An Unexpected Visit
This story was originally written for the Brothers of Gondor zine last year. I've been waiting for Mettarë (or nearly) to post it! As will be evident, its genesis in the drabble "Gondor's Spring".
Rating: PG
Word count: 4339
Summary: Mithrandir arrives in Minas Tirith just in time to spend Mettarë with the Steward and his family.
An Unexpected Visit
Mettarë, T.A. 3001
The last day of the year dawned cold and clear in Minas Tirith. A thin layer of snow covered the fields as a grey-clad figure made his way across them, leaning as usual upon his faithful staff. When he reached the great city gate, he was challenged briefly by a young sentry; but he gave the password and was permitted to enter.
The city was already stirring. Houses were being swept in preparation for the new year, and the people abroad in the streets were in festive mood. Many of them, recognizing the Grey Pilgrim from his earlier visits, greeted him as "Mithrandir." And he, who had many names, slipped easily into thinking of himself by this one.
He presented himself to the Lord Denethor, whom he found conferring with his chamberlain about making the White Tower ready for the evening's celebration, and requested leave to hunt through the archives for some information that he sought. Seemingly relieved that Mithrandir required nothing greater, Denethor gave his permission readily. After a pause, he added, "I hope you will join us for the Mettarë celebration tonight?"
"I should be delighted," Mithrandir replied gravely. There was a gleam of amusement in his eye which the Steward did not fail to notice.
The documents which Gondor had accumulated over the centuries were housed in a handsome building within the Citadel. Many of them had been rescued from the great archive of Osgiliath. Very little had been lost in the destruction of that city, thanks to the forethought of the archive workers: during the siege, they had carried the most important volumes to underground vaults, where they had escaped damage in the ensuing fire. It was these documents which Mithrandir wished to examine first, for he wanted to begin his search with the earliest days of Gondor's history.
A pleasant-looking woman of middle age led him to a room where shelves, from floor to ceiling, were crammed with books and scrolls in an untidy jumble. Still more scrolls protruded from the tops of wooden crates ranged on the floor and the long wooden tables. "I fear it is somewhat in disarray," she explained apologetically. "The chamber housing these things was damaged in the great storm last summer--a tree branch as thick as a man's waist blew down upon the roof and cracked it in several places. We had to empty the room quickly, before the water ruined everything; we brought it here, but we have not yet been able to set all in order, nor to repair the roof of the chamber."
Mithrandir harrumphed and knitted his formidable eyebrows. "Time was when the lore of Gondor would have been treated with more respect! Things have changed indeed if even Lord Denethor will not spare a few men to repair his storehouse of knowledge."
"He has said it shall be mended as soon as the weather allows," she assured him hastily. "But with so many raids along the river of late, it could not be done sooner. And truly, we did not expect that anyone would ask for these old documents ere then. They are seldom requested."
When she had gone, the wizard made himself comfortable, took up the nearest box of parchments, and began searching methodically through it. The news of the river raids was very interesting, and it strengthened his certainty that he was on to something important. Attempted attacks on the Shire in the north had been increasing also; he had discussed the matter with Strider when they met in Bree shortly after Bilbo's birthday party. They had made plans to hunt for the creature Gollum in the spring. Until then, Mithrandir intended to spend the winter in Minas Tirith and, he hoped, to learn something about Bilbo's ring.
The short winter day passed swiftly. It took time to sift through the documents, for they had been scooped up hastily and mixed together in the rush to carry them to safety. An account of the great plague might be underneath a copy of an edict from King Tarostar, with a list of landholders in Ithilien from several hundred years later beneath that. Mithrandir looked carefully over each page before setting it aside. He missed his pipe, but knew it would be inadvisable to get it out--and not only because of the danger of fire or the need to conserve his pipeweed. The practice was unknown in Gondor, and the smell of pipe smoke was sure to draw complaints.
Quiet reigned in the building, save for some junior archivists chatting about their plans for the evening. That night, the White Tower would be open to all those in the employ of the city or of Gondor, and everyone, down to the lowliest clerk and footsoldier, might come and drink a toast to the new year. As the day waned, Mithrandir became conscious that the young folk were asking each other in whispers whether they ought to tell him that the archive was closing for the day or allow him to remain, since he was a guest of Lord Denethor and so very fierce-looking--and if so, then who should stay behind to lock the door? At last, Mithrandir took pity on their dilemma, set aside his work, and prepared to leave. Though he had learned nothing of use that day, he was not discouraged. He had plenty of time to search.
As he stood to collect his cloak and staff, he heard the door open. From his place, he could not see the visitor; but he heard the archivist give a courteous greeting, followed by the voice of a young man. "Pardon me for coming so late! I promise to be quick, but I must find one thing before you close."
"Of course, my lord," another voice answered, arousing Mithrandir’s interest. He thought he could guess who the visitor was, for he well remembered, from his last visit to the city, a small boy who would come to the archive every day and beg him for tales of his travels. That boy would now be about eighteen years old, he estimated. Stepping around the corner which blocked his view, he examined the figure kneeling before a bookcase near the door.
The youth was lean and long-limbed. Dark hair fell to his shoulders and brushed the embroidered collar of his wine-colored velvet surcoat. He frowned slightly in concentration as he leaned over a heavy book balanced half on his knee, half on the edge of the bookshelf. The distinctive profile left no doubt as to his identity, for not only could Mithrandir see in it traces of the child of several years before, but it bore a startling resemblance to those of his father and brother.
Faramir seemed to find the information he sought, and he closed the book. Then suddenly, as if he felt the gaze upon him, he turned his head. "Mithrandir!" he cried in delight, jumping up to greet the wizard warmly. "I did not know you were in the city! When did you come?"
"I arrived this morning," Mithrandir replied, not displeased at his reception. "I have already seen your father; I am surprised he did not tell you."
Something flickered across Faramir's face. "Ah. I have not spoken much with him today." Changing the subject quickly, he asked, "Will you be at the festivities this evening? If you are going to the White Tower, I will walk with you." He slid his book back onto the shelf, and Mithrandir caught sight of the title in gold letters upon the leather binding: Lives of the Great Generals of Gondor.
"That is not your usual reading," he commented in surprise and some disappointment.
"No, it is not," Faramir agreed with a half-smile as they moved toward the door. "A good Mettarë to you all!" he called to the archivists, and then he and Mithrandir walked into the crisp winter darkness.
Outside, Faramir continued his explanation, his breath making puffs of steam in the cold air. "Last night, my brother and I were trying to remember exactly how the troops were disposed in King Eärnil’s defense of South Ithilien--though of course, he was not king at the time--and how it differed from the battle of 2885. I promised I would look it up when next I passed the archive."
"Do the young men of Gondor think of nothing but war?" Mithrandir growled, half to himself. Perhaps it was not to be wondered at; Minas Tirith was, after all, within sight of the Shadow. In such a place, people thought constantly of danger and praised those who defended their city. Still, the boy he remembered had been a promising student of the arts of peace. It would be a sad loss if he too had learned to prize warfare above all else.
“Alas, sometimes it seems that we must,” Faramir answered ruefully. “But now that you are here, I hope you will teach me about other things, as you used to do! You promised once, long ago, to tell me of the time you visited the Elven havens and saw the harbor where their ships sail for the West.”
The wistfulness of his tone eased Mithrandir’s mind. Perhaps, he reflected, it was not only the need to find information which had brought him to the city this winter instead of searching for Gollum immediately, as he had originally planned. Perhaps some power understood that this young man was in need of his teaching and had directed him here.
"I shall make sure to spare time for that," he promised. "But do you not have duties to attend to?"
"Sometimes," Faramir replied. "If there are more orc-raids, I may be called to go out with the city guard or the Rangers of Ithilien, as my father pleases. He says it is important for me to learn something of the duties of all Gondor's companies. He does the same with Boromir--he is home now for year's end, but I think Father intends him to serve at Cair Andros for a time."
They turned a corner and emerged at the edge of the Court of the Fountain. The paved paths had been swept clean of snow, but an unmarked layer of it covered the grass around the White Tree. The tower doors, standing wide open to welcome guests, flooded the courtyard with warm, golden light. Glittering stars studded the clear night sky. The two men's backs were to the east, shutting out the pitiless Shadow rising there.
Though he had not visited Minas Tirith as often as the north, Mithrandir had walked this path many times before. The first time had been a brilliant spring day when the Tree was in blossom, already an ancient symbol of Gondor then, though still strong and healthy. Its white blossoms were each the size of a man's fist, their perfume strong enough to fill the Citadel and yet delicate enough not to cloy even when one paused beside the fountain, as he and Faramir did now. Water played around the base of the Tree despite the cold weather, for it was warmed deep underground before emerging here.
Faramir gazed at the bare branches furred with a coating of snow, and a smile played about his lips. "I like the Tree best in winter," he commented in a soft voice.
Surprised, Mithrandir asked, "And why is that?"
"Because now it does not seem dead, for other trees are just as bare. It looks as if it might be only sleeping, gathering strength to flower again in spring."
It seemed only a daydream, and yet, Mithrandir had learned in his long life never to call anything impossible. "Would you like to see that?"
"Yes," Faramir answered simply and without hesitation. "More than anything. It must have been beautiful."
"It was," said Mithrandir, almost to himself. Faramir glanced at him oddly, as if intending to question him, but was interrupted by a shout from the door.
Boromir was striding toward them, clad in a coat of deep blue over a fine linen shirt. As he had already been a teenager on Mithrandir's last visit, his features had not changed much in the intervening time. They had matured and become more defined, however, and his air of easy authority had deepened. He nodded courteously to Mithrandir, but his first words were for his brother. "There are you are, Faramir! Father is calling for you inside. He wishes to see you immediately."
Faramir stiffened very slightly. "Then I had best not keep him waiting," he answered quickly. "I will see you both at the celebration." He bowed and hurried into the tower.
"Has he displeased his father?" Mithrandir asked, watching him go.
There was a short pause as Boromir seemed to consider how best to answer. Though he was always civil, he had never truly warmed to Mithrandir, who suspected that Denethor had taught Boromir to mistrust him. Why the lesson had not extended to Faramir, the wizard could not guess; he was only grateful that it had not.
"Father's mind has been much burdened with cares of state these past months," Boromir said at last. "Faramir tells me he spends long hours shut up in the tower, devising strategies against the enemy. It has made him difficult to please." He gestured toward the door. "Come, I will escort you."
He turned to go, but Mithrandir remained for a moment. On an impulse, he asked, "And what do you think of the White Tree? Would you like to see it in flower?"
Boromir glanced back over his shoulder. "Yes, certainly," he responded without enthusiasm. "But that is impossible, of course. It is only a reminder of the days of the kings, and they will not come again."
"Unless the king should return," Mithrandir pointed out.
Boromir shrugged slightly. "True. But I will concern myself with that when I see it."
They walked to the great feasting-hall in the tower, where all was made ready for the evening's festivities. The room blazed with light from three chandeliers filled with white candles. In one corner, a minstrel was tuning his harp. Nearby, Denethor stood talking with the captain of the Citadel Guard, who had arrived early. Two long sideboards were laid with trays of sweet and savory confections, preserved fruit, and cheeses. An immense silver bowl filled with hot, spiced wine occupied its own table in the center of the room.
In the days of the kings, the celebrations had been more elaborate, including a full meal and lasting well into the next day. Though these were darker and leaner times, the Stewards continued the tradition as best they could. Perhaps that very darkness made the celebration all the more important.
By tradition, the children of the ruling house would serve wine to the guests. Faramir had already taken his place, and he presented Mithrandir with a steaming cup drawn from the bowl. Boromir now joined him and began ladling wine into more cups, arranging them in a neat row like soldiers on parade. The minstrel struck up a sweet, plaintive air as a thin stream of guests began to trickle into the hall. Mithrandir stepped aside so that the newcomers might take their turn.
All through the evening, they came. Some would stay until midnight; others came only briefly to pay their respects before hurrying off to other gatherings with family or friends. There were clerks from the scribing-houses, archivists from the house of lore, messengers of the Citadel, and those who tended their horses. Officers and men-at-arms came, the sentries in rotation so as not to leave their posts unguarded. The Guards of the Citadel came in their splendid black coats embroidered with the silver crown; each removed his helmet of bright mithril as he entered and tucked it under one arm before accepting a cup of wine.
Mithrandir watched the procession of faces: old and young, men and women, high and low. Some were known to him from his previous visits, and many of them came to offer him greetings and good wishes for the new year. Others were unfamiliar, and those he sought out to make their acquaintance, for he went everywhere and saw everyone.
He had learned late to love this city and its people. When first he visited Gondor, he had thought the people overproud, too much concerned with their own power and consequence. At that time, he had been content to leave Gondor in the capable hands of Curunír and spend the bulk of his own time in the north, where his aid seemed both more needed and more welcome. But the people who dwelt here now were different. The more they had struggled against the Shadow, the brighter they had become. Those here tonight knew that their cause might be hopeless, that they might be the last generation to stand against Sauron, and this brought them sadness; but they had vowed to do so with all the strength and courage they possessed, and this brought them peace.
Boromir and Faramir served each guest with courtesy, receiving many smiles in return. It was clear that the brothers were very popular in the city. An image floated before Mithrandir's eyes of young Denethor at another Mettarë celebration more than fifty years earlier, serving the wine politely with a solemn face and a faint air of wishing to be elsewhere. People had been rather awed by him despite his youth; toward his sons, they seemed more familiar, even affectionate.
Boromir, especially, was receiving warm congratulations from many of the guests. He had recently led his company to their first notable victory, Mithrandir gathered from the talk flying about the room. An armsmaster from one of the training halls in the First Circle seemed particularly interested and stayed by Boromir's side for several minutes to press him for details. Boromir readily answered his questions while taking clean cups from a tray and, without looking, passing them backward to Faramir. Matching his pace, Faramir filled each cup with a smooth sweep of the ladle, set it down, and turned back for the next. They continued in this way until another guest entered, and then Faramir gently pushed Boromir's hand back before offering a cup to the newcomer.
As midnight drew closer, the cooks and scullery-maids came from the kitchens to share in the celebration they had prepared. The minstrel, too, set down his harp and partook of some food and wine. An air of expectancy fell over the room. Voices lowered almost to whispers as people began to listen for the bell-stroke that would announce the turning of the year.
And then it came, a silvery-clear chime resounding through the Citadel. All fell silent as the Lord Denethor stepped to the center of the room to make the two toasts which tradition dictated must be completed before the bell finished ringing. He lifted his cup to those gathered around him. "To those who serve the Tower, to those who serve the city, and to those who serve our land," he recited. The guests stood still while their Steward drank to them, their faces at once solemn and joyous. Another year has passed, and we have endured, they seemed to say. Another year we have remained steadfast in exile. Another year we have stood against the Shadow.
Then Denethor raised his cup higher and called out in a clear voice, "To the new year!"
"To the new year!" the guests repeated as one, and drank.
As the last strokes of the bell tolled, each person then offered a toast to those nearby. Conversation began to hum again as good wishes were exchanged. Mithrandir found himself toasting the young sentry who had admitted him to the city that morning, whose name, he had since learned, was Ingold. He saw Denethor touch his wine-cup first to Boromir's and then Faramir's. A look passed between the father and younger son then, and though they said nothing, Mithrandir knew that both had laid aside their differences in the spirit of the new year.
Faramir then turned to toast Boromir, and Mithrandir caught Denethor's eye. With a faint smile, he lifted his cup to the Steward. After a moment's pause, Denethor returned the gesture. Although there had never been trust between them, for tonight, there was truce.
The toasts marked the end of the celebration. Soon afterward, the guests began to drift away. Mithrandir made his way out of the Tower and stopped in the courtyard, leaning upon his staff. Departing guests called out the traditional greeting--"A good Yestarë and a good year!"--to each other, their voices ringing sharp and clear in the frosty air. Light sparkled on the snow lying around the White Tree and coating its branches. It was not difficult to imagine the beginnings of buds sleeping under the snow, waiting to swell at the sun's touch. Mithrandir smiled.
There were footsteps behind him, and then Lord Denethor was beside him. "What makes you smile so?" His tone was unusually mild, almost companionable.
Caught up in the mood of the night, Mithrandir chose to answer that question with another. "Tell me, Lord Denethor," he asked merrily as he turned to face the Steward, "should you like to see the White Tree in flower?"
"Why do you ask?" Wariness leapt into Denthor's eyes.
"No reason," Mithrandir replied a little sadly. There seemed no point in spoiling the fragile peace between them. He ought to have realized that Denethor would interpret the question as a challenge, for a flowering Tree in this court could only mean a king on the throne.
Denethor raised one eyebrow, but left it at that.
Boromir had made the connection too, Mithrandir reflected, though he clearly considered kings to belong only to the pages of lorebooks. But Faramir...had he stopped to think of the meaning of his words, their significance for his family? Did he see in the Tree a hope for the future, or was he wishing for the return of the past? Mithrandir found himself growing intrigued. Yes, he would have to make time to speak with Faramir, to get to know the young man he had become.
The brothers emerged from the Tower just then. After they had wished Mithrandir a good Yestarë, Faramir hesitantly addressed Denethor. "Father, I was thinking--as tomorrow is a holiday--perhaps Mithrandir might dine with us?"
Mithrandir glanced at Denethor, trying to read whether his good humor persisted. Denethor’s face remained impassive, but he inclined his head and answered, "Very well."
The silver chime struck the half-hour, reminding them that it was time they were abed. The small party started toward their respective lodgings, which lay in the same direction. Rather surprisingly, Boromir hung back with Mithrandir, allowing Faramir and Denethor to walk on ahead side by side.
Pehaps Boromir too was affected by the mood of the night. Perhaps the lateness of the hour loosened his tongue. Or perhaps he had drunk too much wine, though that seemed unlikely. Whatever the reason, Mithrandir would later remember this as one of the greatest moments of openness between him and Denethor's elder son.
"I am glad to see peace between them again," Boromir confessed in a rush, looking after his father and brother. "Their discords are slower to mend than they once were." As if feeling he had spoken too freely, he looked away, fixing his gaze on the White Tree. Mithrandir waited patiently, saying nothing.
After a few seconds' pause, Boromir spoke again. "When I was a child, I wondered sometimes why no one took the White Tree away, for it was dead. But when my mother died, I came to understand why they left it here--as a reminder of how things once were, for it makes the loss seem less complete. The people of Gondor keep this tree in remembrance of the days of the kings, just as Isildur planted it to remember his brother Anárion." He looked again to where Faramir and Denethor walked, and Mithrandir knew that he wondered if he too would be left one day with only memories of a brother. Boromir sighed. "They fought against Sauron and believed him destroyed, but he returned, and he will never be satisfied until we are destroyed...."
Mithrandir risked laying a hand on the young man's shoulder. "We are none of us granted to know the future," he said gravely. "Even those gifted with what is called foresight only see small glimpses, and dimly at that. But that is as much a blessing as a curse, for it gives us hope. Let us hope that Gondor may know peace one day soon."
Boromir nodded, seeming to pull himself together, as if he had only just realized to whom he had been speaking. "That is easy to do on such a night as this," he returned with a half-smile. His guard was up again; there would be no more confidences tonight.
Still, Mithrandir thought, it had been a most surprising evening.
The new year stretched before them all with endless possibilities for good or ill. Things might change in ways that no one could now foresee, or they might change very little. In another year’s time, Sauron might have arisen or been defeated. Gondor might have a king again, or it might be conquered. Or perhaps things would be much the same as they were tonight. All of Mithrandir's wisdom and experience could not tell him what would happen. As he had told Boromir, none could know the future.
Some things, however, seemed likely. Tomorrow he would dine with Denethor and his sons; the next day he would return to the archive. If he found out nothing about Bilbo's ring this winter, then perhaps he and Strider might learn something from Gollum in the spring. Beyond that, it was difficult to say.
But Mithrandir was sure of one thing: before he retired for the night, he intended to have a good smoke.
***
Author's notes: Gandalf knowing the passwords of the seven gates of Minas Tirith is a detail mentioned by Ingold in Book V, chapter 1. The idea for the Mettarë celebration was suggested in part by the custom of military officers serving the enlisted men during the Christmas season in some parts of the world, which was brought to my attention by Roh_wyn.
I would like to thank all who offered suggestions and talked this story over with me, but especially Lilan, whose patience for listening to me ramble is enormous. Finally, I would also like to thank Eru that I was able to finish the story!
Rating: PG
Word count: 4339
Summary: Mithrandir arrives in Minas Tirith just in time to spend Mettarë with the Steward and his family.
An Unexpected Visit
Mettarë, T.A. 3001
The last day of the year dawned cold and clear in Minas Tirith. A thin layer of snow covered the fields as a grey-clad figure made his way across them, leaning as usual upon his faithful staff. When he reached the great city gate, he was challenged briefly by a young sentry; but he gave the password and was permitted to enter.
The city was already stirring. Houses were being swept in preparation for the new year, and the people abroad in the streets were in festive mood. Many of them, recognizing the Grey Pilgrim from his earlier visits, greeted him as "Mithrandir." And he, who had many names, slipped easily into thinking of himself by this one.
He presented himself to the Lord Denethor, whom he found conferring with his chamberlain about making the White Tower ready for the evening's celebration, and requested leave to hunt through the archives for some information that he sought. Seemingly relieved that Mithrandir required nothing greater, Denethor gave his permission readily. After a pause, he added, "I hope you will join us for the Mettarë celebration tonight?"
"I should be delighted," Mithrandir replied gravely. There was a gleam of amusement in his eye which the Steward did not fail to notice.
The documents which Gondor had accumulated over the centuries were housed in a handsome building within the Citadel. Many of them had been rescued from the great archive of Osgiliath. Very little had been lost in the destruction of that city, thanks to the forethought of the archive workers: during the siege, they had carried the most important volumes to underground vaults, where they had escaped damage in the ensuing fire. It was these documents which Mithrandir wished to examine first, for he wanted to begin his search with the earliest days of Gondor's history.
A pleasant-looking woman of middle age led him to a room where shelves, from floor to ceiling, were crammed with books and scrolls in an untidy jumble. Still more scrolls protruded from the tops of wooden crates ranged on the floor and the long wooden tables. "I fear it is somewhat in disarray," she explained apologetically. "The chamber housing these things was damaged in the great storm last summer--a tree branch as thick as a man's waist blew down upon the roof and cracked it in several places. We had to empty the room quickly, before the water ruined everything; we brought it here, but we have not yet been able to set all in order, nor to repair the roof of the chamber."
Mithrandir harrumphed and knitted his formidable eyebrows. "Time was when the lore of Gondor would have been treated with more respect! Things have changed indeed if even Lord Denethor will not spare a few men to repair his storehouse of knowledge."
"He has said it shall be mended as soon as the weather allows," she assured him hastily. "But with so many raids along the river of late, it could not be done sooner. And truly, we did not expect that anyone would ask for these old documents ere then. They are seldom requested."
When she had gone, the wizard made himself comfortable, took up the nearest box of parchments, and began searching methodically through it. The news of the river raids was very interesting, and it strengthened his certainty that he was on to something important. Attempted attacks on the Shire in the north had been increasing also; he had discussed the matter with Strider when they met in Bree shortly after Bilbo's birthday party. They had made plans to hunt for the creature Gollum in the spring. Until then, Mithrandir intended to spend the winter in Minas Tirith and, he hoped, to learn something about Bilbo's ring.
The short winter day passed swiftly. It took time to sift through the documents, for they had been scooped up hastily and mixed together in the rush to carry them to safety. An account of the great plague might be underneath a copy of an edict from King Tarostar, with a list of landholders in Ithilien from several hundred years later beneath that. Mithrandir looked carefully over each page before setting it aside. He missed his pipe, but knew it would be inadvisable to get it out--and not only because of the danger of fire or the need to conserve his pipeweed. The practice was unknown in Gondor, and the smell of pipe smoke was sure to draw complaints.
Quiet reigned in the building, save for some junior archivists chatting about their plans for the evening. That night, the White Tower would be open to all those in the employ of the city or of Gondor, and everyone, down to the lowliest clerk and footsoldier, might come and drink a toast to the new year. As the day waned, Mithrandir became conscious that the young folk were asking each other in whispers whether they ought to tell him that the archive was closing for the day or allow him to remain, since he was a guest of Lord Denethor and so very fierce-looking--and if so, then who should stay behind to lock the door? At last, Mithrandir took pity on their dilemma, set aside his work, and prepared to leave. Though he had learned nothing of use that day, he was not discouraged. He had plenty of time to search.
As he stood to collect his cloak and staff, he heard the door open. From his place, he could not see the visitor; but he heard the archivist give a courteous greeting, followed by the voice of a young man. "Pardon me for coming so late! I promise to be quick, but I must find one thing before you close."
"Of course, my lord," another voice answered, arousing Mithrandir’s interest. He thought he could guess who the visitor was, for he well remembered, from his last visit to the city, a small boy who would come to the archive every day and beg him for tales of his travels. That boy would now be about eighteen years old, he estimated. Stepping around the corner which blocked his view, he examined the figure kneeling before a bookcase near the door.
The youth was lean and long-limbed. Dark hair fell to his shoulders and brushed the embroidered collar of his wine-colored velvet surcoat. He frowned slightly in concentration as he leaned over a heavy book balanced half on his knee, half on the edge of the bookshelf. The distinctive profile left no doubt as to his identity, for not only could Mithrandir see in it traces of the child of several years before, but it bore a startling resemblance to those of his father and brother.
Faramir seemed to find the information he sought, and he closed the book. Then suddenly, as if he felt the gaze upon him, he turned his head. "Mithrandir!" he cried in delight, jumping up to greet the wizard warmly. "I did not know you were in the city! When did you come?"
"I arrived this morning," Mithrandir replied, not displeased at his reception. "I have already seen your father; I am surprised he did not tell you."
Something flickered across Faramir's face. "Ah. I have not spoken much with him today." Changing the subject quickly, he asked, "Will you be at the festivities this evening? If you are going to the White Tower, I will walk with you." He slid his book back onto the shelf, and Mithrandir caught sight of the title in gold letters upon the leather binding: Lives of the Great Generals of Gondor.
"That is not your usual reading," he commented in surprise and some disappointment.
"No, it is not," Faramir agreed with a half-smile as they moved toward the door. "A good Mettarë to you all!" he called to the archivists, and then he and Mithrandir walked into the crisp winter darkness.
Outside, Faramir continued his explanation, his breath making puffs of steam in the cold air. "Last night, my brother and I were trying to remember exactly how the troops were disposed in King Eärnil’s defense of South Ithilien--though of course, he was not king at the time--and how it differed from the battle of 2885. I promised I would look it up when next I passed the archive."
"Do the young men of Gondor think of nothing but war?" Mithrandir growled, half to himself. Perhaps it was not to be wondered at; Minas Tirith was, after all, within sight of the Shadow. In such a place, people thought constantly of danger and praised those who defended their city. Still, the boy he remembered had been a promising student of the arts of peace. It would be a sad loss if he too had learned to prize warfare above all else.
“Alas, sometimes it seems that we must,” Faramir answered ruefully. “But now that you are here, I hope you will teach me about other things, as you used to do! You promised once, long ago, to tell me of the time you visited the Elven havens and saw the harbor where their ships sail for the West.”
The wistfulness of his tone eased Mithrandir’s mind. Perhaps, he reflected, it was not only the need to find information which had brought him to the city this winter instead of searching for Gollum immediately, as he had originally planned. Perhaps some power understood that this young man was in need of his teaching and had directed him here.
"I shall make sure to spare time for that," he promised. "But do you not have duties to attend to?"
"Sometimes," Faramir replied. "If there are more orc-raids, I may be called to go out with the city guard or the Rangers of Ithilien, as my father pleases. He says it is important for me to learn something of the duties of all Gondor's companies. He does the same with Boromir--he is home now for year's end, but I think Father intends him to serve at Cair Andros for a time."
They turned a corner and emerged at the edge of the Court of the Fountain. The paved paths had been swept clean of snow, but an unmarked layer of it covered the grass around the White Tree. The tower doors, standing wide open to welcome guests, flooded the courtyard with warm, golden light. Glittering stars studded the clear night sky. The two men's backs were to the east, shutting out the pitiless Shadow rising there.
Though he had not visited Minas Tirith as often as the north, Mithrandir had walked this path many times before. The first time had been a brilliant spring day when the Tree was in blossom, already an ancient symbol of Gondor then, though still strong and healthy. Its white blossoms were each the size of a man's fist, their perfume strong enough to fill the Citadel and yet delicate enough not to cloy even when one paused beside the fountain, as he and Faramir did now. Water played around the base of the Tree despite the cold weather, for it was warmed deep underground before emerging here.
Faramir gazed at the bare branches furred with a coating of snow, and a smile played about his lips. "I like the Tree best in winter," he commented in a soft voice.
Surprised, Mithrandir asked, "And why is that?"
"Because now it does not seem dead, for other trees are just as bare. It looks as if it might be only sleeping, gathering strength to flower again in spring."
It seemed only a daydream, and yet, Mithrandir had learned in his long life never to call anything impossible. "Would you like to see that?"
"Yes," Faramir answered simply and without hesitation. "More than anything. It must have been beautiful."
"It was," said Mithrandir, almost to himself. Faramir glanced at him oddly, as if intending to question him, but was interrupted by a shout from the door.
Boromir was striding toward them, clad in a coat of deep blue over a fine linen shirt. As he had already been a teenager on Mithrandir's last visit, his features had not changed much in the intervening time. They had matured and become more defined, however, and his air of easy authority had deepened. He nodded courteously to Mithrandir, but his first words were for his brother. "There are you are, Faramir! Father is calling for you inside. He wishes to see you immediately."
Faramir stiffened very slightly. "Then I had best not keep him waiting," he answered quickly. "I will see you both at the celebration." He bowed and hurried into the tower.
"Has he displeased his father?" Mithrandir asked, watching him go.
There was a short pause as Boromir seemed to consider how best to answer. Though he was always civil, he had never truly warmed to Mithrandir, who suspected that Denethor had taught Boromir to mistrust him. Why the lesson had not extended to Faramir, the wizard could not guess; he was only grateful that it had not.
"Father's mind has been much burdened with cares of state these past months," Boromir said at last. "Faramir tells me he spends long hours shut up in the tower, devising strategies against the enemy. It has made him difficult to please." He gestured toward the door. "Come, I will escort you."
He turned to go, but Mithrandir remained for a moment. On an impulse, he asked, "And what do you think of the White Tree? Would you like to see it in flower?"
Boromir glanced back over his shoulder. "Yes, certainly," he responded without enthusiasm. "But that is impossible, of course. It is only a reminder of the days of the kings, and they will not come again."
"Unless the king should return," Mithrandir pointed out.
Boromir shrugged slightly. "True. But I will concern myself with that when I see it."
They walked to the great feasting-hall in the tower, where all was made ready for the evening's festivities. The room blazed with light from three chandeliers filled with white candles. In one corner, a minstrel was tuning his harp. Nearby, Denethor stood talking with the captain of the Citadel Guard, who had arrived early. Two long sideboards were laid with trays of sweet and savory confections, preserved fruit, and cheeses. An immense silver bowl filled with hot, spiced wine occupied its own table in the center of the room.
In the days of the kings, the celebrations had been more elaborate, including a full meal and lasting well into the next day. Though these were darker and leaner times, the Stewards continued the tradition as best they could. Perhaps that very darkness made the celebration all the more important.
By tradition, the children of the ruling house would serve wine to the guests. Faramir had already taken his place, and he presented Mithrandir with a steaming cup drawn from the bowl. Boromir now joined him and began ladling wine into more cups, arranging them in a neat row like soldiers on parade. The minstrel struck up a sweet, plaintive air as a thin stream of guests began to trickle into the hall. Mithrandir stepped aside so that the newcomers might take their turn.
All through the evening, they came. Some would stay until midnight; others came only briefly to pay their respects before hurrying off to other gatherings with family or friends. There were clerks from the scribing-houses, archivists from the house of lore, messengers of the Citadel, and those who tended their horses. Officers and men-at-arms came, the sentries in rotation so as not to leave their posts unguarded. The Guards of the Citadel came in their splendid black coats embroidered with the silver crown; each removed his helmet of bright mithril as he entered and tucked it under one arm before accepting a cup of wine.
Mithrandir watched the procession of faces: old and young, men and women, high and low. Some were known to him from his previous visits, and many of them came to offer him greetings and good wishes for the new year. Others were unfamiliar, and those he sought out to make their acquaintance, for he went everywhere and saw everyone.
He had learned late to love this city and its people. When first he visited Gondor, he had thought the people overproud, too much concerned with their own power and consequence. At that time, he had been content to leave Gondor in the capable hands of Curunír and spend the bulk of his own time in the north, where his aid seemed both more needed and more welcome. But the people who dwelt here now were different. The more they had struggled against the Shadow, the brighter they had become. Those here tonight knew that their cause might be hopeless, that they might be the last generation to stand against Sauron, and this brought them sadness; but they had vowed to do so with all the strength and courage they possessed, and this brought them peace.
Boromir and Faramir served each guest with courtesy, receiving many smiles in return. It was clear that the brothers were very popular in the city. An image floated before Mithrandir's eyes of young Denethor at another Mettarë celebration more than fifty years earlier, serving the wine politely with a solemn face and a faint air of wishing to be elsewhere. People had been rather awed by him despite his youth; toward his sons, they seemed more familiar, even affectionate.
Boromir, especially, was receiving warm congratulations from many of the guests. He had recently led his company to their first notable victory, Mithrandir gathered from the talk flying about the room. An armsmaster from one of the training halls in the First Circle seemed particularly interested and stayed by Boromir's side for several minutes to press him for details. Boromir readily answered his questions while taking clean cups from a tray and, without looking, passing them backward to Faramir. Matching his pace, Faramir filled each cup with a smooth sweep of the ladle, set it down, and turned back for the next. They continued in this way until another guest entered, and then Faramir gently pushed Boromir's hand back before offering a cup to the newcomer.
As midnight drew closer, the cooks and scullery-maids came from the kitchens to share in the celebration they had prepared. The minstrel, too, set down his harp and partook of some food and wine. An air of expectancy fell over the room. Voices lowered almost to whispers as people began to listen for the bell-stroke that would announce the turning of the year.
And then it came, a silvery-clear chime resounding through the Citadel. All fell silent as the Lord Denethor stepped to the center of the room to make the two toasts which tradition dictated must be completed before the bell finished ringing. He lifted his cup to those gathered around him. "To those who serve the Tower, to those who serve the city, and to those who serve our land," he recited. The guests stood still while their Steward drank to them, their faces at once solemn and joyous. Another year has passed, and we have endured, they seemed to say. Another year we have remained steadfast in exile. Another year we have stood against the Shadow.
Then Denethor raised his cup higher and called out in a clear voice, "To the new year!"
"To the new year!" the guests repeated as one, and drank.
As the last strokes of the bell tolled, each person then offered a toast to those nearby. Conversation began to hum again as good wishes were exchanged. Mithrandir found himself toasting the young sentry who had admitted him to the city that morning, whose name, he had since learned, was Ingold. He saw Denethor touch his wine-cup first to Boromir's and then Faramir's. A look passed between the father and younger son then, and though they said nothing, Mithrandir knew that both had laid aside their differences in the spirit of the new year.
Faramir then turned to toast Boromir, and Mithrandir caught Denethor's eye. With a faint smile, he lifted his cup to the Steward. After a moment's pause, Denethor returned the gesture. Although there had never been trust between them, for tonight, there was truce.
The toasts marked the end of the celebration. Soon afterward, the guests began to drift away. Mithrandir made his way out of the Tower and stopped in the courtyard, leaning upon his staff. Departing guests called out the traditional greeting--"A good Yestarë and a good year!"--to each other, their voices ringing sharp and clear in the frosty air. Light sparkled on the snow lying around the White Tree and coating its branches. It was not difficult to imagine the beginnings of buds sleeping under the snow, waiting to swell at the sun's touch. Mithrandir smiled.
There were footsteps behind him, and then Lord Denethor was beside him. "What makes you smile so?" His tone was unusually mild, almost companionable.
Caught up in the mood of the night, Mithrandir chose to answer that question with another. "Tell me, Lord Denethor," he asked merrily as he turned to face the Steward, "should you like to see the White Tree in flower?"
"Why do you ask?" Wariness leapt into Denthor's eyes.
"No reason," Mithrandir replied a little sadly. There seemed no point in spoiling the fragile peace between them. He ought to have realized that Denethor would interpret the question as a challenge, for a flowering Tree in this court could only mean a king on the throne.
Denethor raised one eyebrow, but left it at that.
Boromir had made the connection too, Mithrandir reflected, though he clearly considered kings to belong only to the pages of lorebooks. But Faramir...had he stopped to think of the meaning of his words, their significance for his family? Did he see in the Tree a hope for the future, or was he wishing for the return of the past? Mithrandir found himself growing intrigued. Yes, he would have to make time to speak with Faramir, to get to know the young man he had become.
The brothers emerged from the Tower just then. After they had wished Mithrandir a good Yestarë, Faramir hesitantly addressed Denethor. "Father, I was thinking--as tomorrow is a holiday--perhaps Mithrandir might dine with us?"
Mithrandir glanced at Denethor, trying to read whether his good humor persisted. Denethor’s face remained impassive, but he inclined his head and answered, "Very well."
The silver chime struck the half-hour, reminding them that it was time they were abed. The small party started toward their respective lodgings, which lay in the same direction. Rather surprisingly, Boromir hung back with Mithrandir, allowing Faramir and Denethor to walk on ahead side by side.
Pehaps Boromir too was affected by the mood of the night. Perhaps the lateness of the hour loosened his tongue. Or perhaps he had drunk too much wine, though that seemed unlikely. Whatever the reason, Mithrandir would later remember this as one of the greatest moments of openness between him and Denethor's elder son.
"I am glad to see peace between them again," Boromir confessed in a rush, looking after his father and brother. "Their discords are slower to mend than they once were." As if feeling he had spoken too freely, he looked away, fixing his gaze on the White Tree. Mithrandir waited patiently, saying nothing.
After a few seconds' pause, Boromir spoke again. "When I was a child, I wondered sometimes why no one took the White Tree away, for it was dead. But when my mother died, I came to understand why they left it here--as a reminder of how things once were, for it makes the loss seem less complete. The people of Gondor keep this tree in remembrance of the days of the kings, just as Isildur planted it to remember his brother Anárion." He looked again to where Faramir and Denethor walked, and Mithrandir knew that he wondered if he too would be left one day with only memories of a brother. Boromir sighed. "They fought against Sauron and believed him destroyed, but he returned, and he will never be satisfied until we are destroyed...."
Mithrandir risked laying a hand on the young man's shoulder. "We are none of us granted to know the future," he said gravely. "Even those gifted with what is called foresight only see small glimpses, and dimly at that. But that is as much a blessing as a curse, for it gives us hope. Let us hope that Gondor may know peace one day soon."
Boromir nodded, seeming to pull himself together, as if he had only just realized to whom he had been speaking. "That is easy to do on such a night as this," he returned with a half-smile. His guard was up again; there would be no more confidences tonight.
Still, Mithrandir thought, it had been a most surprising evening.
The new year stretched before them all with endless possibilities for good or ill. Things might change in ways that no one could now foresee, or they might change very little. In another year’s time, Sauron might have arisen or been defeated. Gondor might have a king again, or it might be conquered. Or perhaps things would be much the same as they were tonight. All of Mithrandir's wisdom and experience could not tell him what would happen. As he had told Boromir, none could know the future.
Some things, however, seemed likely. Tomorrow he would dine with Denethor and his sons; the next day he would return to the archive. If he found out nothing about Bilbo's ring this winter, then perhaps he and Strider might learn something from Gollum in the spring. Beyond that, it was difficult to say.
But Mithrandir was sure of one thing: before he retired for the night, he intended to have a good smoke.
***
Author's notes: Gandalf knowing the passwords of the seven gates of Minas Tirith is a detail mentioned by Ingold in Book V, chapter 1. The idea for the Mettarë celebration was suggested in part by the custom of military officers serving the enlisted men during the Christmas season in some parts of the world, which was brought to my attention by Roh_wyn.
I would like to thank all who offered suggestions and talked this story over with me, but especially Lilan, whose patience for listening to me ramble is enormous. Finally, I would also like to thank Eru that I was able to finish the story!