(Archive) The Fellowship of the Sword 6 - The Steward of Gondor

Shadow of the Past

- The Audience with Denethor-

Chapterhouse of the Brotherhood of the Swan

The slick marble floors and grand, cylindrical pillars that support the cathedral-like ceiling of this room are meant to recall the Hall of Armour in the Marble Citadel itself--and do so wonderfully. The floor is a black speckled with white and silver, polished to almost a reflective sheen, and the pillars span many feet high into the air, dark marble as well. From the beams of the ceiling high overhead fly many banners of the most storied and prominent Houses of the Belfalas, displaying their devices proudly: Morthond, Girithlin, Telamarth, Ringlodain, Hlorithain, Edainemyndon and others.

High, narrow windows in the walls above let shafts of sunlight fall readily into this mighty chamber, illuminating the great vault in a soft bath of of warming light. A single carpet-walk of royal blue runs from the entry in the southwest to a Grand Staircase in the northeast--a stairway that slopes down from above and, by the banner of the Ship and Swan above it, can only lead to the chambers of Imrahil himself. A set of double doors graven with the image of the Silver Swan lies east.

Contents:

Thorondur

Maernus

Morrandir

Obvious exits:

Grand Staircase leads to Prince Imrahil\'s Study.

Double Doors leads to Hall of Ulmo.

Out leads to North of the Embrasure on Fifth Street.

The high, vaulted ceiling above their heads is, perhaps, the last such roof the Knights and their loyal squires shall see for some time -- as such, the chapterhouse is filled to capacity with the questing party. There are few among them who do not recognize the significance of the place in their journey.

Those who might not, of course, are the younger, greener squires. The Lord Thorondur has summoned them and their brethren to the central hall, and awaits with a certain studied patience.

The doors open and a squire enters. He walks calmly towards Thorondur, and bows, rather awkwardly. \"Good morning, Sir.\" he says, his voice rather croaky, perhaps the first words Morrandir has spoken this day.

The doors open quietly and the Lord Indilzar, swathed in his black garments sets foot within the hall. He sniffs the air for a moment before he passes within and walks over to a table that lay to the right of the staircase. Upon the table he picks up a scroll and glances at its seal before opening it. He then reads it in silence.

After a moment, Indilzar looks up at the greeting of the squire to Thorondur, but he still remains silent and watches the proceedings with his burning eyes.

Though beyond the walls the first faint feelers of sunrise are only beginning, and the skies outside are yet darkened with the greyness of a false dawn, the Lord Thorondur appears well-rested and wakeful. Ever young and ever energetic, he is quick to smile this morn, and quick to laugh as well.

\"Look lively, lads,\" he quips, grinning as Morrandir shuffles in. \"I\'ll be most disappointed if the hour\'s too early for any of you.\" To Indilzar he nods, but seems more intent on the youths.

Indilzar crosses his arms and leans lightly on the bannister. He smiles coldly for a moment, watching this game.

Making his way through the crowded chapterhouse is the white-clad squire Maernus, he rubs his eyes slightly before making his way to Thorondur, where he bows. \"Greetings, Sir Thorondur. What task are we required for?\" He stands again, rigid and at attention waiting for Thorondurs orders.

Morrandir nods sleepily to Maernus as he enters, then looks to Thorondur, eagerly awaiting his answer to the squires question.

The Girithlin lordling turns his steady gaze to Maernus, and his smile never falters -- if anything, it takes on a subtle cast of amusement. \"Why, early exercises of course. I trust you\'ve brought your practice sword, as commanded?\"

Indilzar glances again at the scroll. He wanders over to the window and looks outward for a moment before taking a seat. His fingers rest lightly on the scroll.

Arching an eyebrow, Thorondur glances toward Morrandir -- as if asking the same question of him, but wordlessly.

Nodding to Thorondur, Morrandir slides his sword halfway out of the scabbard, then puts it back and stands to attention.

\"Of course, sir.\" Maernus says, partially withdrawing his sword. He glances around, quitely, \"It is early, sir, but I have not forgotten.\"

Then, turning his back on the squires momentarily -- apparently, he trusts them to follow the rather... unorthodox command -- the Knight-Herald approaches Indilzar, where that one stands by the window. \"I hope that\'s a recipe for breakfast, Bragollach,\" he quips. \"I\'m famished.\"

Morrandir\'s question is met with silence, which should be answer enough.

Withdrawing his own sword, Maernus glances towards Morrandir, nodding slightly toward him. \"I will allow you the first strike.\" He holds his blade with one hand in front of his chest, as he prepares his buckler.

Indilzar glances up at Thorondur for a moment, \"If it be breakfast, then it shall be bland. We have received word that the Steward shall see us this day. So perhaps it would be best to eat before that bitter struggle.\"

The Herald laughs again at this news, but there is a hollow ring to it. \"I fight best on an empty stomach,\" he remarks, \"and I don\'t doubt this will be something of a fight.\"

Glancing over his shoulder, Thorondur sees the squires -- taking their time. \"What are you waiting for? Orcs won\'t give any quarter,\" he snaps!

Morrandir nods to Maernus. \"Sir, you are a true knight.\" he says with a grin. Hefting his sword he patiently waits for his opponent to ready himself. Then when all is well, he strikes. A glimmering arc of silver flashes towards Maernus\' midsection in answer to the Heralds remerk.

A dark look is cast to the squires by Indilzar, but he says to Thorondur, \"I think perhaps that these squires should meet the Steward with us. It might be a formative experience for them.\"

\"Indeed. One of them is mine,\" Thorondur agrees, idly indicating Morrandir with another lazy wave of his hand. \"They should learn a bit of politics, I admit. It would do them good. Say--\"

Of Indilzar, he asks, \"You\'re rather familiar with Morrandir, are you not?\"

Indilzar arching a brow replies, \"Just a cursory knowledge I shall admit. He has done nothing good or bad to make me notice him except for his atrocious stance.\"

\"But Thorondur,\" says Indilzar, \"we should cut this short.\" He holds up the scroll, \"We should not keep the Steward waiting.\"

\"They must learn to move more swiftly, if they hope to be knighted one day,\" Thorondur tells Indilzar, slightly inclining his head. Then, at the clack and clatter of the wooden swords --

\"Good parry, lad,\" the Herald calls out. \"Now press the attack! Look lively!\"

Striking his sword in a downward motion Maernus blocks the opposing sword before it strikes his middle. Maernus takes a step forward as he swings his own sword in an upward motion towards Morrandir. He brings his shield arm with his sword arm, trying to protect at least one side of his sword from being parried.

Maernus attacks Morrandir with his Longsword and lightly wounds him!

With a nod to Thorondur, Indilzar now says, \"Squires, halt and put down your weapons.\"

Failing to block Maernus\' strike, Morrandir grunts as the wooden sword crashes into his forearm. \"Nice hit...\" he chokes. At Indilzars command he lowers his weapon, nursing his arm.

Indilzar now addresses Maernus and Morrandir, \"While I shall not comment on your style, I shall say only that work needs be done. Now, you will accompany the Lord Thorondur and myself to the Great Hall. Mind your manners, and do not do something foolish. Denethor does not have my level of patience.\"

As the small party moves to depart the hall, Thorondur can be heard to wonder, \"The Lord Denethor has patience?\"

\"Thank you Morrandir.\" Maernus says, beforing nodding to Indilzar and quickly sheathing his sword. \"I shall remain silent, Lord Indilzar.\" He glances towards Morrandir\'s arm, as he puts away his shield as well.

.........................

Before the Tower of Ecthelion(#1118Rnt)

Looking upward, you are held long by the awe of the mighty doors that stand before you. At least three fathoms in height they overwhelm the viewing eye not only with their immense size, but also with their grand beauty.

Devised of some darkling ore they are bound sharply with a bright silver border which is as if a rich garnish framing and contrasting the deep metals therein. The two doors, now shut form a great design of the same silvery material framing them. The design is the shape of a great tree, with branches flowing like rivers from the trunk. Nested in the myriad branches are stars - pointed and bright. Above the stars hangs a regal crown with great seabird wings fixed to it.

The fiery light of the sun sends its dazzling shafts down upon the tower, yet the doors that lay before you seem to just eat the light in their darkness, save for the silver markings which glitter as fire.

Contents:

Valen

Obvious exits:

North leads to The Citadel: Before the Hall of Feasts.

East leads to The High Court: Place of the Fountain.

Inside

Valen stands proud and stern at his post by the door of the grand tower of Ecthelion. His stoic nature would almost suggest that it is just a fake suit of armor decorating the door until you hear a slight movement of his body jar the suit of armor, causing a slight sound to emanate which belies your initial perception.

Clad all in flowing white over a surcoat of rich burgundy, a young lord of the Belfalas -- by his arms, and by his face, the Lord Thorondur Girithlin -- strides toward the base of the White Tower. Noble and serene of manner, his gaze takes in the court with a single, discerning sweep he carries himself with the confidence inherent in those of the High and ancient blood.

Coming before the doors of Denethor, is a company of knights and their squires. Of them, Indilzar Bragollach can be numbered and he is dressed formally in the clothes of his house. He does not speak to Valen, rather, he defers that to the Herald.

Taking a moment to look at each of the approaching knights in turn, he waits until the very moment at which they are about to enter into the tower before stepping before the leader of the company. He speaks in a gruff, forceful manner, as one who is only doing his duty, \"Halt! Fair knights you seem from our brethren to the south by your garb and demeanor. What is your purpose to enter the tower this day?\"

As if on some silent cue from his mighty companion, this slender lordling -- Imrahil\'s own Herald -- draws to a halt before the guardian. With a rigid, formal bow after the fashion of old, he dips and then rises again.

When Thorondur speaks, his voice rings with the lilting, liquid Sindarin accents of the southern shores. \"Indeed, we are Knights of Dol Amroth, on a most urgent errand at the bidding of Imrahil Son of Adrahil, our Prince. We are summoned by His Grace the Steward of Gondor. My lord Indilzar?

The Herald gestures for his companion to present the writ, and himself steps back.

\"At this hour we were called,\" says Indilzar handing over the scroll to Valen, \"delivered to us but three hours ago. We have come to seek Lord Denethor.\"

Trailing behind the Dol Amroth entourage is a white squire, nursing his right arm. It is Morrandir, looking rather nervous at the impending meeting with the Steward.

With a curt nod of his head, Valen replies in a formal gesture, \"Fair enough are your words, friend, but the Steward is indisposed at the moment. His top aide has taken ill, and he wishes the company of no one.\" He receives the scroll from Indilzar and peruses it for a few short moments, before handing it back. His own demeanor has not altered in the slightest, but he quickly changes the tone of his voice, \"I believe an exception can be made, in light of the situation.\" He turns to a fellow guard who has stayed silent so far, \"Daeran, inform the Steward that a company of Knights under the Prince Imrahil have arrived bidding his presence. We shall be along shortly with the formal note.\" The guardsman salutes promptly, and hurries inside to deliver the message.

Turning to gaze back at Indilzar and Thorondur, Valen inclines his head once more, \"Let us wait for a few moments to allow m\'lord to prepare for you arrival. May I ask the meaning of this council? If you wish to speak to Denethor first on this matter, I understand.\"

Indilzar glances to Thorondur for a moment before stating, \"Perhaps if Lord Denethor is so inclined, you may enter with us. I daresay that is not unheard of in court and do you not have others who can stand duty at these doors?\"

\"There is a matter of dreadful import to our Prince which we must resolve,\" Thorondur tells the guardian of the Tower, \"and we seek the aid of the Lord Denethor in it. They are kin, after all -- it may be he will help us in our hour of need.\"

Now does he turn a particular and piercing eye on the squires behind him, and ask of them, \"Are there any among you not prepared to present yourselves before the Steward of this realm?\"

Following behind the white squire Morrandir, the blue squire Maernus walks. The mans wooden leg making a far greater noise than any of the other squires. He looks at the tower, then looks at his garments. He begins to brush his garments, attempting to free them of dust.

\"I am prepared Sir, if you would wish me to accompany you. I shall always follow your lead.\" says Morrandir. \"I would be a rather miserable squire if I did not.\" he adds with a slight smile.

A curt nod is Morrandir\'s answer, from the Knight-Herald -- approval. Critically, Thorondur\'s brows arch as he looks expectantly to the others for their reply -- yea or nay.

His stern face unchanging, he bows slightly, \"I would gladly accept the hearing of such import. My duty at this post is short, I am merely taking the place of a Citadel Guard who recently betrothed. My replacement shall be here soon, but Daeran should be able to handle the job alone when he returns, although grudgingly I\'m sure.\" A gruff laughter emits from the tall Commander, almost unnatural it seems, but perfectly timed as Daeran returns to his post just moments after.

Saluting his officer first before turning to the assemblage, Daeran reports, \"The Steward is ready for your arrival, sires!\"

Returning the salute, Valen turns to Indilzar, \"I apologize for the delay m\'lords.\" He gestures to the door as he holds it open, \"Shall we?\"

The tall shield-bearer of Imrahil does his best to smooth his tunic and arrange his cloak, to alter his raiment so that he might appear in presentable fashion for an audience of such high important. \"I believe myself to be ready, sir,\" Doran responds solemnly. His dark grey eyes cast a careful glance at his compatriots.

Indilzar nods to Valen, \"You do your office fairly Commander. Let us enter if you will.\"

\"I am ready Sir Thorondur.\" Maernus replies quickly, still brushing imagined piles of dust from his garments.

Satisfied by all appearances, the Lord Thorondur tells the squires, \"Excellent. Stay behind Indilzar and myself, as protocol demands, until you are called forward.\" That said, he turns, prepared to follow the guardian within... though his words ring out long after they are said.

The squires? Called forward? Will they need -speak- to Denethor himself?

Stepping just inside to hold the door open for the entourage, Valen acts as a doorman to let them through.

Tower of Ecthelion - Entryway(#1138Rnt)

Whether the mind be complacent, active, or merely idle, it is hard to escape from the symmetrical beauty of the Tower of Ecthelion. The high vaulted ceiling soars up and up leaving a dizzying imprint in the mind as vast carven pillars seemingly disappear into the sphere of the ceiling. Few windows are about, and the light here is wan given forth from sparse torches held in sconces along the walls at intervals. Many labrithine passages meet in this entryway and there is a hustle and a bustle about at all times. Here you see two set of steps, virtually constantly travelled. One leads upward to those higher levels in the tower, while another, less transversed descends into the lower halls of the tower.

Yet what draws the eye are the mighty doors which lay imbedded in the western walls. This are huge and imposing. Cut of mighty stone they are carved with detailed reliefs on the surface. To either side, stand a pair of guards, flanking them and barring any who might seek to enter against the will of the Steward of Gondor.

Obvious exits:

Polished Door leads to Tower of Ecthelion: Great Hall.

Out leads to Before the Tower of Ecthelion.

Stairs Down and Stairs Up

Thorondur has arrived.

Doran has arrived.

Maernus has arrived.

Morrandir has arrived.

Valen has arrived.

Nodding his head to two of the aides standing about, Valen wordlessly instructs them to quickly open the doors to the Great Hall.

Indilzar walks slowly down the hall in silence. He says to Thorondur, \"As is your office, of course I shall defer questions the Lord might have to you.\" He glances back at the squires and smiles for a moment ironically.

Then he comes before the polished door and prepares for Valen and Thorondur to enter first.

Valen speaks from behind the company, \"Please enter, M\'lords. The Steward awaits.\"

Indilzar nods and says softly, \"My thanks Commander.\" He looks to Thorondur and waits.

\"Of course,\" accepts the Herald -- both of Indilzar and Valen. Smiling a thin, tight-lipped smile, he strides forward fearless into the Hall, the youthful flower of Southern Gondor\'s chivalry behind him.

Thorondur passes through the huge carven doors into the Great Hall.

Thorondur has left.

The huge carven doors swing open by unseen hands and you pass through them into the Great Hall.

Tower of Ecthelion: Great Hall(#12048Rn)

Before you stretches a deep hall, lit by recessed windows in the wide aisles at either side, beyond the rows of tall pillars which uphold the roof. Monoliths of black marble, they rise to great capitals carved in many strange figures of beasts and leaves and far above in shadow the wide vaulting gleams with dull gold, inset with flowing traceries of many colors. No hangings nor storied webs, nor any things of woven stuff or wood, are to be seen in this long solemn hall but between the pillars there stands a silent company of tall images graven in cold stone: an avenue of kings long dead.

At the far end upon a dais of many steps is set a high throne under a canopy of marble shaped as a crowned helm behind it is carved upon the wall and set with gems an image of a tree in flower. At the foot of the dais, upon the lowest step which is broad and deep, there sits a stone chair, black and unadorned: the seat of the Steward. Also in the shadows unseen, yet felt in presence of will and resolve, are lined the many Citadel Guards who keep watch upon this most sacred of chambers.

The sun\'s golden light filters in from the windows above, lighting the hall with a warm glow.

Contents:

Thorondur

Tamran

Denethor(#29482n)

Obvious exits:

Out

Doran arrives from the huge carven doors, which the guards swing open silently.

Doran has arrived.

Sitting upon his accustomed seat, the Steward of Gondor watches silently as those who would seek him, enter his chamber. By his side are some of his service that he had summoned to join them at this meeting.

Valen arrives from the huge carven doors, which the guards swing open silently.

Valen has arrived.

Maernus arrives from the huge carven doors, which the guards swing open silently.

Maernus has arrived.

Morrandir arrives from the huge carven doors, which the guards swing open silently.

Morrandir has arrived.

At the head of the company, two knights of proud Dol Amroth walk: warriors of Gondor, sworn to the Prince Imrahil. Their mantles are opposites: first White, a step ahead, and Black beside him. Behind the pair trails a trio of squires, clad in the whites and blues of the southern reach.

The first knight, his snowy garb pure and shimmering, halts beneath the dais. Formally he bows, with the grace of the winged swan that is the symbol of his Order.

Valen takes a post halfway between the company before Denethor and the entryway. He places his hands upon his sides, and carefully listens in on the councils given and received.

Denethor waits silently. He looks on with feigned interest at the squires. He then looks to Thorondur and nods to him.

Following close behind the lords of Bragollach and Girithlin is the son of one of the lesser noble houses of Lamedon. Doran son of Lorendir of the Isilrim strides toward the dais, chin held high, silver flecks subtlely shimmering in his locks of raven hair. The piercing grey eyes of the squire stray to the left and right, drawn to the carven images of the stone kings. But at length that clear, youthful gaze alights upon the ruler of this mighty realm, Denethor, lord of the great tower that his father caused to have built.

The dark eyes of the Steward look deep into the eyes of Doran. Denethor holds that gaze as if considering the innermost thought of this squire.

Trailing behind Doran, Morrandir makes his way into the hall. His chin is also held high, yet upon seeing the steward his will falters, and his eyes drop to the floor.

And at the Steward\'s signal, clear and bright rings the voice of Thorondur the Knight-Herald, Imrahil\'s emissary his words echo in the vault and resound, filling the vast chamber as might the light of dawn.

\"To His Grace, Denethor son of Ecthelion, Lord Steward of the Kingdom of Gondor: I greet you, in the name of Imrahil, son of Adrahil and Prince of Dol Amroth in his own right.\"

The dark gaze of Tamran falls upon the newly arrive guests, yet his expression does not alter nor does he sift from his position, as the company makes its way in the Great Hall and under the black monoliths council will be given. Slowly he turns towards the seat were the Steward rests, quietly listening as the Knight-Herald\'s voice rises.

Following in after Morrandir, Maernus walks into the hall. He stands, chin held steadily neither raised nor lowered. He approaches behind the knights, stopping silently a few paces behind them. His dark eyes scanning around the hall as the squire stands.

At this the pale faced Lord of Gondor lifts up his face and looks at Thorondur for a moment before smiling like a patient spider, \"You greet me in my kinsman name, and perhaps you look for kind words from me. Yet the only tales that are brought to me these last hours are ones of woe. Ere you speak of this matter, introduce your squires Girithlin.\"

He then looks to Indilzar, \"Since I know both of you by name, I would know these others first before we hasten to speak of the pressing matter at hand.\"

\"Very well,\" agrees the Lord Girithlin, serene and implacable, a portrait of poise and diplomacy beneath the Steward\'s daunting gaze.

\"Your Grace, I give you three: Doran of the Isilrim, Maernus Calgar, and Morrandir of Belfalas, who has no surname nor lands of his own.\"

And he stands aside to let these squires step forward.

Denethor looks to each in turn and casts his piercing glance at each one as if now their names were written into the stone of his thought, \"Come forth servants of Imrahil and be recognized.\"

At the mention of his name, the son of Lorendir takes one step in the direction of the dais. The squire bows, the whiteness of his tunic peeping out from the folds of his dark cloak as he bends, the hem of his over-garment sweeping the pure, smooth stone tiles of the floor. \"Greetings, my lord,\" he says simply and clearly, solemn grey eyes fixed by the stern gaze of the Steward.

Meeting the Steward\'s piercing gaze, Morrandir steps forward, and bows humbly before him.

Stepping forward and kneeling before the Steward, \"Greetings m\'Lord Steward. I am Maernus Calgar, squire to Durandir of the Nimothans.\" His blue tabbard standing out agaisnt the white of his garments. His dark eyes lowered to the ground of the hall.

Denethor looks cunningly at the three before stating, \"Maernus, Morrandir and Doran. Three squires among many. Who knows what fate may lie upon them regardless of heritage. It may very well be that none of them shall return alive to Gondor again.\"

He then looks to Thorondur, \"Now herald. You desire my counsel on this matter?\"

\"For this thing and no other have we come,\" avers the Herald, Thorondur.

Denethor nods and says, \"Your tale is known to me and the sorrow of my kinsman is felt in this Tower. Alas for the foolishness of Amrothos to awaken the wrath of things beyond his knowledge and power. Now, you are locked upon this foolish errand and to what end? More dead knights running off into the blue so that they may earn a song while the strength of Gondor wanes?\"

Again the Steward looks at the three squires, \"Youth is hard bought in the Men of Gondor and I loathe to send any away while there is work to do on the marches.\"

\"My lord,\" ventures the Herald. \"If I may speak?\" The Dunadan lordling moves forward a step, hands clasped behind his back.

\"Never have you had a problem with an utterance Thorondur Girithlin,\" replies the Steward with mirthless mirth, \"but I shall humour you. Speak on.\"

As he withdraws from the forefront of this important audience, Doran\'s glance strays to the Knight-Herald. He looks on at the knight, questioningly, for a fraction of a moment, and a light shiver rustles the squire\'s body beneath his cloak. At the words of the Steward that follow now, Doran exhales audibly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

The squire calgar attempts to move as silently as he can, return to a few paces behind the knights. He glances towards Thorondur as he steps back, however his gaze returns to Denethor as he watches the procedings.

Stepping back with the other squires, Morrandir gazes about the hall rather absent-mindedly, before returning his attention to the discussion at hand.

\"That may be, my lord,\" replies Thorondur with the hint of a smile on his own lips -- though his is wan, and distant. \"Yet the Prince loves his son, and trusts in our valour. They say that you have the ancient Sight, my lord -- as the sons of the Sea-Kings once did. Have you seen our doom, to counsel against our going? For when Fate is silent, we may yet hold Hope to our breast.\"

\"No omen can I see to descry your road,\" answers the Steward, \"for I know to whence your path goes according to old lore. Yet the way is not easy and you shall be gone for a long time without seeing your homes.\" He looks hard at the squires, \"If your quest succeeds, then you shall not be as you are now, that much I can forsee. All else is dark to me save what lore I know. This I shall share with you if you desire.\"

\"For this and this alone have we come,\" replies the Herald, courteous and fair of tongue. \"The wisdom of Denethor is known far and wide, and in the line of the Stewards is the nobility of our people yet preserved: It is known.\"

The Steward considers this for a moment and says, \"For a time at least.\"

The Steward then falls silent for a moment and he clears his throat, \"I shall tell you in brief the tale of this sword that you seek, and what the Men of Gondor in this latter day know.\"

Thus the Herald falls silent, and with a glance at his squires instructs that they, too, remain the same.

\"Long ago,\" says Denethor, \"at the end of the Second Age of Middle Earth, Elendil and his sons founded the realms in Exile: Arnor in the north and Gondor in the south. With them they brought many things, heirlooms of Numenor and better times. Of these were weapons as well, and among this hoard was Anarion\'s sword: Anaril. Now that sword was even older than Numenor, for Telchar the dwarven smith had wrought it of old for the House of Beor and by this way it found its way to Numenor.\"

\"Thus,\" continues Denethor, \"when Numenor fell, Anarion took it with him back to Middle Earth. There he used it in the War of the Last Alliance.\"

And silent the contingent from Dol Amroth remains, giving ear to this wondrous and ancient tale.

\"Many strange tales are told of Anarion and his sword,\" sighs Denethor ruefully. He then shifts in his seat as if in discomfort, \"Of these, most can be found in the Lay of Anarion. Of this lay, many bards know the tale, but these words were sung:\"

Clearing his throat slightly, the Steward then chants the following verses:

Anarion was a kindly king,

Come from the sea that sadly sunders.

His helm was tall, his glance was cutting,

His horn sounded like mountain thunder.

More marvelled still was his brilliant blade,

Anaril the bright was its right known name

Few foes could bear the sword that Telchar made

Ages ago wrought by that dwarf of fame.

But long ago Anarion waged war,

And fell dead by dart beneath his bright blade

In Mordor where the shadows are.

Long laments then the sad harpers made,

Of the fair King and his steely sword,

To four parts it flew, blackly broken,

Aged Anaril now only a word,

Of mindful memory mere token.

Four by four were the shards flung afar,

One to the Dwarves in stony hard hills,

Hilt high to northern kin under the star

One to elves where enchantment thrills,

The last was laid in monument of stone,

By the kings kin, in the hidden hill,

Of Aragurth, silent and last alone

Where wonders woven in fate fill.\"

Nodding his head as the lore of the Steward is revealed, Doran remains quiet, his cloak barely rustling. His eyes narrow as if he searches through his mind, recalling the bits of tales that he had the chance to pore over before the party left the Citadel of the Prince, days ago.

\"It is said that when Anarion fell, his sword broke under him and was shattered into four pieces: Two gemstones, the hilt, and the blade itself. When the war ended, and the Enemy was vanquished for a time, these pieces were dealt out by Isildur as gifts of memory. One went with the Dwarves who fought on the part of Alliance, another was taken by Elrond Half-Elven into the north. Another, was taken up as an heirloom of the North Kingdom of Arnor. The last it is said rests in a hill of stone nigh Minas Ithil, now Minas Morgul. That piece was laid there by Isildur himself before he left Gondor as a monument to his brother.\"

Smiling faintly, Morrandir listens to this lay with keen interest. All is still except for the Steward\'s voice.

The chanted words of the first King\'s song wash over the ears of the assembled, and among them Thorondur Girithlin stands as well: he listens, too, the same as any green squire. To the song, and then the Steward -- and at that lordly man\'s last words, even the Herald goes pale.

\"Morgul Vale,\" Thorondur whispers, his voice fraught with dread.

\"Of course,\" says Denethor slowly, \"That was an age ago, and who knows if the pieces can still be recovered. I would not be surprised if they have been laid waste in the ages of time.\"

Denethor nods and says, \"Where the Shadows are indeed.\"

\"By the kings kin, in the hidden hill...\" whispers Tamran, uncounsciously, almost a gust of wind out of the mouth of the Sergeant it sounds. Quickly he close his mouth, realising he had spoken althought softly, glancing artound to see if anyone happen to hear him, hoping that none did.

Shifting slightly at the mention of Minas Ithil, Maernus remains quiet. He gazes towards his fellow squires as he does. He holds steady after his slight shift, however, his gaze slowly returning to fix upon the steward.

And thus the pall of silence settles over the hall, in the wake of these dark words....

Morrandir\'s eyes narrow at the mention of the Morgul Vale. It almost seems as though a grin plays about his lips, though that would be absurd...

At the mention of the dread city, Doran\'s complexion pales visibly. All have heard tell of the sorcerous keep, even the young sons of the noble houses which dwell far away, by the bay of Belfalas where the sun shines warmly on the shimmering waves.

Denethor then looks at the party, \"Thus is the fate of Anaril the brilliant, sword of Anarion.\"

\"The Hill,\" says Denethor to Tamran, \"my undisciplined servant may yet stand, for it was sealed with magic by the Lords of the West and it may be possible to release the piece with the proper words. Yet these must be found...\"

There is a cold look on the face of Denethor as he says, \"It may be that I could give you counsel, but I am not of the mind to let so many of the valour of Gondor wander abroad on a wild errand.\"

There is silence for a moment before Denethor speaks again, \"However, Amrothos must be freed, if not least for the sake of my kinsman Imrahil. Therefore, I counsel you not to go first to Minas Morgul, for that part of the quest will be the most perilous and foolish. Rather, I counsel you to seek out Elrond Half-Elven in the north, for he is the greatest of lore masters of Middle Earth. By him, you may learn much of where the pieces of the sword yet lie and perhaps recover them. To do so, the trip is long and perilous, and we do not know aright where Elrond dwells, but it says that he lives on the west of the Misty Mountains in the far north, in the vale of Imladris, which is called in the Common Tongue: Rivendell. It also may do you well to choose your path wisely. I have given some thought to this.\"

Tamran bows his head respectfully as the Steward address him, turning his gaze downward. No more does he speak, counsciously or otherwise, yet many questions he has, one a above all others.

\"Already given thought to this?\" Doran repeats, speaking the questions of his mind aloud. Then, apparently being somewhat fearful of speaking out of turn, the squire suddenly falls silent.

It is Denethor who looks to Doran and smiles as if a wolf ready to devour its prey, \"Oh indeed Master Doran. For all good counsellors give thoughts to deeds ahead on the road. Or why do you think I have learned all about you and your quest ere you stepped into this chamber? Why do you think I have not given thought to how you might die rashly by speaking at the wrong moment with foolish curiousity or lack of discipline.\"

And into the darkness of these fateful words shines a shaft of light: it is the voice of Thorondur Girithlin, upraised and uplifted to the heavens. Pure and clear, it echoes the courage of the ancient Edain, carried down through the years in the blood of those present here, the fathers of Men in their youth when the world was new.

\"Then together with the lords of Isilrim and Bragollach will I lead us, even under the Shadow if the One so wills it, for the honour we owe our Prince and not least, for the love we bear him and his son. By the White Tree I swear this, and I call thee to witness, O dread Steward of Gondor: hold me to my Oath, and let me never set it down \'til we win through, or die in the trying.\"

\"Death you may find suddenly upon your road Thorondur Girithlin,\" says Denethor without mirth, \"and I hear your oath. Yet do not let this blind you to your purpose. For even the life of one of my kin is not worth the loss of an entire company. Yet it must be done.\"

\"Forgive me, my lord,\" the squire offers, stepping forward and bowing low, sweeping the stone tiles with his cloak. \"Perhaps it was folly for one to accompany these brave lords who is not so learned in the intricate workings of high counsels. I am afraid that dire words of such grand and dreadful fates got the better of me. I hope that my elders shall not be looked upon the less for keeping such brash servants,\" Doran says. He remains bowed, but looks up at Denethor with a clear, unfaltering gaze.

The Steward then looks upon Doran and says coldly, \"If you wish for me to comfort you servant, then guess again.\"

Denethor laughs like hail hitting stony Mindolluin, \"For I shall tell you thus that no mistake is forgivable if it cannot be redressed. Learn from them now lest you kill your company and those who would go with you.\"

And now, silent so long as if he holds his own counsel -- but no more -- the Silver Knight\'s voice sounds in the wake of the Steward\'s dire prophecies. And clear and strong it seems, untouched by the vision of dark paths or cruel death come stealthily in the night:

\"Death we may find upon the walls of Osgiliath as easily, lord. Yet, I say to you that this company will not go to its Doom with such ease, for it is bound to a purpose Death may not stay it from.\"

\"So be it,\" replies Denethor to Thorondur. He then shifts in his seat for a moment and says, \"Now, I shall give you three things ere you go: advice, gifts and men to aid you whom I picked myself.\"

The Herald\'s face goes taut at these hard, cold words from the Steward upon his simple chair. He looks with sympathy toward young Doran, but says nothing more -- until the words of Arnafel are spoken, clean and true. And thus is battle joined between Hope and the void of its absence.

Morrandir stands silently in the hall, staring grimly into space, ignoring all that happens around him. His face is stern, like some stone gargoyle.

Stepping forward, Maernus looks almost as if about to speak, but he falls silent at the words of Arnafel, he turns to glance at the silver knight quickly.

The squire of Imrahil straightens his stance, withdrawing to the side of the house lords once again. Swallowing, Doran remains quiet, save for a swallow in his throat as he tugs at his cloak about his neck, as if to breathe the easier.

\"Advice I shall give you on your road,\" says Denethor, \"Go not blindly on the road. Seek out the wizard Curunir in the vale of Isengard where he sits in Orthanc at the foot of the Mountains of Mist. He would know the way to Rivendell, and he might know also about the sword that is beyond our lore.\"

At the mention of Rivendell, the Lord Girithlin remains silent -- yet to the Lord Isilrim does he look, subtly -- and some secret must surely pass between them.

\"As for men,\" Denethor says slowly touching his chin as if in thought, \"I have selected three to travel with you. Two from the arms of this city, and one of the most experienced Rangers of Ithilien. Perhaps you have met them, for indeed, one is here: Tamran and Faengor of the Guard shall journey with you, and also Bregedur, the dour-handed Ranger of Ithilien shall go with you.\"

The squire calgar rubs his chin slowly, shaking his head from time to time. He continues in such a way for a few moments, then silently mutters \'isn\'t that weeks past even the far side of rohan...\' The glance of Maernus shoots back to Denethor as soon as the Steward mentions Faengor.

Leaning across to Maernus, Morrandir murmurs \"A fine opportunity for us squires to pick up a beautiful elven lass...\"

As his name echoes Tamran turns his gaze towards the Steward, yet silent he remains but he spares a glance towards the squires as he over hears them talk. With an effort he tries not to smile, a half grin crosses his face as he looks back at his Lord.

Denethor then says, \"For gifts, I have prepared things for you. And not an Elven lass Master Morrandir. It is better for you to think with your head, than with your need to procreate with a race outside of your species.\"

Denethor clears his throat, \"Have all of your company stand forth. And you as well Tamran, come.\"

Morrandir gains a sharp, piercing look from the Lord Girithlin at that. \"Speak not of things which you do not understand, squire,\" the Herald commands, sternly and in a flash of sudden, inexplicable annoyance.

The Girithlin\'s glance is caught -- and returned -- by the Silver Knight, yet to him he says naught for the moment.

\"So it shall be, lord. It is said that Curunir keeps his own counsel in the fastness of Orthanc in these latter years -- but I deem he will not begrudge us his aid, for he is said to be great among the Wise. And the men you have named\" -- a fleeting glance to Tamran who stands thither -- \"I have indeed heard of ere now. Save, perhaps, this Bregedur.\"

Morrandir turns a bright shade of red as he realises how much one\'s voice can echo in this hall. He looks to the floor, not daring even to say so much as an apology.

Rising from his seat Denethor says to Aranfel, \"I wish you well then, for I have not seen Curunir in many years. He is willful and I must give mind to the fact that he is but a keeper of Orthanc, and not its owner.\"

He then has servants come forth bearing his gifts.

The guard of the City of Stone takes the few steps that seperates him from the Company of the sword. Walking between the gaze of the lords of the past and those of the present, he takes his position besides the men of Dol Amorth.

But the Lord of the Isilrim does not step forth -- not yet. Instead, it is the Squires he motions forward with a murmured command.

The servants of Denethor then give each of the company black and silver furlined cloaks. Denethor then says, \"These cloaks will help protect you from the bite of winter and the elements. The north is bitterly cold and these garments have such virtue as to block out the wind of even a blizzard.\"

Stepping forward a bit more, Maernus speaks. \"May I apoligize for my fellow squire, M\'Lord Steward. I am sure once we are upon our perilous path he will not speak of such things.\" When he is motion forward by Arnafel, he takes a few more steps forward.

Arching a brow Denethor looks at Maernus, \"No you may not apologize for him master squire. Receive my gift only!\" Denethor is sharp now and his eyes bore into Maernus with a look of sudden and most assured death.

Stepping forward, Morrandir dares to raise his head. He accepts the cloak held out for him, looking at the fine fabric in awe.

Coughing, perhaps because of the dreadfully misplaced jest of his companion, Doran stands at the fore once again, at the side of Maernus as he speaks. He remains silent however, save for a murmured \"Thank you,\" as he accepts the proffered cloak from one of the Steward\'s servant.

Motioning to the servants, they now hand out staves to the company. Denethor then says, \"Take these staves. For though you shall go by horse, it may be that you shall lose your steeds ere the end. These have great virtue in them in that the bearers can travel further and with less weariness than others. These shall serve you in good stead in the days to come.\"

\"Squires.\"

No more the Silver Knight says, stepping forth to receive his own cloak and stave -- but in his calm voice is a note of command which may not be gainsaid. And he glances to the Girithlin and the Bragollach with a faint shrug then.

\"As you request, m\'Lord Steward.\" Maernus says, he bows to the steward before he takes the cloak. He nods towards the servant, he holds the cloak in his hands, nodding to another servant as he takes the staff quickly. He steps behind the knights quickly, without examining either untill a number of paces behind the knights.

It would seem that the Lord isilrim has taken the squires well in hand. Absolved of that duty, the Lord Girithlin steps forward, himself receiving his cloak and staff of the Steward\'s servants. Over these he bows his head in silent acknowledgement.

To the side does Tamran stand, taking no more steps forward. Quietly he receives the gifts of the steward, thanking the servent as he passes by him. Glancing quickly at the cloak and stave, he raise his head once more towards the Steward and men of Dol Amorth.

\"And last,\" says Denethor slowly as the servants give out the last gift, which are now fine knives kept in silver and black sheathes, \"Take these knives with you. They will do you well on the hunt. They were wrought by the smith Aearimir under the last king Earnur. They will not rust, nor shall they grow dull. They shall cut meat on the hunt, and they may help you where swords shall not.\"

\"As well you shall be given anything you need from my store for the road,\" says Denethor, \"provisions: food, tents, rope and baggage will be prepared for you. Each of you shall be horsed and you shall be given an extra horse or two to carry your baggage if need be.\"

With inclined brow, Arnafel accepts the knife -- and indeed, it may well have been wrought for him, for the argent upon its sheath is no different from the cool hues of Isil which glitter upon his raiment. The mark of the Silver Knight.

\"Now,\" says Denethor at last, \"what else shall you need for your road? Aside from good luck.\"

Gratefully accepting these gracious gifts with a slightly bowed head, Doran then drops to one knee. Holding the bundle at his left side, cloak, knife and staff, he says, \"Thank you, lord. You are most kind.\"

Taking the knife from a servant, Maernus nods politely again, muttering a few words of thanks towards the Lord Steward. He examines the knife quickly, before he places it into his belt near the where his baldric lays. He glances at the horn upon his hip, running his hand over it quickly. He stands looking at the horn for many moments, before looking up again to watch the knights.

With inclined brow, Thorondur accepts the knife -- though indeed, it may well have been wrought for Tamran, for the argent upon its sheath is no different from the cool hues of Isil which glitter upon his winged helm. And those Guards don\'t think too highly of themselves, oh no. )

With a simple nod of thanks, Thorondur Girithlin accepts the fair Dagger of Denethor. Into his belt of white leather does he tuck the blade -- the belt of knighthood, and purity -- then looking once more to the Steward, wonders:

\"And so we are grateful for your generous gifts, Your Grace. But will you give us one thing other, a final boon, if I name it?\"

Last, Tamran takes the knife given to him and examines the blade, but not much time does he spend on it, as he is in the presence of the Lord of this land and quickly he puts the knife on his belt, the color of the sheath matching that of his uniform.

\"And what boon is that Thorondur Girithlin?\" asks the Steward of the herald slowly.

\"Your blessing,\" utters the Herald of Imrahil.

Denethor then smiles for a moment as if the sun breaking through old clouds on a grey winter\'s day. He then says, \"So be it. Go forth, and may the blessings of the Lords of the West be with you where ever you shall march. Let the sun shine upon your faces and may no evil find you.\"

Having arisen from where he knelt, Doran listens intently, captivated by these austere words. \"And may we return speedily, having secured the safety of one who will surely be among the strong that will doughtily labour upon the marches of the lord Denethor\'s realm,\" the squire adds.

Denethor smiles at Doran and says, \"You have courteous speech and this is well. Farewell!\"

The doors to the Hall open and the audience with the Steward is now done.