Haa… haa…

On a bench in the garden, Garrett took a deep breath, raised his head to the open sky, and felt an indescribable sense of refreshment.

The Gondorian royal family certainly knew how to enjoy themselves.

Roses, peonies, tulips, lavender… clusters of flowers filled the flowerbeds and lined the paths.

In the past, he had thought that red and purple together looked garish, like some sort of loud floral pattern. But now, seeing swathes of red, purple, and all kinds of flowers spread out before him, he finally realized: the ancients never lied.

A whole sea of brightly colored blossoms was a feast for the eyes.

Even that mental image of gaudy floral patterns seemed elegant now. This wasn’t garish, it was art.

He glanced left and right to make sure no one was nearby, then quickly took out some bone meal and propagated every flower he could, keeping samples of each.

If Gondor could have them, then so could his stronghold.

A short while later, fully satisfied, he walked out of the garden. Behind him, the garden remained completely unchanged, as though no one had ever been there.

Just as he was about to wander off somewhere else, a squad of guards with swan feathers on either side of their helmets marched in perfect step to stand in a line before him, blocking his way.

Rumble…

Garrett turned his head and saw another squad coming from behind, sealing off his retreat.

His heart skipped a beat.

Had he been caught already?

“I confess,” he blurted out. “I secretly took two flowers from the garden, but I promise I didn’t touch the originals. I only took ones I grew myself with bone meal.”

“If that’s not allowed, I can give the flowers back to you. You don’t even have to return the bone meal.”

The guards exchanged a baffled silence, unsure what to make of this.

“If you like those flowers from the gardens, we can have the royal gardeners prepare seeds for you,” the captain said, stepping forward. “If you’d rather take the gardener himself with you, that can be arranged too.”

“But we’re not here for that.”

“The Ruling Steward requests your presence.”

—

“What gives him the right to command our soldiers?”

Inside the royal palace, in the seat beside the high throne, Ruling Steward Turgon frowned, clearly displeased.

The outcome might have been acceptable, but in principle, this was an infringement on royal authority.

If he had been just a wandering adventurer or wizard, fine, but he was a northern lord, and not just any lord: one of those rumored to wield more real influence than a king.

“I want to see whether the rumors are true.”

He leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes, and began to rest.

At the palace gates, a group climbed the steps slowly, ascending to Gondor’s highest level.

In the fountain courtyard before the palace, Garrett suddenly stopped, lifting his gaze to the withered white tree in the center.

The guards surrounding him also halted, watching him closely.

The captain tensed, unsure what this legendary figure intended to do.

No one pressed him to continue.

“What a pity,” Garrett said at last.

“What?” The captain’s thoughts snapped back to the moment.

“That tree is dead,” Garrett said, shaking his head.

What now stood in the fountain courtyard was nothing but a lifeless husk, long since gone.

If it had still been alive, perhaps there might have been a way to save it.

“Never mind. Let’s go.”

After walking a while, the guards stopped outside the doors while the captain escorted Garrett into the palace to meet the man seated below the empty throne.

Turgon.

Garrett looked at the elderly man in the Steward’s seat, the name surfacing in his mind.

Of course, he wasn’t the Turgon, the King of Gondolin and the High King of the Ñoldor from the First Age, just someone with the same name. Or, to put it bluntly, he had named himself after him to borrow some prestige.

Even his son’s name had been taken from one of the great heroes of the First Age.

“Ecthelion, greetings to you.”

Beside the Steward, a tall man with thick, dark hair gave Garrett a respectful bow.

Ecthelion… the very name of the First Age Lord of the Fountain of Gondolin, the legendary Elf who slew three Balrogs and many Orc captains, striking such fear into them that his name became one of the battle cries Elrond taught Aragorn to use to intimidate foes.

This family’s names were all modeled after heroes of the Elder Days.

Garrett nodded in return.

Unlike his father, Ecthelion looked full of vigor. Standing there with his back straight as a spear, he hardly seemed like a man already past sixty.

When Turgon saw his son greeting a mere foreign lord first, he couldn’t help opening his eyes to give him a sharp glance.

This boy, couldn’t he have some awareness of being Gondor’s heir?

He lifted his hand, signaling his wayward son to step back. Then he fixed his hawk-like, piercing gaze on the visitor, his face severe and cold.

“Lord from afar, do you know whom you are standing before?”

Clearly, he intended to give this foreign legend a taste of his authority.

“Of course I know, the Ruling Steward of Gondor,” Garrett replied, somewhat helplessly.

This man, couldn’t he just get to the point?

The air grew still.

At the side, Ecthelion’s jaw tightened anxiously. He wanted to speak, but his father had already ordered him to stand down; unless something urgent happened, he was not to interfere.

He knew well that even as a father, the man in that seat had limited patience, he would not allow a second breach of orders.

“Since you know, why do you still stand here so casually?”

Turgon’s tone was even. “I think I should teach you the most basic etiquette, as a lord, you should properly greet the man before you.”

Garrett sighed lightly.

“It’s not morning, not noon, and not evening. How exactly am I supposed to greet you?”

“Have you eaten?”

No, but I’m already fed up.

Turgon slapped the arm of his seat and raised his voice: “Do you realize you are insulting Gondor’s highest authority?”

“And do you realize you’re insulting me?”

Garrett stepped forward, making the captain of the guard instantly tense. The captain quickly signaled his readiness to call the palace guards at a moment’s notice.

Ecthelion could no longer hold back. He hurried forward to stand between the two men, lowering his voice to Garrett:

“My father is… under great strain, and his temper has grown short. Please forgive him, the burden of rule weighs heavily upon him…”

“What are you whispering about?”

Turgon’s eyes narrowed at his son.

“Father, I was saying that for someone who has aided Gondor, a legend and a hero, we should not greet him with such an attitude.”

“Rumor has clouded your judgment. You don’t understand what truly concerns me. If he wants to make a move before Gondor’s High Throne, then let him. Do you think our guards and the tens of thousands of soldiers in the city couldn’t stop one man?”

“Father…”

Ecthelion glanced nervously at Garrett while taking two steps toward the throne.

“Perhaps we really couldn’t stop him.”

—

About the Ruling Stewards of Gondor:

Ever since Gondor’s king vanished and the royal bloodline was broken, the realm has been ruled by the Ruling Stewards.

Because of the realm’s ancient laws, only one with true royal blood may become king; all others remain unrecognized. This is why the Steward can only ever be Steward, no matter how many years or generations he rules Gondor.

“Until the King returns, I hold this rod of stewardship in trust. For though I am called a king by courtesy, I am but the chief among the Dúnedain of the South, and it is not mine to order the return of the King.” – Oath of the Ruling Stewards of Gondor

Boromir, eldest son of Denethor II, Gondor’s twenty-sixth Ruling Steward, once asked his father when he was a boy:

“When can a Steward become a King?”

Turgon replied:

“In other places, less bound by the traditions of kingship, perhaps in just a few short years. But in Gondor, not even ten thousand years would be enough.”

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