A Taste of Diplomacy

He was walking near the library, tugging to adjust a clasp at his neck. He appeared to be clothed in one of his most officious cloaks; silver lined with blood-red silk. Two of his father's ministers passed him and he bowed to them, then continued on in their opposite directions. Was he late? He hastened his steps, his boots making satisfying thuds against the white marble.

He looked at his hands. On his right ring finger was a wide band, set with a milky stone. As he passed a window, the gem lit up, and he stopped. Captivated by it, he stood in the streaming shaft of sunlight, turning his hand from side to side, admiring the shock of colours hidden in the cabochon.

Late! He was late! Of course- it was the wedding of Thengel, an officer in his father's army. He rushed from the window and ran smack into a child.

"Out of my way!" he yelled, then stopped. No child had a beard. What was this?

The bearded child growled something guttural at him, and pointed at the ring on his hand.

"What?"

He was so confused.


***



Denethor tapped unfocusedly at the egg in its silver holder, then put his spoon down to take a drink of juice from a small goblet.

"Is something the matter?" Iolande's worried voice carried across the table. "You have barely touched your breakfast."

He looked up at her and smiled. "No, mother. I had a very vivid dream last night, but now it has escaped me. All I remember are wisps of images. I know I was late to something. And I had a ring." He looked down at his bare fingers, then shook his head. "You know me. My dreams are sometimes so real that I think I have lived them in truth."

His father Ecthelion looked up from his plate. "Know this in truth; we have a wedding to attend at sundown, in Lossarnach. Our carriage will depart in early afternoon, from the second level of the city. And you are absolutely forbidden to be late."

"Thengel, sir?"

"Yes. To Morwen, of Lossarnach. Quite an age difference, there, but I am not one to meddle in such affairs."

His normally stern father smiled warmly at his mother. "I know that I chose well, and I hope the same for him." He rested his fork on the linen tablecovering. "It does trouble me that King Fengel of Rohan will not be in attendance. Thengel has been with us for many years, it is true, but I did not think that he had sundered all ties to his home." Looking pensive, he dabbed at his coppery beard with his napkin. "We may well need the assistance of the Rohirrim in the years to come."

Denethor leaned forward to retrieve a triangle of toast from a silver paten, then smeared a healthy swath of butter on it. Munching, he waited for his father to continue. Silence drifted down the table until Denethor looked up from his bread to see two pair of eyes on him, one exasperated, the other temperedly tolerant.

"Chew with your mouth closed."

Denethor clamped his lips together and swallowed. Hard.


***


The ceremony itself was relatively brief. Denethor had been most interested in seeing parts of Gondor that he had viewed only a very few times prior. Lossarnach was nothing like the beautiful city of Dol Amroth, with its expansive bay, unending blue waters and almost foreign-looking architecture. When they had visited, Ecthelion had explained that there was an Elvish presence there which had remained for ages, and that was what caused the hair on his skin to stand on end when he looked at the harbour. Well, his father had not said exactly that, but it was how Denethor understood it. The castle looking out over the endless sea was old, very old, and the line of Princes who had ruled it were said still to carry some of the blood of the deathless in their line.

If Dol Amroth was regal and reflective of beautiful ancient mysteries, Lossarnach was its opposite. Utilitarian buildings, children and animals running amok, many of the roads dirt tracks, not even cobbled with ever-plentiful rock, leading off into farms and abundant orchards.

Denethor had been surprised at how tall the woman was that the officer married; she towered over him by at least half a head. Then again, Thengel was shorter than most in his father's army, and with his bright gold hair unbound so that it fell halfway down his back, he looked positively like a well-dressed savage. Until Denethor heard him speak. As the prince of Rohan further forsook his heritage by slowly announcing his intent of marriage, Denethor found himself reeling. The officer uttered the words in near-perfect Westron, though there was a lingering accent in the way he rolled his "r"s. But the deep baritone came as a shock to him. All of a sudden he knew that this was not a man to be underestimated, and he should pay far more attention to the emotions belied in the speech of those around him, rather than the expressions that played on their faces.

Afterwards, he sampled the delightful foods that Morwen's father had provided for those attending the nuptials. Tropical fruits and delightful chocolates, and a gooey sweet spread he had never before tasted. Luckily he overheard Thengel say that they were fig preserves, a foodstuff that grew commonly in southern Rohan. As Denethor bowed to Morwen and gave his congratulations, upon seeing her up close, he knew all of a sudden that she simply must be related lineage to the Princes of Dol Amroth. A quick query to his father confirmed this, and made the match seem all the more perplexing to him. "But why him, father?" he asked, tugging ungraciously on his robe until a searing glance and hissed comment of, "Hair out of your eyes!" sent him off to look for another companion, tugging his long fringe behind his ears as he went.

Morwen was the oldest of many siblings, and soon Denethor was grudgingly, but then with increasing enthusiasm, drawn into a fort-building project of sorts with a girl around his age. They clustered together some of the chairs on the fringe of the festivities, and the girl, Brianna, brought out some cloths from inside the house to provide a roof and walls. They made an entrance flap and a hidden corridor with an escape route into the hedge behind the house, for good measure. Brianna had just gone to retrieve some sweetmeats from the table to be put in the makeshift kitchen when Denethor heard the man from Rohan speaking to his father.

"You had best keep an eye on him, Ecthelion. That son of yours is already building his own empire!"

Denethor grinned.


***


"Elbow up, Master Denethor! Up! No, don't flap like a bird. Keep your arm straight."

Bograd was certainly forcing Denethor through his paces on the hot afternoon following Captain Thengel's wedding. The swordmaster took Denethor to task for every kinetic mistake, but his praise, when offered, meant all the more given its rarity.

"Again, Denethor."

Denethor grunted in agreement, taking a stance with his sword perpendicular to the ground, his knees slightly bent. After blowing a puff of air upward in a neverending battle with the hair that hung in his eyes, he parried a few well-paced strokes against the older man but soon found that he was on the defense.

"Master Denethor! Bograd!" One of the Steward's advisors stood in the entryway to the upper level armoury and practicing quadrangle, his authoritative voice ringing over the clash of metal.

Denethor paused, regaining his balance and breathing heavily, then stepped back from the swordmaster.

"Yes, Rordacan?" Bograd answered, lowering his sword and wiping the back of his gloved hand across his forehead. "Are you in need of me?"

The counsellor walked toward them, his boots crunching against the stones on a pathway. "Denethor," he said, "the Steward would like ofr you to join him in a meeting this afternoon. This is a diplomatic gathering only, but your father felt that you are now old enough to be a part of a few selected matters of state." He stood straight, his black waistcoat recently oiled and shining in the bright midday sun. "Gondor is no island, and our guest this afternoon is from a land far to the north, a race that you have never seen, I suspect."

Denethor stared at him. "Another race?" he repeated, feeling a tear of sweat trickle down his wrist inside his glove.

"Yes." Though the advisor's voice did not betray any emotion, Denethor saw his eyebrows raise just slightly, making his expression far more conciliatory. "I think that you are in for a very educating afternoon."

Rordacan bowed slightly to Denethor, gave a curt nod to the swordmaster, and turned to leave the courtyard.

"Rordacan! Sir!" Denethor called. "What time is this conference to be held?"

The advisor turned back around. "At three by the sundial on the sixth level. And Denethor, the Steward did request that you bathe and attire yourself in formal dress." He nodded briefly, turned on his heel and walked down a covered walkway, the sound of his footfalls echoing behind him.

Denethor looked over at Bograd, who gazed intently back at him.

"That will bring the day's instruction to a close," Bograd said, pulling some stray sweaty curls behind his left ear, then making a brief ceremonial bow.

"Three?" Denethor exclaimed, indignant. "But it's already at least a quarter past two, if our lesson began on time, and I do pride myself at always being punctual -"

"Yes, Master Denethor, you are always on time," the older man interrupted, moving away to another part of the recreation area, unlacing his leather gloves.

"So is this a test?" Denethor asked, stomping over to join the swordmaster and beginning to shed his combat gear. "Why would the Steward give me so little time to be prepared to meet this… this…" he struggled briefly for the appropriate word. "Emissary? Diplomat? Three by the dial?!"

"Perhaps it is a test." The swordmaster sounded thoughtful. "Or perhaps he simply forgot to mention it to you until now."

Denethor had carefully placed his sword on a swath of grass and tugged in frustration at his laced arm coverings. "My father never forgets anything. Ever," he said vehemently.

"Well then," Bograd replied, reaching for a cloth, "I trust your judgement in how you approach this meeting, and your participation in it."

A youth-sized pair of vambraces fell to the ground. "Thank you, Bograd." Denethor gave his instructor a grateful smile. He made to leave when Bograd gently cleared his throat.

"Your sword, Denethor."

"There's no time to clean it!"

The swordmaster gave him a stern look. "Even in the midst of war, any soldier worth his weapon will keep it in the best condition possible. You must consider your sword as part of your body whether in your hand or not; it is there to save your life. Treat it with the appropriate respect."

Denethor walked over to retrieve a cloth and flask of oil, shaking his head. "I had not realized that philosophical studies were a part of learning how to fight."

A small smile quirked in the corner of the older man's mouth. "'Tis about how to take life, and to save one's own and those of his comades. I would say that is a very serious, and yes, philosophical, pursuit."

Denethor tried to mull over what Bograd had said, but his mind was a maelstrom of other thoughts. He tended to his sword with thorough, albeit hasty, attentions, presented it for inspection, sheathed it, then ran from the quadrangle toward his rooms.


***

He wasn't quite sure, but Denethor believed that his father had looked at him in approval. Per the Steward's request, he was washed up, and in dress livery, including a silver cloak. They were in one of the rooms of state, the one with all of the tapestries lining the walls. It was meant to impress visitors, the ornate needlework telling the story of Gondor and how the noble Stewards had been entrusted with her safekeeping. It was one of Denethor's favorite places in all of Minas Tirith, and he stood straighter just thinking of his ancestors and the good they had done over the centuries.

*****

to be continued

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