagerly anticipated! - from very early on. Everything else just evolved naturally, often surprising me. When the army left Minas Tirith, I jotted down a chronology based on their journey time, and came up with some ideas of things that could happen in the city during that time, but that was the only advance planning I did. Beyond that, I planned on a chapter by chapter basis: little more than bullet points saying who would appear and roughly what I hoped would happen. (I say "hoped," since I have very little control once I hand over to the characters.)

Mablung wasn't going to reappear after his first appearance, but ended up doing so. It hadn't occurred to me to reuse OCs from older stories, until I was struggling with a problem early on the story. I needed a viewpoint character who could wander anonymously through the streets and listen out for gossip: something none of my main canon characters could do. Then I received a comment on Grey in the Dark, wondering what happened to Mínir afterwards, and I realised that Mínir was just who I needed. Once I'd included him, it seemed impolite not to include Daerion, too.

The story entirely took over my brain for a few months. May was particularly tough, since I was going away for the whole of the final week, and couldn't bear the thought of going away with it not quite finished. However, I was away every weekend for the month before that - rather appropriately, one weekend was spent at the 25 year reunion of my old university's Tolkien Society - so there was a lot of early morning writing in hotels that month, sitting on the floor in a dark room trying to get at least one scene written before breakfast. But I made it, finishing it a couple of days before I went away, for which there was much rejoicing.

So, anyway, thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed! I loved writing this (although it was rather overwhelming at times) and I hope you enjoyed reading it.