PART THE EIGHTY-SIXTH

IN WHICH THENGEL RECEIVED CONDOLENCES AND SENT GIFTS

A gust of wind swept past the street beyond the great gate of the White City, impenetrable by all its foes. It was a summer wind: meant to be warm and soothing, not cold and harsh.

Thengel son of Fengel King of Rohan found himself wrapping his cloak closer about him all the same. The floral pattern along the edges flowed around him: proudly proclaiming to the world that it was by the hands of the womenfolk of the Vale of Flowers that it had come to be.

Thengel hurried along the paved street that inclined up the great hillside, through the first level, then the second and third. Minas Tirith was never a quiet place, not even at night. Light flooded the streets, light rolled off the surfaces of the white walls, light streamed from the windows of the many establishments about the commoners' levels. All sorts of sounds both pleasant and vulgar echoed from behind closed doors. Thengel kept his head low, and darted past an especially noisy establishment on the third level. The hustles and bustles and many pleasures of the common Man here was an 'acquired taste' that Thengel had never quite got.

A thought crossed Thengel's mind, that over the past fifteen years he no longer looked very Rohirric at all. His hair was cut shorter and clung close to his head, his face was more gaunt and less fair, and of his youthful beard he had shaved close to his chin in a manner more in style with the Swan Knights with whom he had pledged his service. And on his chest he wore not the green of the Mark, but the white swan of Dol Amroth crowned with white stars upon blue field. Even today he had come to Minas Tirith, climbing all its seven levels afoot rather than on horseback.

Where he was going, there was no need to disturb the mass with the hurried riding of a very anxious man. Not that a horse would be of much use in the Citadel, solemn and undisturbed as it must remain.

Thengel turned about – he was not being followed. Good. He swung back, and closed his eyes as the lamplight washed over his face.

For all of that light, the White City had never looked gloomier or more ominous, or more inspiring of paranoia. Thengel could not help but feel every pair of eyes on the street glaring at him through his coat. Like every commoner on the marbled street was pointing, and murmuring to one another, "Look, look! Here's Thengel Fengel's son, out to discuss matters of importance with the Lord of Gondor!" By which, of course, they would mean succession.

Thengel breathed more slowly – and tightened the lace of his hood.

His feet raced past the fourth, then the fifth levels, both smaller and less noisy, and brighter yet more solemn. There were more deserted houses and untended yards here, whose great arches spoke of many tales ere the Men of Rohan were yet a nation as they now stood. Thengel allowed himself a quicker, deeper inhale. If he should keep his eyes only on his destination, then Minas Tirith was a small place, and far too cramped for a Son of Eorl far too used to the openness – if not of his homeland the Mark where he was born, then of the Vale of Flowers where he loved and the vast plains of the Outlands where he patrolled.

With a deep breath Thengel turned up his head at the foot of the slope leading up the sixth level. He held his breath, and stepped past the iron gate at that level, carven into the jutting "keel" of Minas Tirith.

Thengel came now to a great military field in the open: to one side there was the stable and quartermaster's place; to the other lay the barracks of the guards and of the Guards wearing old mithril on their head. It was distinctly Gondorian, in the white and marble and the sullen atmosphere. Here the light was distinctly less, in spite of so many torches in the hands of the watchmen and guardsmen wearing the device of the White Tree. It was as if the tombs and relics of the great Men long passed had exerted their own shadow upon the lower citadel: as though to say You are but embalmers to a greater past.

He paused at the great door of the Guards' barracks, and removed the hood from his head, and felt the summer breeze about his head once more. This was a solemn place for most folk, but to him it promised respite.

Because he was one of them. He wore the colour of the men of Gondor, and rode with the Men of Gondor, and drank to the health of the Steward of Gondor, and fought with the Men of Gondor, and on occasions had well bled with the Men of Gondor. Kinship, treasured and precious, needed not always be born of blood.

"O! Is that not Thengel son of Fengel King of Rohan?"

The prince turned about, and saw walking towards him a guardsman of Gondor wearing black tabard and tall leather boots. Not any guardsman: the man was shorter than most, and thicker built and more unshaven. Such was the mark of a man born and raised among woodsmen. Morwen's father was of that sort, and theirs were a hearty people, in war and in work and in merry-making. The name, if he recalled, was Angond. There were many like him among the Gondorians here garrisoned, whom Thengel knew by passing and would be happy to fight beside, but with whom he had never been too well-acquainted as to call his brother-in-arms.

"Urgent matter, friend," he said, and lifted the corner of his mouth in a smile. "The Steward calls."

This he was not lying, and inside he hoped he hadn't revealed too much. When the dispatch had come at a hurry to him, Thengel was having some of the worse days in his life. And not entirely because of the death in his family, or the turmoil in his realm.

"You had better come quickly," the messenger had said. "His Lordship the Steward would not tolerate tardiness."

The messenger's growling tongue itself meant trouble. "He is more tolerant than that as far as timeliness is concerned," Thengel had answered.

To which the response had been "Not this time."

Thankfully, like most men of the Vale Angond wasn't one to delve too deeply into gossips. "Urgent indeed?" he merely said. "Well, my prince, just the right time too! One of your kin is here, as it happens – on errand for your father and King no doubt."

Thengel's throat tensed. "Truly?" he finally managed. "How do you know the King sent him?"

"He came riding in a hurry past all six levels of the White City. Caused a real ruckus down in the marketplace he did!" said Angond. "Had the Citadel Guards themselves not halted him in place he'd have charged his fine warhorse right through to the seventh and leave horse-prints all over!"

At once concern was second on Thengel's mind; embarrassment in place of his countryman was the foremost. "That is... both astonishing and not so much," he said. "Did he give a name, friend?"

"He calls himself Feldlof, a mere footman among the Riders, he said!" Angond nodded harshly. "Mere footman, who rides a yellow-maned mare as fine as a courser of a Knight of the Citadel! He's not deceiving anyone, but for good humour we let him have his pretension of humbleness."

Thengel hid his palms quickly behind him – so that this acquaintance of his wouldn't see him fidgeting. "Where is he quartered?"

"Down in the Common," said Angond, thumbing towards the less ostentatious door on the wing. "Almost like he is waiting for you, my good prince! And I should think that makes sense – it would be remissible of a King's messenger not to speak to the King's son, no matter how-" his voice trailed off. "Oh, do pardon my poor manners. Of course."

Thengel shrugged one shoulder and made every attempt not to let his smile fade. Many thoughts rang at once in his head, and the minor offense the Valeman had just committed was the smallest of all, not worth a mention. He could have rushed up the seventh level and meet the Steward right away, or he could tarry for a while – and pay his father's messenger a visit.

It was hardly a choice.

Thengel had forgotten how hefty the Common Hall's door could feel even to a man of his size. It was wooden and oaken, certainly, but reinforced with enough steel as to seem dwarvish, and among the ironclad gates and portcullises of Minas Tirith never appeared out of place.

Behind it stood a vast room: the Common Hall of the barracks in all its glory, lined with many tables and twice as many benches over a length of a few dozen yards and half as much in width. Enough to house a good part of Minas Tirith's more professional garrison seeking wholesome diversion: there were board games and ale, and a bookshelf full of less sophisticated tomes.

The Common Hall, such as it was, looked strangely bare for that time of the night. There were a few guardsmen off duty hovering about a board game at one corner, another sitting by the window overlooking the East reading a book, and several more scattered here and there. The hall was too huge for just so many, and would have felt quite comfortable for a man wanting some peace and quiet – had there not been a very obvious Rider of Rohan sitting in the far corner, clad in a green cloak and green mail. His helm was laid on the table before him. His hair was long, and his beard just shaven enough not to make himself unpresentable before the Steward perhaps.

Thengel strode towards him, swiftly and quietly as he could manage. The soldiers busy around the board game did not give him much heed – or any at all.

"Feldlof," he said. "It's been a while." He had spoken in the tongue of Rohan, rarely ever heard in the White City or her fiefs. In fact, small as his voice was he'd drawn a glance or two from the gathering of soldiers from the table across.

Now the man stood up – in fact he began rising before he heard Thengel call his name. "My lord," said keen-eyed Feldlof, and bowed with one fist placed on his chest. "I hope you have been well – and well-treated besides."

His first greeting took Thengel aback. What did this loyal man of his father's mean by well-treated? His mind came to many possibilities, and none of it particularly savoury.

"I am hale enough, if that is what you asked," Thengel said cautiously. "And as to the other thing, the Men of Gondor do treat me not as what I am, but as what I have earned. All's well and good."

He wasn't, of course, saying the full truth. The Steward did give him preferential treatment to an extent: how else could a lone Rider ever earn brotherhood of a fashion with the Swan Knights of Dol Amroth, so esteemed as they are? How else could he have at his side a brightly made and excellently shaped steel bearing the wings of swans upon the hilt? How else could he have a lodging furnished like a captain of knights, despite being little more than a minor knight among the Swans if even that on paper?

This was something Thengel would be wise not to take for granted – and he never had.

Feldlof looked at him keenly. "I am glad to hear so, my lord," he said, with equal cautiousness. "The Steward did speak very high words of you. The Lord of the Mark would be... pleased, I suppose."

"I would not be so optimistic," said Thengel. Of course the Steward would have said so. For all the kindness the Steward had showed him, Lord Turgon was a leader of Men, and that meant inevitably a schemer for good or ill. This was what he had likely meant: Gondor is wealthy. Gondor is strong. Gondor is honourable, and Gondor is your friend, and Gondor is your friend.

But this he meant too: that Thengel was a prince of uncertain future, and why invest time and effort and friendship of a certain fashion in someone who would remain a crownless royal at best and a fugitive at worst? Why treat with extraordinary courtesy someone that the new King of Rohan would likely see as less a brother and more a nuisance? Why even shelter a son so estranged from his father - your ally? All of this is meant for you to reconcile with your sire, had always been the message.

"I would loathe to admit, my lord, but you are right," said Feldlof. "Surely you have heard the news."

"All sorts of news come to Gondor with the traders and riders," said Thengel. "If you meant my brother-in-law's demise, then yes, I have heard of it, and I do curse the foul wretches who had slain him." He lowered his voice. "As for the other part, I can guess. My father's most loyal footman would not have come to the White City had he not desired Gondor's aid."

Feldlof dipped his head. "My condolences go out to you, if it is any consolation."

"Condolences," said Thengel. "You spoke of condolences, and I take it you mean it."

"Of course I do, my lord," said Feldlof. Then he looked right, and looked left, and then right again. Then he leaned his elbow on the table, and drew himself as close to Thengel as he could. "But I know what you insinuate."

The cloak-and-dagger look on Feldlof's face was unnerving – at least to Thengel. It wasn't like the Rohirrim to care so much about succession politics, such a sad and divisive affair as it was, but as the saying went: A blind king invites scheming subjects – and when Thengel was feeling particularly savage and inhospitable he'd say 'blind' was a very charitable way to call his father.

"Will you not come back?" His voice was low and a mere whisper besides. "Will you not come back, lord? The King is not well – and I do not mean his bodily health. He judged it fit to proclaim to the realm that Mynea's babe shall be his heir! And the... the infant is not even born!"

What should he tell his father's retainer? That he no longer cared for the throne? That his home was here beneath the sky of Gondor and above the green earth of the Vale of Flower where his beloved Morwen folded steel and her sisters wove cloth? That the Mark and the House of the King had no dearth of heroes, and someone would inevitably rise to the occasion even if that wasn't him? That indeed was what Thengel would have said fifteen years ago when he left the Mark. Go find someone else, he would have shouted, and his frankly daft father would yell back I have no son, and he'd laugh and cried Suit yourself!

But that was what the younger Thengel would have said. Five and ten years had brought to Thengel a lot of wisdom.

"I take it," he said cautiously, "that what you said was not the message my father would have delivered to my hand."

"Of course not, lord," said Feldlof. "I beg your pardon. His message was far more... vulgar, even for an accusation of unwholesome things he thinks you do with brothel-wenches."

Of course. It was one thing for a Rohirrim to be friendly to Gondor, and another thing to actually consider marrying a Gondorian woman. Had it been any other man who had made such insinuations about his beloved Morwen they'd have a jaw less full of teeth and both testicles misplaced by the time Thengel would be done with them. But that was his father, and what could he do but laugh like he always had at the old man's folly?

No, he had long learnt, that for his father the best policy was neither confrontation nor appeasement – but a very cautious show of token loyalty to his designs. The best part was, such policy wasn't quite foreign to him.

"I'll tell you this, Feldlof," said Thengel. "Do you know what came to me just a day after news of Hildwine's passing filled the marketplaces of Gondor? Congratulations."

"Congratulations," parrotted Feldlof.

"Congratulations, and then some," said Thengel. "The squires who ill-gossiped behind my back? They come to me now and buy me rounds and pat me on the shoulder and call me "brother mine". The quartermaster who once refused twice to have my rusty mail repaired? He's suddenly found a hefty blue coat of mail, bright and shining, and gave it to me, citing "battlefield valour". And old Master Steelsheen at the forge, father of my beloved, who hadn't much approved of our love? Yesterday he called me up and called me the son he's never had. As if come tomorrow were my father to pass away and on to our ancestors, I'd appear overnight resplendent in the green livery of the Lord of the Mark!"

"I would not blame them if I were you, lord," said Feldlof. "A brother in law is not the same as a brother and when it came to succession might be a bitterest among foes. And kingmaker has ever been a profitable business for the less gentle."

"And that is a business in which you dabble, right now, as we speak!" said Thengel. His voice was quiet but sharp and harsh.

"That is not my intention, lord, pardon me," said Feldlof, and kept his head low. "But this is my intention, for which I shall not apologize: What would happen to the Mark now, were – pardon me – the King to pass away? Would it be good for the Mark, or for all of us, to be lorded over by a literal mewling infant? What trouble would that be, and what more trouble would come to pass?" He paused. "And as to you, my lord, it would be quite unfair."

This he had spoken true. This Thengel had been telling himself, that in his boots it was easy to give in to baseness. He was no friend of Hildwine: comrade maybe, and brother through marriage also, but not a friend. When Hildwine courted his sister he was far from home . When they married Thengel was forbidden to come among the well-wishers. He was not there when Hildwine saved his father's life, not there when he was made a Marshal, not there when the King gave the Eastemnet Eored to him to command. With Hildwine Thengel had raised sword and shield and flagons precisely never.

Conversely, plenty were Thengel's reasons to resent Hildwine, in the same way a child would no doubt resent at a new fostered brother coming into the family and taking his place in the parents' eyes and at the high table too. Thengel was not a child any more, but then again a crown is worth that much more than a pat on the shoulder and a "You've done good, son." His resentment was true, and real, and very much a part of his greater frustration with the state of the Mark.

But this was true also: that when the sword was drawn and the spears raised, Hildwine was Rohirrim, and he was family, and he was beloved of Thengel's sister and father to Thengel's nephew; and the bond of kinship through marriage of his with the House of the King was sacred second only to brothers in blood.

So Thengel shook his head, exactly once, with such force it was apparent he would not deign to shake again. "I will not quarrel with my sister, or my sister-son when he is born," he said. "If the Lord of the Mark has seen it fit to make the infant the heir to the lordship of our people, then it is his prerogative. But if at any point they should require my assistance, then I shall offer my service. An uncle may not be like a father, but he is the closest thereto!"

"Is it not sorrowful for the son of the Lord of the Mark to talk in a manner so bereft of ambition?"

"I find it more sorrowful that my sister-son should be born orphaned of his father – and I had not been there at his side when he fell," said Thengel. "I shall take your impetuousness as a sign of your loyalty to lord and land rather than any selfish calculation, Feldlof. Then you should know this: the Mark will endure and survive. Not even the demise of great and tragic Helm Hammerhand could spell the end of our great people." His two large hands, reminiscent in a way to Helm's own, fell heavily on the footman's shoulders. "Trust me. Mynea's son shall be a great King, and I shall make it happen no matter the cost to myself."

The silence about the hall was intoxicating. It seemed even the board games no longer kept the soldiers' attention: Thengel could feel their gaze burning holes through him. Or perhaps he was just imagining thing. It did not matter: his point had been made.

And Feldlof's head fell, and his gaze lost its luster. "If that is your wish, lord," he said, defeated. "Is there anything, then, you would want me to bring back to your father the King? Or your sisters?"

Actually, there were. Two things, in fact – he would have asked the Steward for a home leave to pass the gifts to his mourning sisters himself. But given the circumstances of this meeting with the Steward it seemed unlikely he would be granted such leave.

So thinking, he opened his pack. He pulled from the inside first a bolt of cloth – woven in Lossarnach, and embroidered with flowers and dyed with herbs and leaves.

"Give this to Eaddith," he said, "and tell her to make for my nephew the finest shirt and pants and battle-cloak as she can, for her hands are so blessed."

The second gift he hesitated for a short while longer, but in the end produced it also: a small dagger with a simple cross hilt, and when he drew it from its scabbard it gleamed under the candlelight. The steel of Lossarnach: unsophisticated and solid like her people, and yet untarnishable all the same. Feldlof's thick brows raised in marvel, and why wouldn't he? Sweet and artful Morwen had made this, forged and folded overnight to be given to Mynea when, not if, Thengel would return to the Mark.

"Tell her to plunge this knife in the heart of the evil that robbed her of her love, and her son of his father." she had told him. A woman such as her would of course sympathize with Mynea: for to a wife and a mother losing a husband and father to her unborn child were like two nightmares rolled into one. Ironic, then, that the one who would stand the most to gain from such upheaval in the order of succession was as sorrowful as he was, and maybe all the more desirous of vengeance.

So that was exactly what he did – except the message he passed on was much different.

"Take this to Mynea and her son - my nephew," he said. "It is the father's imperative to bestow arms upon the son, so he would grow into as brave and proud a warrior as would make proud lord and folk and land. Alas, without a father, an uncle's gift should be nearly as good!"

Notes:

- Another without any shipgirl whatsoever. My apologies!

- A reminder as to the characters in this chapter:

+ Thengel is Fengel's son and Theoden's father. Canonically he left Rohan for Gondor - strongly implied to be due to differences with his father - and stayed there for much of his youth, eventually taking Morwen Steelsheen of Lossarnach as a wife. When Fengel passed away he hesitated to come back to Rohan, but in the end, did, and the rest is history. At this point in the story he is 36 years old - being born in TA 2905. He is known to marry Morwen in TA 2943, and it is reasonable he has fallen in love with her for some time at this point - again, he's 36.

+ Mynea is the dead Third Marshal Hildwine's wife, Fengel's (older) daughter, and Thengel's younger older sister. There's nothing known about her in canon, even her name, so I've taken the liberty to make her up wholecloth.

- The layout of the Sixth level of Minas Tirith I've kinda sorta made up...

- Good luck having a steel dagger do anything halfway damaging to a ship except carve hateful message on the hull.