There was much strife in Gondor when Ecthelion II ruled as Steward. The Black Numenorians of Umbar assailed the coastlands, destroying what they could not conquer; devouring the land like a ravening warg. Many took up arms in Gondor's defense: my father, and even the Steward's son, Denethor, fought mightily against the destroyers. But it was not until one named Thorongil arose and, with a company of men, slew the lord of the invaders and struck off the head of the serpent that Gondor won again an uneasy peace. I still see my father's eyes shining as he spoke of Thorongil and his deeds and hear the sadness in his voice as he spoke of how, once the fighting was done, this great warrior left the Steward's side and returned to the mists whence he came. Ecthelion, too, grieved Thorongil's loss - a thing that was noted and felt by his son, who had tried his utmost yet could not equal the victories of the one he saw as rival. But do not think that Denethor was friendless; indeed, there were many men who stayed faithfully by his side and it was the son of one of these who proved the bane of my youth.
I had always dreamed of being the brave warrior my father had been, though my gentle mother made certain that I knew of the One and His mighty servants, the Valar. She showed me the beauty of music and of kindness...always reminding me that if arms must be raised, they should be used only in the cause of Light, not shadow. My father showed me the skill of the blade and shield, and how one must make use of what is inside a helm, rather than trusting in the helm itself. It was my proudest day when I joined the ranks of Gondor's defenders and for a number of seasons I grew in the strength of camaraderie and like purpose. I had no true inkling of the shadow until I was placed into the company of a young commander, newly vetted and untried, yet favoured as the son of one who had stood as friend to Denethor, now Steward of Gondor. We were to travel into Ithilien, across the river, and search the area for any who might be hostile to the White City. It was not deemed a dangerous mission, for at that time there had been little noise from the lands to the south, but yet was important enough that it would have won standing for the young lordling in the courts of the Citadel. On the third day of our ranging we met with a party of Haradrim who had traveled upriver towards the plains of Osgiliath. We fought- the young commander thinking that an easy victory would add to his fame- but were sadly outmatched in number and skill, for most of those in our ranks were untried in true battle. I called out to the lordling to retreat and save what men he may, but he cursed me and instead ran headlong to meet the captain of the raiding party. By this time those of us who did not lie dead bore wounds in our bodies, and though I tried to come and fight by my commander's side it was not before the southern blade had cleaved his sword hand from his body. Calling out the name of Oromë I threw the weight of my shield against the Harad and he fell backward, knocking his head against the stony earth and leaving him lying senseless. Taking my commander and throwing him across my shoulder, I sought refuge in the brambles surrounding us. I quickly bound his wound, lest he should spend all his life's blood, and stifled his cries that we would not be discovered. We waited there a full day and into night...until all sounds of search and strife had ceased...and I carefully made my way back to where we had met our doom. The dead greeted me. All those who had ridden from the White City lay broken and defeated and I fell to my knees and wept. As the moon rose high in the night sky, I dried my tears and with a shield of one of the fallen, dug graves for my fallen brothers so that they might, at least, rest with honour. That done, I made my way back to my commander and we set ourselves to the task of returning home. What had been a three day's journey lasted a week on return. We moved in stealth, and I used all the wisdom I had of my mother's healing to keep the young lord alive. My heart both rose and sank when we came in sight of the White City, for I knew the grief that our tale would bring. But I had not looked for yet one more wound from this sad happening. From his bed in the houses of healing, the young lord reviled me, calling me coward and placing the blame of defeat squarely on my head. There were none to defend me, for none lived that were witness to the truth of it. Yet I went to the man and asked him why he would do this, and I beheld in his eyes that he saw only his lost victory and future...and for him it was truth. I had not known before this that a man's sight might be so skewed, and it shook me with dread. The Steward heeded the child of his friend and I was stripped of rank and sent in ignominy from the White City. I set aside my father's good name lest I bring further grief to him and wandered far until another gave me a new one. But that...that is a tale for another day, and I see we have eaten all the bacon!
