Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

March 11 – 15, 3019

Three days since Erech, or is it?

In the gloom that had come from the east – yesterday morning? – it was too easy to lose track of time. All Aragorn saw of the land was featureless and murky, though if the river they just forded was the Gilrain, that meant that they were near Linhir. He wished he could press on immediately towards Pelargir, but both horses and men could not go on without some rest.

As soon as they reached a good place, about fifteen miles from the river, Aragorn signalled a halt and dismounted. Leaving Halbarad to arrange setting up their camp, and ignoring his kinsman’s questioning glance, Aragorn took his pack and walked off to find a sheltered spot near the camp. He looked around to make certain he was unobserved, then sat down and quickly set up the palantír. He had to know the Enemy's movements. As he looked in the Stone, he was prepared for a struggle, but despite his weariness after the long ride, the Stone obeyed his will with little effort. Perhaps he had truly broken the Enemy's hold on the Stone at the Hornburg, or perhaps Sauron's mind was otherwise occupied.

First, Minas Tirith; relieved to see that the city was as yet unassailed, Aragorn looked further north, towards Rohan. He wondered whether the Stone might let him see as far as Rivendell, but dismissed that thought quickly. Then Ithilien, searching for the Enemy's armies; and finally, Mordor itself. As soon as he moved near to Gorgoroth, he felt another presence, and a will grasping at him before he could withdraw his gaze.

Had he entered a trap? Aragorn gathered his will to keep control of the Stone, as he had done in the Hornburg, when the other spoke to him, and bade him watch. Foreboding gripped him. Warily, ready to cover the Stone immediately if he was attacked, he waited, and saw, as if looking down from a great height, a hobbit lying on a stone floor. Then the view shifted, and he recognised the prone figure. Frodo! Next, a hand silhouetted against red flames. As the flames faded, he saw the hand had but four fingers, and on one of those a ring of bright, burning gold. The other spoke again. Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul – each word a hammer-stroke at his mind.

Aragorn tore his gaze away from the palantír and quickly drew his cloak over it to block it. With shaking hands, he put the palantír back in its bag. The Quest has failed. Sauron had the Ring. Frodo was captured, or dead.

He sat, frozen, trying to gather his thoughts.

What will be the Enemy's first move? Lothlórien? Rivendell? No, he will move in the South first. That has been his plan all along. Rivendell will be last to fall, and Lothlórien is still too strong. Minas Tirith will be first. And if that is Sauron's move, what should be mine? Continue on my path? But what good can it do to go to the White City now, perhaps only to fall in hopeless defence of that which is already doomed? Gondor is lost. I should return home, and return fast, and spread the word before the Eye of Sauron turns there. Can the North hold out, and Sauron held at bay, if all who can wield a blade rally there? Aragorn almost rose to give the command to ride back west, but stopped, a deeper despair gripping his heart. All is lost. Returning North is as hopeless as continuing on the course we set at the Council of Elrond. There was never much hope that we could hold off the Enemy by force of arms, anywhere, yet to abandon Gondor now... truly, there are no good choices to be made, but I will not slink off in defeat before the battle even begins.

~*~

The choice made, Aragorn desperately wanted to press on, yet even the hardy Dúnedain of the Grey Company would need more rest after riding for almost three days from Erech than the scant hour they had already had. It was at least another day to Pelargir. So he waited, while his thoughts sought for hope amidst despair.

In the end it was another day and a night before they reached the Anduin. With nowhere left to run, the Haradrim who had fled before them, and before the Dead, turned to make a stand on the quays. Now. This was the moment the Host of the Dead had been summoned for, and Aragorn raised Andúril high as he called on them. He watched in grim satisfaction as the Dead swept across the quays and the ships. Soon, the ships were taken, and the Dead released into the night.

With the departure of the Dead, the many from Lebennin and the Ethir who had been stirred by their passage and that of the Grey Company dared to enter Pelargir. By what had to be morning, though the day was barely brighter than the night, the ships were fully manned, and the fleet was ready to depart. At first, rowing against the flow of the river, their progress was slow. By night, a wind from the Sea arose and allowed the fleet to raise sails, giving them the speed Aragorn had craved.

The wind brought rain, but also drove back the oppressing darkness. By midmorning, the weather was dry and bright, and Aragorn stood at the prow of the ship, his spirits lifted at last by the fresh breeze and the morning sun, eagerly awaiting the first view of Minas Tirith. Was that the Sun glistening on the Tower of Ecthelion already?

Finally, the ships neared the Harlond, and Aragorn gave the order to Halbarad to raise the standard. With the bright sunlight gleaming on the Seven Stars and the Crown, Aragorn held on to the hope that they could win the day, and the Enemy be defeated. When he looked away from Arwen's standard, that hope fled again. While the Enemy held the One Ring, even if they were victorious this day, in the end it would be for naught, and the only outcome death and defeat, whether sooner or later.

Aragorn looked over to where Legolas and Gimli waited for the ship to reach the quay. He should have spoken to them of the Quest's failure. As members of the Fellowship, it was their right to know, and it would have been a relief to share the burden of his knowledge, with them, with Halbarad, with his brothers. Now, it would have to wait until they made the City. And maybe they would find Gandalf there too. I need to talk to him. Gandalf will know if there remains any chance to bring down Sauron now.

~*~

At first, the surprise of their arrival was with them, and the Haradrim near the Harlond, who had already been in the field since dawn, fell back before the fresh troops from the ships, so that they made some progress towards the City. Then, around noon, a wave of Orcs from Minas Morgul that had been held in reserve poured into the Pelennor.

Before long, the van of the Dúnedain was close to being cut off from the main force off the ships. Just as Aragorn realised their danger, and gave the order to fall back towards their troops, the line of Orcs and Easterlings that had been pressing them withdrew abruptly. The light of the sun was darkened, a shadow moved over the land.

Down from the sky swept a monstrous winged creature, upon its back the black-cloaked shape of a Nazgûl. The Dúnedain of the North and the southern troops with them scattered before the attack, their horses throwing them or running off in fear of the Nazgûl and the creature on which it rode. Aragorn managed to keep Roheryn from bolting, but even so, as the Nazgûl descended from the creature's back and began to walk towards him, the horse was so panicked that he had no other choice than to dismount and face the Ringwraith on foot.

A cold, numb fear crept up on Aragorn as the Nazgûl halted, still some steps away from him. The sounds of battle around them faded into silence. He felt the unseen eyes under the shadowed hood gazing at him. He saw himself, in chains before the throne of the Dark Lord, and the promise of torment unending. The vision changed, and he was raised up as King of Kings, glorious ruler of all Men, never to die or grow old, his bride at his side, and the whole world his, if only he would choose now to submit to Sauron willingly. As the vision was held before him, an answer was demanded. He raised Andúril in challenge. Your offer is empty, Lord of Lies. I am not Ar-Pharazôn, and the heir of Isildur will not do Sauron's bidding, neither for empty promise nor for threat.

The Nazgûl hissed in frustration and anger as the spell broke, and drew his sword. As he drew closer, the cold fear came over Aragorn again. The Black Breath... It was affecting him, slowing him down. He had to resist, or he would be helpless against his opponent. At the thought that the Enemy might try to capture him now that temptation had failed, a different, sharper fear grew in his mind. It took much of his will to do so, but as the Nazgûl swung his blade, Aragorn parried the strike.

Every blow that followed was harder to parry, until Aragorn made a slight misstep on the uneven ground. It was no more than a moment's distraction, and it should not have given an opponent an opening, yet it was enough. The other struck with the long knife in his left hand. Aragorn tried to block him, but the Ringwraith’s low lunge was too fast. As the Nazgûl's blade pierced his mail, Andúril's strike went wide and Aragorn staggered back and fell.

Chapter Text

March 15, 3019

Halbarad shook his head to clear it, and cursed at having dropped the standard when his horse threw him. He cursed again when he saw that the Nazgûl had engaged Aragorn. He can barely hold off the Wraith, and the Nazgûl’s beast is in my way. Grabbing the standard, Halbarad pushed himself to his feet using its pole as support.

Legolas and Gimli were trying to get past the beast, but so far without success. Many of the Grey Company had been carried off by their panicked mounts as the Nazgûl’s beast landed, but a few were nearby, and among them...

“Halmir!” Halbarad shouted at his son, who hurried over to him. Halbarad threw the standard at him, not waiting to see if Halmir caught it, and turned, hoping the beast was too distracted by the Elf and the Dwarf to keep him from its master, and from Aragorn. From the side, Elladan and Elrohir also came running. Still too far! Faster!  

The Nazgûl struck and Aragorn stumbled. Before the Nazgûl could attack again, Elladan and Elrohir were on him, driving him away from Aragorn.

Halbarad risked a look around. Most of the Grey Company had returned. Some had gone to assist the Elf and the Dwarf to slay the Nazgûl's mount, the others Halbarad signalled to join him.

"Shield wall!" Halbarad ordered as soon as the first men were near enough. He quickly knelt next to Aragorn, who was lying on his side, his hands clenched in pain. Wounded, but he lives...

Before Halbarad had a chance to look at Aragorn's wound, Elladan and Elrohir joined him. Relieved that they were at hand to take care of Aragorn, he moved aside, only giving Aragorn’s arm a brief touch to signal his presence. He could not aid the brethren, and he would only be in their way if he stayed with Aragorn.

As Halbarad stood up, he found the Nazgûl gone, and his men were hard pressed by the Orcs and Easterlings who had resumed their attack with full ferocity. The Grey Company's defence still held, but they were cut off from the Gondorian troops. It could not be long before they were overwhelmed.

Halbarad tapped Elrohir's shoulder to get his attention. The other nodded, and stood up swiftly.

"How is he?" Halbarad asked.

Elrohir sighed and answered, "Not good. He is conscious, but it is a gut wound, and made by a Morgul blade. We staunched the bleeding, but beyond that there is little we can do out here. What chance of reaching the city?"

Halbarad shook his head. "None, unless reinforcement comes. We cannot hold for long." As he spoke, he looked out across the field again, and saw that help was indeed on its way. Under the blue banner of Dol Amroth a company of cavalry was heading their way and ahead of them a white-clad figure that could only be Gandalf.

Gandalf reached their position first and immediately went to Aragorn. The knights of Dol Amroth were not far behind him, and for the most part circled round to engage the enemy. A smaller group, led by one who had to be the Prince of Dol Amroth, came up towards the Rangers. Halbarad took the standard back from Halmir and stepped forward to address the Prince.

"Your arrival is timely, lord. We would not have held out much longer. I am Halbarad Dúnadan, Ranger of the North," Halbarad said. "My lord lies yonder, wounded."

"My knights will see you to the City and have you guided towards the Houses of Healing. We will speak later," the other replied.

Once the Grey Company had caught the horses of all those who had been unseated when the Nazgûl's beast landed, they and the knights of Dol Amroth started forming up to return to Minas Tirith. Halbarad left arranging the Grey Company's formation to Borlas, his lieutenant, and now stood waiting while Aragorn spoke with Gandalf.

He could only hope that Aragorn's wound was not mortal, that the sons of Elrond could still do something. If only he had been faster to Aragorn's side… if only he had not been thrown by his horse... Together they might have held off the Wraith until Elladan and Elrohir reached them.

It was not long before Aragorn noticed Halbarad, and gestured at him to stand within hearing. He moved nearer as Aragorn continued talking to Gandalf, "Sauron has the Ring. I saw it in the Orthanc palantír."

The Ring. Halbarad’s thoughts reeled in shock, but he forced his attention back to what Aragorn and Gandalf were saying.

"I already feared it might be so,” Gandalf replied. “But are you certain you saw the truth, or was it a deception of the Enemy?"

Aragorn told Gandalf of having looked in the Stone at the Hornburg to challenge Sauron and draw his Eye away from Mordor to give the Ringbearer a chance to slip through his defences. "... And then again near Pelargir, to see where the Enemy's armies were. When I tried to see into Mordor, he noticed, caught... me, and showed me Frodo and the Ri..."

Gandalf interrupted. "Frodo. Was he alive?"

"He may have been; I could not be sure..." Aragorn closed his eyes briefly before he continued. "I wonder when he was taken, and the fate of Samwise."

"The latter I can give you an answer to," the wizard replied sadly, "For Faramir, Captain of Ithilien, reported to the Steward that during a skirmish with a troop of Haradrim they came upon two Halflings. One, so I was told, vanished into thin air when they tried to capture him. The other they caught, but he attempted to run and was killed by an archer."

Aragorn remained silent, clearly grieved at the hobbit's fate. Halbarad's thoughts ran back to the Hornburg where he had stood by Aragorn with the standard as his kinsman challenged Sauron through the palantír. Even like that, with the Enemy's attention fully on Aragorn, it had been almost beyond him to bear the Dark Lord's presence. And yet Aragorn had dared to face him again. Halbarad could not begin to imagine what that had been like when the Enemy held the One. That second encounter, and what Aragorn had learned in it, cast a new light on his grim mood during their journey to Pelargir. At the time, Halbarad had put it down to weariness from the confrontation at the Hornburg and the long ride.

Then Aragorn spoke again, asking the question that was also in Halbarad's mind. "And thus, the Enemy has his Ring again, and I must ask you, Gandalf, what now?"

Gandalf looked away, avoiding Aragorn's sharp glance. "The only answer I have to that question is 'I do not know'."

Aragorn laughed bitterly. "I never thought I would live long enough to hear you say that."

Halbarad did not hear what Gandalf had to say in reply, as Borlas walked up to him to report that the Company was ready to move. Some of the Rangers came up to carry the litter on which Aragorn lay, while Elladan and Elrohir stood guard on either side. Halbarad mounted his horse, taking position behind the litter, and raised the standard to signal to the front of the column that they were ready to depart.

Just before they reached the Gate, Elladan dropped back to pass on Aragorn's command that the standard should be furled again before they entered the City. As Halbarad finished tying the final knot, Imrahil came riding back to them. He nodded almost imperceptibly as he noted what Halbarad was doing, then said that Mithrandir should guide them towards the Houses of Healing, as he was still needed on the battlefield himself.

Once they reached the Sixth Circle of the City, directed by the Wizard, Elladan and Elrohir carried Aragorn to the Houses of Healing. Halbarad led the Grey Company to the stables. He asked Borlas to see to his horse and find lodging for the men, before hastening to the Houses of Healing himself. He found Elrohir as the peredhel came out of one of the rooms to talk urgently to a healer. As soon as Elrohir saw Halbarad, the son of Elrond came up to him.

"Halbarad," Elrohir began, "I have grievous news."

At these words, Halbarad started towards the door of the room, but Elrohir put a hand on his arm to stop him.

"Nay, wait. Aragorn lives yet, but his wound is mortal, and I cannot remove the shards of the Morgul knife that are still in the wound without slaying him in the attempt. I have asked the herb-master of these Houses to bring me athelas against the Black Breath and to slow down the Morgul spell on the knife, but beyond that there isn’t much we can do for him."

Halbarad bowed his head in grief. "This is an evil day."

"That it is." Elrohir sighed. "Wait here for now. I will let you in when you can talk to him." Halbarad nodded and sat down on a low bench as Elrohir, after briefly putting a hand on his shoulder, went inside again.

Halbarad sat head in hands, trying to clear his mind as his thoughts kept returning to the moment Aragorn had stumbled and gone down against the Ringwraith. He should have been at his Chieftain's side, even if all he could have done was to take the fatal blow for him.

It was about half an hour before the sons of Elrond left, Elrohir holding the door open to let him in. Halbarad hesitated on the doorstep, his gaze drawn to Aragorn who was lying propped up on many pillows. Aragorn had his eyes closed and looked wan even in the late afternoon sunshine that filled the room with light.

~*~

Aragorn opened his eyes and looked up. "Halbarad," he spoke as they clasped hands, "We have much to do."

"Should you not rest?" Halbarad said, sitting down on a chair next to the bed.

"I’ll rest soon enough," Aragorn replied, then sighed as Halbarad flinched and looked away. He went on, "I have not the time, Halbarad. Too much needs doing..."

Despite the urgency he had just declared, Aragorn remained silent, trying to gather his thoughts. It had surprised him that the icy taint of the Morgul spell masked the worst of the pain from the wound itself. He knew that could not last. He had seen enough men die of gut wounds to know how bad it would become ere the end. For now, though, it gave him some respite to set his affairs in order, even if the thought of the Enemy's touch on him made him feel sick. And even once the pain became worse, he dared not take the poppy draught Elrohir had offered him. He would need a clear mind to do what needed to be done, and to be able to resist the Morgul spell.

He looked at his kinsman, who sat unmoving with head bent low, and sighed. "Halbarad, please... do not blame yourself. Had you reached me sooner, you would only have died with me. This enemy was beyond both our strengths."

"Perhaps so, yet even my fall might have given you time until Elladan and Elrohir reached you."

Aragorn shook his head. "Halbarad..."

Halbarad looked up and met his gaze. "You are the Heir of Isildur, Aragorn. I am not."

Aragorn was the first to look away. Halbarad was right. Had they stood together, it would have been Halbarad's duty to protect him at all cost.

"Will you bring me Andúril?"

Halbarad nodded and stood up to get the sword from the corner where it had been set, and placed it next to him on the bed.

Aragorn put his hand on the hilt and, drawing a deep breath, spoke. "Kinsman, friend, brother in all but blood, though the line of the Kings will end with me, I would ask you, as my closest kin within the line of Isildur, will you take on the Chieftainship of the Dúnedain of the North after me?"

Halbarad briefly bent his head in thought. Then, meeting Aragorn's gaze, he knelt and laying his hand next to Aragorn's on the hilt of Andúril, replied, "I will, my King."

Aragorn sighed, "Alas, that title is not mine..."

"Today I bore the standard of the High King of Arnor and Gondor into battle for you. At least let me acknowledge you as such this once, my lord." Halbarad sounded almost stern, and Aragorn found he could not say him nay.

"Then, Halbarad, son of Halladan, I thank you," Aragorn replied, as he released his grip on Andúril. Before Halbarad could rise, he continued, "I... Halbarad, I want you to have Andúril. Use it well."

Halbarad remained silent, only nodding. Aragorn closed his eyes, remembering when he had first touched the shards of Narsil, and the awe he had felt at holding the sword that had brought down the Enemy. His memories leapt to seeing Narsil reforged and holding Andúril in his hand for the first time. How high his hopes had been. To finally have the chance to achieve what he had striven for all these many years, to... He was drawn out of his thoughts by Halbarad's concerned voice speaking his name.

"I was but lost in memory," Aragorn said softly. "Do you remember your first sight of Narsil?"

"Yes,” Halbarad replied with a hint of a smile on his lips. “And the callow youth who bore it."

Aragorn smiled in return. "As I recall, you were not much better yourself."

"True..." Halbarad looked away. Aragorn sighed and reached out to briefly put his hand on the other's arm.

"The palantír; that too is yours, but my counsel is not to use it while the Enemy holds the One Ring, except at the direst need. It would be wise to have it kept safe at Rivendell. The Sceptre is to remain in Elrond's keeping." Aragorn thought quickly. What should he do with the Elendilmir?

"Then, the Star of Elendil," Aragorn said, "I do not know what to do. It is a symbol of Arnor that was and as such it should perhaps be buried with me. But it has also been worn by all Chieftains... I will leave it up to your judgement."

"I will see to it," Halbarad replied.

Aragorn continued, "Return North as soon as you can. Elladan and Elrohir have said they will try to reach Lothlórien first and journey to Rivendell from there. So, if I may ask it of you, I would ask that you be the one to bring the news to Rivendell."

Halbarad sighed. "That is a heavy burden you place on me, but yes, I will do it."

"Thank you," Aragorn said.

He remained silent for a long time now, as his thoughts turned to Arwen. "Take the Elessar back to Arwen, and... tell her..." He faltered, finding he did not know what to say. All that mattered between them had already been said long ago, and no words that he could send her would make her grief any lighter to bear. He sighed and spoke again, "Just tell her I love her unto the ending of the world... and beyond."

He turned his face away until he had regained some of his composure, by which time the sunlight had left the room. Immediately, the frozen numbness of the Morgul spell became worse. Aragorn shivered at the sudden cold and clenched his hand in pain over the bandages covering his wound.

“Should I call Elrond’s sons?” Halbarad asked quietly.

"Not just yet," Aragorn said, "but find Halmir and Borlas, and bring writing materials. We must put things in writing and have them witnessed, or the Council of the Angle will fight you at every turn..."

"Not that they will not do so anyway," Halbarad dourly replied.

Halbarad's gloomy tone, as much as the accuracy of his observation, caused Aragorn to first laugh and then wince in pain. "Ow, Halbarad! All too true, but you still have to work with them," he replied. "Now go and get that parchment and ink."

Once Halbarad had left, Aragorn closed his eyes and let his thoughts drift. In truth, the Council would be the least of what Halbarad would face in the dark times to come, and it was only too likely that he could do no more than lead the Dúnedain to their final doom. Even so, they would still have to take care of all the legalities in the transfer of the Chieftainship. There was also the Steward of Gondor to be spoken with, if he could cling to consciousness long enough to face Denethor.

How his choices had gone amiss. What if he had ridden back North once he knew Sauron held the Ring? But no, to go on had been the right course, and the only one he could have taken in honour, even if it had only led him to his death. His mistake had been made earlier. He should have followed Frodo at the breaking of the Fellowship. Had he not said in Bree, "If by life or death I can save you, I will..."? He would have been able to guide Frodo safely through Ithilien, and if it had come to falling in the hobbit’s defence, he at least might have given him a chance to evade capture. Then, even in dying, there would still have been hope that the Ring might yet be destroyed and the Enemy brought down. Now, there was only failure: he had failed to protect Frodo, he had failed to break the siege of Minas Tirith, he had failed the North, he had... no, he could not even face the thought.

Looking back to the Council of Elrond, he tried to find anything that could have been decided differently. All choices other than attempting to destroy the One had their own flaws. At least this could have come to a good end. It should have done so. Gandalf had known their danger, so had Elrond, yet they had still believed this to be the right course. How easily the plans of the Wise had come undone.

Halbarad's return with Halmir and Borlas drew Aragorn out of his thoughts, and they set to work on the scrolls he dictated, one detailing the succession in the North and the division of the heirlooms of Arnor, the other ceding Arvedui's claim on the throne of Gondor, and confirming the position of the Stewards. Once the scrolls were written, copied and signed, Halmir and Borlas withdrew again.

By now it had grown dark outside, and feeling the cold from the Morgul spell deepening yet further with the coming of night, Aragorn asked Halbarad to call in the sons of Elrond, and after that to send a messenger to Denethor to request his presence. The icy cold lessened slightly and some feeling returned to his side after Elladan and Elrohir had bathed his wound in water with athelas, yet he also noted the worried glances the two cast at each other. A sharp stab of fear ran through him at the thought that one of the shards of the knife still in his wound would find his heart ere he died, and that he would become a wraith, his soul enslaved to the Enemy.

"So. Thorongil has returned... and after yet another famous victory over the Corsairs of Umbar as well." Denethor stood in the doorway, giving him a considering look.

"Enough, Denethor," Aragorn said sternly. "The One Ring. What did Mithrandir tell you?"

"That foolish plan to send the Ring into Mordor in the hands of a Halfling? I know of it," Denethor replied.

"The Quest failed." Aragorn flinched as a flare of pain shot through him. Not yet. Not in front of Denethor. Just a little longer. He drew a deep breath and continued speaking. "The Enemy has the One."

"The fool's plan failed then, and the worse fools those who went along with it."

"And your counsel? Use it?"

"No. It should have been kept safe and hidden in a strong place, here, or even in Imladris, not handed to the Enemy like this."

Aragorn sighed and said nothing. He had neither the strength nor the will to argue this point. Denethor waited for him to speak, but when he remained silent, asked what the claim in the standard Aragorn had raised was based on.

"Descent from Elendil through Isildur in unbroken line father to son," Aragorn replied, meeting the Steward's gaze.

Denethor laughed derisively. "Even were you able to prove that, I am not the Steward of the House of Isildur, and that claim has been rejected before."

"I would have claimed the throne as the Heir of Elendil, not just Isildur. But perhaps, lord Steward, should you want to step down to the House of Anárion, you can still find a descendant of Castamir in Umbar who is willing to oblige you."

"Would have?" Denethor interrupted, "I do not understand."

"The line of Elendil ends with me," Aragorn replied, as he held out the prepared scroll. When Denethor did not hold out his hand, Aragorn said, "My wound is mortal." Denethor took the scroll and quickly read it.

"Truly, if this is what following Mithrandir's counsel has brought you to, then at least he brings ruin to all he involves himself with."

Aragorn wearied of Denethor's pettiness. "All opposed to Sauron must stand together. Look north."

"To Eriador? What good will a few Rangers and a fading remnant of the Elves do Gondor?"

"Not much."

Denethor appeared surprised at the admission, "Then why should Gondor act as the shield of the North? Or do you think to have our strength spent solely to protect the ruins of Arnor?"

"No, Steward. Gondor will fall." Aragorn paused to ensure he would speak evenly. "The North has resources: iron, grain. It can take refugees. Use it. Make something of the West survive the coming nightfall. It is your only hope."

He met Denethor's gaze, hoping the Steward would accept what little he could offer. Denethor looked back at him, and Aragorn winced inwardly. He had known there would be no deathbed reconciliation between them, though he had hoped Denethor would see reason, or at least expediency. He did not speak, but held Denethor's gaze until the other lowered his eyes.

"I will consider this," Denethor said curtly, before he turned and left.

The door had barely closed behind Denethor than Aragorn sagged into the pillows behind him, exhausted. He looked up when Halbarad came in again, closely followed by the sons of Elrond.

"I... That went badly," he said shaking his head, then fell silent, clenching his teeth as the pain from the wound almost overwhelmed him.

Halbarad quickly moved to his side, anguish clear in his eyes, then turned to speak to Elrohir. "Can you not do something against his pain?"

"No," Aragorn said as insistently as he could, before Elrohir could answer. "I must not... I must be able to resist the Enemy. No poppy."

Elrohir nodded in reluctant acceptance of his words, as, after a further moment of hesitation, did Halbarad.

After some minutes Aragorn continued, "Halbarad, if North and South are divided, both will fall the sooner... Try to work... with the Steward... with Gondor."

As Halbarad put a hand on his shoulder and said he would, Aragorn lay in silence for some time, too tired to speak, struggling both against the pain and the frozen touch of the Morgul spell that were pulling him down into the dark. How had Frodo withstood that shard for weeks, when he could scarcely hold off the evil of the spell after not even a day? Part of it was of course that now Sauron held the Ring. Frodo's wound had been but slight, while he himself would die from his even without the Morgul spell, and it had already weakened him much. He opened his eyes and tried to speak, but his words turned into a hiss of pain and he felt Halbarad's hand on his shoulder tighten in an attempt to lend some comfort.

He had to withstand the Morgul spell, or... As he lost the thread of his thoughts he realised that he had briefly lost consciousness. Not that much time left then, and the wound would most likely claim him before the Morgul shards reached his heart. The bitter irony of having to hope that the wound the Nazgûl had dealt him would kill him quickly, so that his soul would not be lost to the spell on the shards of the Nazgûl's blade, did not escape him.

Again, he blacked out, and he did not know how long it had been now.

He thought of Arwen and the message she had sent with the standard. Either our hope cometh, or all hope’s end. "Would that I could see thee one last time, Undómiel," he whispered – or was it but a thought? – as he felt himself slide into unconsciousness once more.

~*~

Halbarad could barely make out Aragorn's words, except for the final 'Undómiel'. He closed his eyes in pain at the longing and despair in Aragorn's voice.

Chapter Text

March 15, 3019

As he needed a private word with the Steward, Gandalf made sure he was early for the council Denethor had called. The wizard had already attempted to talk to Denethor that morning, but much had intervened. First he had been distracted by a visit to the library, then Aragorn's unexpected arrival with the Corsair ships, followed by the sortie to get the Grey Company off the battlefield. After that, he had needed time to think on everything Aragorn had told him. When he had tried to call on Denethor afterwards, the Steward had not been in his chambers. Now though, it appeared luck was with him, for Denethor was as yet the only one present in the council chamber.

Gandalf shook his head when he realised that he had not even had time to go to the Houses of Healing after guiding the Grey Company to the Sixth Circle. He resolved to go see how Aragorn was immediately after this council’s end, as it had been clear that he was gravely wounded.

“Mithrandir,” the Steward greeted him, “What wisdom will you share with us this night? I am quite curious.”

Gandalf ignored the barb, and merely returned the greeting. “Denethor.”

“I had a word or two with your Northern Ranger,” Denethor said, “An interesting conversation.”

Gandalf looked sharply at Denethor, suspecting there was much hidden behind that statement. The wizard found himself twisting Narya round and round on his finger, and stopped as soon as he became aware of doing it. His Ring had been much on his mind lately. Too much so, perhaps.

“Oh?” he inquired, knowing that Denethor would only say what he wished to say and that there was no way around the Steward's games if Gandalf wanted to know before the start of the council what had been discussed between Denethor and Aragorn. He waited for an answer, but Denethor remained silent. Before Gandalf could think of a suitable prompt, Faramir walked in, and the wizard knew his chance had passed. He would have to wait for what Denethor was willing to say later on.

A few minutes later, Imrahil arrived with Halbarad and Elladan in tow. The Prince introduced Halbarad to Denethor as acting Chieftain of the Northern Dúnedain and Captain of the Rangers of the North, and it struck Gandalf that could only mean Aragorn was grievously wounded indeed.

As Denethor and Imrahil immediately engaged Halbarad in conversation, Gandalf took the opportunity to draw Elladan to the side. "Elladan, how badly is Aragorn wounded?" he murmured.

“He is dying,” the son of Elrond said softly.

Gandalf briefly closed his eyes, trying not to let the sudden shock of grief overcome him. “Can I still speak to him?" he asked.

Elladan shook his head. “Alas, he is unconscious and will not wake again ere the end, I fear.”

They were interrupted by Denethor calling for their attention as he asked Faramir and Imrahil to give their reports on how the battle for Minas Tirith had gone.

At first, Gandalf did not pay attention while Faramir spoke of the arrival of the Rohirrim and their failure to break the siege. Instead, he thought about what losing Isildur’s Heir would mean for them in the fight against the Enemy. He pushed his sorrow to the back of his mind; there would be time for that later.

When he started listening to the discussion again, Denethor was asking Faramir how he estimated the Riders’ losses.

“At least a quarter," Faramir replied, "But there are around three hundred footmen of ours, who were cut off from the City, with them. Rohan is holding near the Rammas, or at least they were at nightfall.”

Imrahil interrupted. "That estimate may be low. From my vantage on the outer wall, I saw their approach. They were in bad disarray as soon as they engaged the Haradrim line."

Faramir nodded to acknowledge his uncle's words, but continued, “Our own troops were at best holding near the Gate for much of the morning, until our opponents started to tire. We were pushing them back when the warning went up from the battlements that the Corsairs were coming. The enemy took heart again and now started to push us, at least until your lord's standard was raised." He nodded at Halbarad in acknowledgement. "I gave the order to make for the Harlond, and we made some headway at first, until fresh troops, mostly Orcs, came into the field and we had to withdraw towards the Gate once more.”

Now Imrahil spoke. “I had the warning sounded as soon as I saw the black-sailed ships, so our troops would not be overwhelmed by the Corsairs. Little did I expect to see Isildur’s Heir raise the standard of Elendil.”

Denethor interrupted, “Isildur’s Heir? That remains unproven. A measure of Númenorean blood and a broken sword reforged do not make a vagabond into a king.”

Elladan quickly replied, stopping Halbarad from doing so, “Then what would you accept as proof, lord Steward? Would it perhaps be sufficient that I myself have known each scion of the line of Isildur from Aragorn back to Valandil?”

Denethor snorted in what to Gandalf sounded suspiciously like amusement, and commented, “And were all this much in need of an Elvish minder?”

Imrahil cut in sharply, obviously irritated by the interruption, and, from what Gandalf judged of Elladan and Halbarad’s expressions, forestalling more trouble. “If I may finish?” The others sat back in their chairs, Elladan and Halbarad sour, Denethor amused. “First, with the fresh troops, the battle finally started to go our way, at least until more Orcs were brought in by the Enemy and the Nazgûl took to the field. At that point Mithrandir advised me to risk a sortie to support the Southern troops, who were being pushed back towards the Harlond.”

Denethor raised a slow eyebrow at Gandalf at the mention that the sortie had been at the wizard's urging, but said nothing. Prince Imrahil continued, "We were in time to stop their van from being overwhelmed by the enemy troops, though by then…" Denethor leant forward, his earlier amusement gone, his lips opening to speak. Gandalf began to interrupt, but the prince was more swift than either, and pointed a finger at the Steward, saying, "Denethor, do not tell me that I should not have ridden out in support. Any man of Gondor would have no other choice than to come to the aid of the standard of Elendil."

"Even though you do know the claim behind that standard to be at best doubtful?" Denethor sharply countered.

“As it is, I still do not know that, and the middle of a battle is not the place to decide such matters.”

“Were there any merit in it, the claim would have been pursued before. That he chose not to, even with the support the hero of Umbar would have had, ought to tell you enough.”

Gandalf only half-listened as Denethor changed the subject and proceeded to ask a number of questions of both Imrahil and Faramir on the strength of the enemy troops, with the discussion rapidly turning to the future.

"My view is that the best we can do now is to hold the City, and in the longer term maybe push the Enemy back into Ithilien, but even then he will come again next year or the year after," Imrahil said. “With the loss of the Corsairs’ fleet, the South should be secure for some time to come, but the danger will be here and in Anórien.”

“We do not know how many armies Sauron is still keeping in reserve against us,” Faramir added.

“His next attack may not even be against Gondor,” Elladan said. “Rohan is vulnerable as well.”

“Do you not mean ‘once Rohan falls, Eriador lies wide open’?” Denethor commented.

“The Fords of Isen and the Gap of Rohan can be defended for some time,” Elladan replied.

“Not while Saruman sits in Orthanc,” said Denethor.

“Saruman now commands no armies, except the few Dunlendings who may still be prepared to do his will," Halbarad said. "But perhaps Gandalf can offer us some advice on how to deal with a wizard?”

“He cannot be ‘dealt with’ while he sits in a position of strength within Orthanc,” replied Gandalf. “Even if the Ents have him under close guard, Orthanc is impenetrable.” Denethor looked at him in disgust. Gandalf caught his gaze and pointed out, “It was a Steward of Gondor who gave Saruman the keys.”

“Be that as it may,” Denethor said, “It is obvious that the North needs us more than Gondor needs the North.”

Halbarad interrupted, “And yet Gondor will not stand forever. You know what you must do.”

“The Isildurion does not rule Gondor, especially not now that he has ceded Arvedui’s claim. I am not bound by his decrees.”

“Nor by common sense, it would seem,” Halbarad retorted.

While Imrahil stepped in to end the verbal skirmish, Gandalf looked pensively at Denethor. So Aragorn had abandoned Arvedui’s claim on Gondor? What else had been discussed and what other concessions had Denethor managed to gain? For that matter, what had Aragorn and Halbarad discussed? Gandalf distractedly rubbed at Narya, until, looking away from Denethor, he caught Elladan looking at him oddly, almost with suspicion. He met the peredhel’s gaze and the other looked away quickly.

"To get back to more immediate concerns, even if Minas Tirith stands for now, as long as Sauron has the Ring, we could only gain temporary victories," Gandalf observed, "And we do not have the strength in arms for even those."

"At least Gondor will fight to the last. And as for the Ring, whose counsel led to it being returned to Sauron's hand? The Ring should have been hidden, not sent off on this fool's gamble, and you know it, Mithrandir," Denethor said, voice cold, making Gandalf glance away.

“Have we not talked about that enough, Denethor?” the wizard replied wearily, “I have told you before that hiding the Ring would have been only a temporary solution. And what would you have done, had you had the One hidden in the deepest dungeon in Minas Tirith, and the Enemy came to the Gate of the City to collect what was his?”

“That I do not know,” Denethor admitted, “But at least we would have stood a better chance than we will when he comes to the Gate wearing It.”

Faramir interrupted, first addressing the Steward and then Gandalf. “Even with the Ring safely hidden from his grasp, I doubt we would have found it easy to hold back the Enemy long. Do not forget that when he started this war, he did not yet hold the Ring, yet still felt secure enough to attack. And Mithrandir, I think I understand why the choice was made to try to destroy the Ring, but did you really not plan for the chance that this quest might fail?”

Gandalf said nothing at first. Faramir met his gaze and waited for a reply. It suddenly struck Gandalf how much the young man looked like Denethor at that age. As the silence dragged out, all present were looking at Gandalf. Finally, the wizard sighed and spoke, “Yes, we did consider that possibility, but the necessity of putting an end to Sauron once and for all was seen as such that the risk was worth the taking.”

“So, if you did consider that possibility, what should we do now? Is there any counsel you can offer that will give us even the smallest chance of defeating or at least holding back the Enemy?” Faramir pressed.

Gandalf again waited before speaking. Could he say here that the Wise had known full well that it was an all or nothing gamble, and that they had thought there would be little point in making plans to deal with failure? No, to say that would take away all chance that any here would listen to him in future, and if there was to be any hope of defeating Sauron, they would have to follow his counsel. He did know that much. What to say then? He had to be careful, for Elladan was deep in his father’s counsel and Halbarad had most likely overheard him when he had admitted to Aragorn that he did not know what to do now Sauron had the Ring.

“Mithrandir?” Faramir prompted.

He had to say something. “No, I do not know of any way to defeat the Enemy right now,” and though he knew he deserved it, Faramir’s look of disbelief pained him much. Denethor’s gaze was unreadable; Imrahil, Elladan and Halbarad kept carefully blank expressions.

Not sparing the wizard as much as a contemptuous glance, Denethor immediately turned to Imrahil and asked him to give an overview of their strength and the losses they had sustained during the day. Gandalf knew that he and his counsel had been dismissed. The Prince estimated that they had already lost well over a third of their numbers, even when he added the fresh troops that had been on the Corsair ships to his count. Halbarad added that as well as the troops they had brought up on the ships, Angbor of Lamedon was marching from Pelargir with around four thousand men on foot.

“When will they be here?” Imrahil asked.

“Depending on the speed they can make, and the condition of the road, in two or three days,” Halbarad replied.

Denethor looked pensive, then spoke, “That is good news. However, with our losses so far, I fear we still have to give up the Pelennor. The Gate will remain closed tomorrow, unless the Rohirrim manage to break through.” Imrahil and Faramir agreed, though they were clearly reluctant to give up the ground they still held. Denethor continued, “As long as the Gate holds, the City will stand. Our food store is enough for many weeks. I doubt it will come that far though. With Angbor’s troops and the Rohirrim we should be able to break the siege in a few days.”

“But what if the Gate is breached?” Imrahil asked. “We do not know what sorceries the Enemy has at his disposal.”

“Hold until the Third Circle is taken,” Faramir suggested and Denethor shook his head in disagreement.

“Second. Any higher and the risk of having our escape route through the Hallows cut off would become too great,” the Steward corrected him.

Gandalf suddenly thought of the Orthanc palantír. After the council, he would ask Halbarad to let him use it. It was the only way they had to find out what the Enemy was up to. While he was as good as certain that Denethor was using the Anor-stone, he very much doubted the Steward would either admit it or let him use the Stone. Halbarad would have no objections.

When Gandalf paid attention to the discussion again, the conversation had moved on to immediate concerns and small details for the morrow. It was not long before Imrahil and Faramir left, followed by Halbarad and Elladan. Gandalf did not want to talk further with Denethor at this point, not after the way the debate had gone, and it was now more urgent that he speak to Halbarad, so he followed the others.

Coming out of the White Tower, Gandalf almost had to run across the Court of the Fountain to catch up with Halbarad and Elladan.

“Halbarad!” he called just before the two reached the tunnel leading from the Citadel to the Sixth Circle, “I need a word with you.” The other slowed down slightly, but only stood still when the wizard had caught up with him.

“What is it, Gandalf?” he replied curtly.

"You are to be Chieftain? Has Aragorn entrusted the guardianship of the Orthanc palantír to you?”

“Yes,” the other replied with a guarded expression.

“It is urgent that we uncover what the Enemy intends next. You must let me use the Stone.”

“No, it is not safe to ...”

Gandalf interrupted him, “Not for you perhaps, but there really is no time to argue about this. There is no risk in it for me, so I do not see why you should not let me use it. We must know the Enemy’s plans before he strikes again.”

Halbarad gave him a level stare, grey eyes expressionless. “My answer remains no. And even if I would, you forget that the right to allow others the palantír’s use is not mine until Aragorn's death.”

Gandalf returned the stare, but knew that he had pushed too hard and that the other would not now let him use the Stone, despite their need. He had to try another approach. Heaving a sigh of frustration at the Ranger’s stubbornness, he turned to Elladan instead, “Surely you agree with me, Elladan? It is vital that we find out the Enemy’s next moves, and the palantír came into our hands to be used, not to sit idly.”

Elladan replied, “I agree with Halbarad. And it seems to me that you would do well to question your judgement in this, and perhaps in other matters as well. Will you answer me this, Gandalf: are you still drawing on the power of Narya?”

Gandalf noticed Halbarad starting at the mention of the Elven Ring. “Elladan! That is no matter to discuss in the street like this,” he snapped.

“Nor are the palantíri,” replied Elladan, “But answer me. Are you still using it?”

“I will not be questioned by...” Gandalf grumbled.

“Gandalf, yes or no?”

Gandalf remained silent until the other repeated his question, and then reluctantly replied, “It would be foolhardy to use it now the Enemy holds the One.”

“Indeed,” said Elladan, “For we are hard pressed as it is, and could ill afford to lose you.”

Gandalf stared after the two as they walked down the tunnel, wondering what plans they, and likely Elrohir too, had been making, and especially whether Halbarad’s famed loyalty to his lord would last long beyond Aragorn’s death. The Ranger was after all close enough kin that a case could be contrived that would make him King of Arnor, and he might well find the title of Chieftain insufficient once he achieved a measure of power. On the other hand, if he had the right advisors, that might not be a bad way to solve the problem of who should lead the Dúnedain in what was to come, at least for the North. Time would tell, but Gandalf had his doubts, especially after Halbarad’s stubbornness over the palantír. With a sigh, the wizard turned around and walked to his lodging.

Chapter Text

March 16, 3019

“I am concerned about Gandalf,” Elladan said.

Halbarad nodded in distracted agreement as they entered the Houses of Healing. “Can he still be trusted?” he asked.

“Yes, for now. But he is in danger if he keeps using... ” Elladan’s reply trailed off.

The Ranger standing guard outside the sickroom opened the door for them, and Halbarad followed Elladan in. During the time they had been away, Legolas and Gimli had come and they were at Aragorn's side. Elrohir was sitting on the other side of the bed, face grim. Halbarad quietly greeted the Elf and the Dwarf, then walked over to stand beside Elrohir. Elladan stood opposite them, eyes fixed on Aragorn’s face.

Halbarad looked at Aragorn, who was now lying almost flat, the pillows he had been propped up on before removed. It seemed to him that, even though Aragorn could no longer respond to those around him, he still felt great pain, for he was restless, at times on the verge of waking, eyes fluttering and hands clenched tight.

“It is not just the pain,” Elrohir said before Halbarad could ask, “He is also fighting the Morgul spell. The Enemy is attacking him directly through the shards. I did not know that he could do so, but now that he has the Ring...”

“How long has this been going on?” Elladan interrupted.

“Since shortly after you left,” Elrohir replied. “At first, Aragorn could easily withstand the attacks, but they are wearing down the strength of his will to resist.” He paused, then added, “I fear he cannot hold out if we do not come to his aid and oppose the Enemy directly. Elladan, he needs more help to fend off these attacks than athelas alone can give. We must do something.”

Elladan nodded and motioned for Elrohir to join him. While the two conferred in a low whisper, Halbarad sat down in Elrohir’s chair and put his hand over Aragorn’s, aware of the futility of the gesture as he made it. He looked at his kinsman and sighed, intensely worried by Elrohir’s words, and frustrated by the knowledge that this was one battle where he could do nothing to help Aragorn. He did not doubt that what the twins were about to do would be dangerous to them, and even if he only understood in part, he was deeply thankful for it.

Elrohir stepped forward to kneel beside the bed, so that his face was level with Aragorn’s. Elladan sat down on the edge of the bed, with one hand on Elrohir’s shoulder. Their bright eyes focused on Aragorn. It was not long before Halbarad sensed their effort as a pressure at the edge of his mind. Slowly, the brothers' intervention took effect, and he felt Aragorn's clenched hand relax slightly.

As Aragorn became less restless, Halbarad saw some of the tension disappear from the faces of Elrond's sons. Elrohir looked up briefly to give him a reassuring nod, and Halbarad breathed a sigh of relief. Legolas was looking intently at Elladan and Elrohir. Halbarad wondered how much the Elf was able to sense of the ongoing confrontation, and if it was more than he himself perceived.

Elrohir briefly swayed as he stood up, and paused, leaning on the bed, steadied by Elladan’s hand. As his brother sat down in an empty chair, Elladan took some time to tell him, Legolas and Gimli what had been discussed in the meeting with the Steward and the captains of Gondor. He touched briefly on Gandalf's odd behaviour, though without mentioning that the wizard held Narya, Halbarad noticed. Elladan did go into detail on the immediate plans for the defence of the City, and the evacuation plans should the Gate be breached.

Later that night, as he woke up after dozing uneasily for some time, Halbarad wondered about what lay ahead. He was only just beginning to feel the weight of the responsibility he had taken on, though he felt wretched for already considering the future while Aragorn still drew breath. What would happen to the Dúnedain? Would anything he could do as Chieftain make any difference in the end? First, though, he would have to survive the siege of Minas Tirith, and there was little use in looking too far ahead before then.

Halbarad thought back to what Aragorn had said years ago, when he started his hunt for the creature Gollum, that it seemed fit that Isildur’s heir should repair Isildur’s fault. Was that all there was to this? Perhaps... and yet, the Enemy had always pursued Isildur’s descendants with undying hatred, both for Isildur’s taking the fruit of Nimloth and for his taking the Ring. Now, Sauron had his Ring again, and the Tree standing in the Court of the Fountain was long dead. All that remained for the Enemy to complete his vengeance was for Isildur's direct line to come to an end, Halbarad thought in bitter grief.

Would even that satisfy Sauron? Or would he turn his attention to others of Isildur’s blood, to hunt down and destroy his descendants root and branch like the White Tree? Halbarad glanced at his own hand lying atop Aragorn’s. What would befall him? Would his sons, his wife, attract the Dark One’s notice? He had been a Ranger for most of his life and it had been a long time since he had felt much fear of death, but at that thought Halbarad quailed, in part for himself, but mostly for his family. Yet he also knew that Sauron’s Eye being on him, on them, would be unavoidable once he stepped forward to lead his people.

With a shake of his head, Halbarad tried to clear his mind of these dark speculations. No amount of planning and preparation would be enough to counter the full force of the Enemy’s attack, once Sauron turned his attention north. All Halbarad could do was to be as ready as possible, and hope it would be enough to at least delay Sauron’s victory over the West. And maybe, just maybe, a way would be found to defeat or hold back Sauron, even if he himself would not live to see it.

Looking up, he noticed that it was close to dawn. Elladan and Elrohir still kept their vigil, but had relaxed somewhat after Elrohir had indicated earlier that the worst of the danger from the Enemy’s attack was past. Gimli was asleep, and Legolas was sitting quietly. The Elf looked up as he noticed Halbarad's glance, but said nothing.

Halbarad stood up and walked to the window. As he looked out, there was a sharp knock on the door, followed immediately by Gandalf coming in. Halbarad nodded a curt welcome at the wizard, hoping the other was not set on continuing their conversation from the night before. However, Gandalf merely walked over to the bed, and stood there for a long time, his eyes fixed on Aragorn. The peredhil did not even glance at the wizard, but kept their eyes on their foster-brother, and Halbarad knew that even if the worst was past, there was still danger to be guarded against.

As Halbarad watched Gandalf, seeing the wizard’s slumped shoulders and the sadness in his eyes, pity for the other’s grief touched him. Then he thought of how Gandalf had acted after the council and he did not know what to believe. How could he know that the wizard was not more disturbed about the ruin of his plans than grieving for the life of one mortal, no matter how dear to him. And how much did that grief mean anyway, from one who was not only immortal, but had, from what Aragorn had said, also returned from what had seemed to be his death? How could the Istar truly care about mere mortals, whose lives must seem so pitifully brief? Or was his feeling genuine, but no more than the fondness a man might have for a favourite dog or a good horse? Halbarad shook his head. Even leaving aside his suspicions about Gandalf's behaviour the previous night, he found these questions impossible to answer.

Gandalf now sighed and briefly put his hand on Aragorn’s brow, before he turned to softly speak with Legolas and Gimli for some time. With a last look at Aragorn, the wizard quickly left.

After a short silence, Legolas spoke, “Elladan, Halbarad, I do not discern anything as alarming as what you described. As far as I can tell, Mithrandir’s manner is normal, though he is deeply grieved over Aragorn and the hobbits.”

Elladan nodded thoughtfully, though it was clear to Halbarad from the look the peredhel gave him that he was unconvinced by Legolas’ observation.

~*~

It had still been dark when Pippin put on the livery of the Guard of the Tower, and he tried to stifle a yawn as he entered the Steward’s chambers. Hours yet to go before breakfast. This really was no life for a hobbit.

He had slept little last night, and yesterday had been a long and tiring day. Then Pippin suddenly felt ashamed about his complaints. At least he knew there would be breakfast this morning. He could not believe Frodo was dead, but he doubted his cousin would be well-looked after.

Poor Frodo, he thought, wondering what would be worse; for Frodo to be dead, or in the hands of the Enemy. And Sam, and now Strider too... Pippin sighed sadly.

Denethor had not looked up from the maps and papers on his desk when Pippin had come in, just murmured a greeting, but now he looked at the hobbit sharply. Pippin started to apologise for disturbing him, but the Steward cut him short, dismissing him. “Go, Master Took; I have no need of your services today. You may stay with your friend if that is what you wish.”

Pippin hurried from the Citadel to the Houses of Healing. He slowed down as he reached the building, unwilling to face seeing Strider – he supposed he should say Aragorn now – so badly wounded, dying, he knew, but then he made himself go in.

Inside, he saw that Legolas and Gimli were already there, and to his surprise the sons of Elrond, whom he had last seen in Rivendell. On the other side of the bed sat a tall, grim-faced man, his hand on Aragorn’s arm. He looked enough like Strider that he had to be close kin.

Pippin greeted Legolas and Gimli first, then hesitantly turned towards the bed. The hobbit gasped as he saw how bad Aragorn looked, his eyes closed, his face ashen and drawn with pain.

“Poor Strider,” he whispered, and felt his eyes moisten with tears.

At the sound of Pippin’s voice, the stranger looked at him and spoke, “You are the Thain’s son, Peregrin Took, are you not?” Pippin nodded. “Master Peregrin, I am Halbarad, son of Halladan, Aragorn’s kinsman,” the other introduced himself.

“Call me Pippin,” the hobbit said. “Your cousin, Stri... Aragorn, we would never have come as far as we did, the Fellowship I mean, without him. We would not have made it to Rivendell, even. The Ringwraiths would have got us at Weathe...” Pippin fell silent. After a few minutes of awkward silence, Pippin looked at Halbarad again, then took a deep breath and asked, “How did you know my name? Did Aragorn mention me?”

Halbarad looked at Pippin with a faint smile and replied, “Yes, he did, but I also recognised you. You have the look of your father about you.”

“You know my father?” Pippin was confused now; he was certain his father would have mentioned knowing any Big People.

“No, but I have seen him.”

The hobbit could not contain his curiosity. “You have been in the Shire?”

Halbarad nodded. “The Rangers have spent many years protecting its borders after it became known to the Wise that the Enemy was looking for Bilbo and his Ring.”

“I wonder how they are doing at home,” Pippin said, somewhat wistfully.

“When I left the North a month ago, the Shire was still safe, though Bree is having to deal with raids by brigands,” Halbarad said. “It will be some time yet before the War comes north.”

“I do not know when I can go home; I think I have to stay in Gondor now that I am a Guard of the Tower. But it is good to know there is no trouble in the Shire yet,” Pippin replied. He sighed, suddenly wondering how Merry was getting on in Rohan, and if he would ever see him or the Shire again.

~*~

Twice the great ram of the Enemy had swung, and the Gate of Minas Tirith had trembled on its supports, yet it had held.

Gandalf sat waiting upon Shadowfax. Behind him were arrayed the knights of Dol Amroth, most on foot, with a small group on horseback. Archers were spread out behind the first group of defenders and on the walls near the Gate.

Then, on the other side of the Gate the fell voice of the Nazgûl cried out, and all except Gandalf cowered in fear, though none moved from their post.

Again, the ram struck, and this time, the Gate shattered, its broken doors falling to the ground. All that could be seen on the other side was a cloud of darkness. Still the knights of Dol Amroth held steady, until part of that darkness deepened and came towards them. They scattered, unable to withstand the terror emanating from the approaching shadow.

From the darkness filling the archway emerged a rider cloaked in black, on a black horse.

Shadowfax stood still as a rock. Gandalf waited. He felt power as well as terror coming from the Ringwraith, and he realised this would be a hard confrontation. His hand strayed to rub at Narya, but he stopped himself. He had already been too careless about using it after he had learned that Sauron held the One, and he had also used it extensively in the days before to strengthen the hearts and minds of those within Minas Tirith. Though he had scoffed at Elladan’s warning, in his heart the wizard knew his counsel was good. He should be careful when using the Ring. Still, just once more should not be too dangerous. And he would really need all strength available to him now...

Shadowfax snorted, and Gandalf was brought back from his thoughts by the sound. The Nazgûl’s horse had moved forward several steps and he had not even noticed. He could feel subtle lines of power probing at him. Suddenly, he realised what had been happening and he quickly took Narya from his finger, stuffing it in a pouch on his belt.

The Nazgûl laughed mockingly. “Grey fool! Do you yield already? Or do you believe you can take me on without that Elvish bauble on your finger?”

Gandalf said nothing. Though he appeared outwardly calm, his thoughts were racing, and he felt doubt stir within him. Could he still match one of the Nazgûl without the support of Narya? He had known before that the Wraiths would be much stronger were Sauron to regain the One, yet he had not expected the strength he had already felt from his opponent. Enough of these doubts. His own strength should be sufficient for this, even as much lessened as he felt now. Gandalf wondered briefly whether Sauron might even be able to make him into a Ringwraith if he now kept using Narya; though the Dark Lord had never held the Three, they were still under the dominion of the One and he who wielded it. He dare not risk using Narya again, not this close to one who could reach through it and use it as a weapon against him.

He took a deep breath, then caught the Nazgûl’s unseen eye and held the creature’s gaze. The other held steady, and Gandalf felt the pressure on his own mind grow. He pushed back against the Nazgûl’s attack, and for some time they each sought for weaknesses in their opponent’s defence, until some balance was found and they merely looked at each other.

“The Lord Sauron is willing to make you an offer,” the Ringwraith spoke. “He is prepared to spare the city of Minas Tirith from the full weight of his rightful wrath, and its inhabitants, including the leaders you have deceived into following you in your war against Sauron the Great, shall be free to depart unharmed.”

“One assumes there are conditions to your master’s offer?” Gandalf asked quietly.

From the movement of the Ringwraith’s cloak, it was clear he nodded in reply. “In return for my Lord’s generosity and mercy to those you misled into following you, all that he wants from you, as proof of your good faith, is the surrender to me of the one known as Aragorn, son of Arathorn, before his death.”

An icy shiver of revulsion ran down Gandalf’s back at that demand. He had seen Sauron’s dungeons in Dol Guldur, and what was done to those in them. Not at any cost would he even consider agreeing to such a bargain; and the Enemy did know that, of course. With a flash of contempt, he thought that it was just as well that Denethor was not there, for he felt certain that the Steward would not hesitate to hand over Aragorn to the Enemy if he believed it would save his precious City.

“I do not bargain with lives.”

“You would rather see thousands die, for the sake of one who is already as good as mine anyway, old fool? Is this how you value those you claim to guide, that you will let so many die for nothing, when you can easily save them by accepting the Great Lord’s offer?”

“Were you truly certain that he is already yours, your master would not seek this bargain,” Gandalf replied. “Nor do I believe that the Master of Treachery would honour such an agreement.”

The Nazgûl laughed again. “You want surety? First meet the Great Lord’s demand, and then, as a sign of his good will, he will withdraw his armies from these Gates. Or reject Sauron’s mercy, and watch as all within these walls die, and know that not only is their blood on your hands, but that they will all curse your name as they die.” The Ringwraith paused. “Or perhaps, old man, you feel that the price is not right? Perhaps there is something you want more than the safety of this city? Ah yes, of course...” A cold hiss, and the Nazgûl continued speaking. “Maybe instead you would rather have the one who brought the One Ring to its Master returned to you in exchange?”

Gandalf flinched as he thought of what Frodo must be enduring in his imprisonment, if he indeed lived, and the Enemy was not just toying with him. He knew that, just as there was nothing he could do to save Aragorn from death, there was nothing he could do for Frodo. Then he felt his anger rise, burning as fiercely as Narya. One thing he could, and would do, was to avenge Aragorn and silence this foul wraith.

He spoke, signalling Shadowfax to take some steps forward. “Enough! You will not gain what you want. Go back to the abyss that awaits you.”

The Ringwraith raised his hand, and a darkness came from it, quickly spreading towards Gandalf.

Swiftly, Gandalf raised his hand against the darkness that started to surround him. A light sprang from his palm, making the Nazgûl hiss in pain when it struck him. The black horse tried to back away, as fearful of the light as its rider.

The Nazgûl pulled hard on his steed’s reins, driving it forward at the same time, causing the horse to rear up. He cried out a word of power and drew his sword. Flames danced along the blade as he raised it high.

Gandalf drew Glamdring in answer, the sword glowing with a pale light. Shadowfax fearlessly moved forward towards their foe, halting at a touch from the wizard.

They were now within reach of each other, and both waited warily for a move, or a mistake, to be made. The black steed pranced nervously in place, fighting against the Ringwraith’s heavy hand controlling it. They had moved closer to the broken gate, and one of the black’s hooves slipped as it stepped on a piece of rubble. Seeing an opening, Gandalf urged Shadowfax forward, and swung at his opponent. The Nazgûl parried Glamdring’s strike, but was driven off balance and had to withdraw a few paces. He quickly recovered and now pressed his own attack forward, darkness starting to spread around them once more. Gandalf barely countered the strike of the Wraith’s fiery blade, almost unseated by Shadowfax’s sideways scramble to avoid the black horse’s teeth biting at his neck. The wizard was not sure if he wished more for Narya or for stirrups at that moment.

In the darkness that now surrounded them, Glamdring’s pale light shone weakly. The Nazgûl drove his horse hard at Shadowfax’s side, no doubt hoping to unbalance the grey horse further, but Shadowfax easily sidestepped the attack.

Gandalf raised his left hand and a light shone from it, at first as pale and soft as Glamdring’s muted glow. Then the wizard poured his anger over his friends’ fates into it, and the light quickly brightened into a searing white flame, driving away the darkness.

Trying to avoid the light, the Wraith recoiled, yanking his horse away. The animal backed up, stumbling again on the gate rubble. Shadowfax needed no command and lunged forwards to take advantage of this weakness. Gandalf let the horse's momentum add force to his swing. The Nazgûl parried wildly, but was unable to block the blow, and Glamdring struck the dark robes, casting them to the ground. The wizard almost followed them down, for there was no resistance to the sword, and Gandalf felt a stab of fear that somehow the wraith had eluded his blow. Dark and light alike vanished, replaced by the ordinary light of day.

Gandalf half fell, half slid from Shadowfax's back, exhausted to the edge of collapse, barely able to keep hold of his sword. He walked forward to examine the crumpled cloth lying in the dust before the Gate. The robes were empty. He had defeated the Ringwraith. Glamdring slipped from his fingers and clattered to the ground.

Gandalf sighed and put on Narya again. Now that Sauron could no longer use the Nazgûl to manipulate him through the Ring, it would be safe again to wear, and he needed the strength.

Chapter Text

March 16, 3019

Almost weeping with relief as the terror of the Nazgûl lifted, Imrahil returned to the Gate with his men. It rankled that he had given in to his fear and abandoned his post, though few would have dared to stand as long as the men of Dol Amroth had. He ought to have stood firm; had it not been for the wizard, all would have been lost. The Prince shook his head. The day was not yet over, and he must now put what had gone before out of his mind and not be distracted from the coming battle.

The morning had already seen the Rohirrim driven back behind the Rammas and sustaining bad losses, after an ultimate attempt to break through had failed. With that in mind, Imrahil knew well enough that the breach of the Gate was the beginning of the end for Minas Tirith. Even so, he was determined to hold as long as possible, and make the Enemy pay dearly for every street, every house he took. Faramir was in command of the archers on the walls of the First and Second Circle and on the roofs of some of the houses in the First Circle. He hoped his nephew's experience with fighting from ambush in Ithilien would prove valuable in the streets of the City as well.

It looked as if the Enemy's armies had been thrown into some disarray by the fall of the Nazgûl, though it could not be long before one of his lieutenants took command. Making use of the short period of grace the confusion gave the defenders, Imrahil quickly ordered some of the men he had held in reserve into the area near the broken Gate, then sped up one of the stairs leading up to the outer rampart.

While Imrahil wanted an overview of the Enemy's troops, just as importantly, with the Gate breached, it was time to signal the Rohirrim that they should abandon the siege, before they lost even more men. Also the captured Corsair ships, with the troops from the south on them, should be warned to return to Pelargir. They could not afford to lose that fleet. He watched as the signal flags were raised, then went down again to ground level, to wait for the Enemy to start the assault on the First Circle.

As he stepped off the stairs, Imrahil found Amrothos and Erchirion waiting for him under the banner of Dol Amroth. "They are coming," Amrothos said as the Prince joined his sons. "Mostly Orcs, about half a company of Easterling archers, and some trolls."

"Pikemen to the front!" Imrahil ordered. Soon he heard Faramir commanding his archers from the walls, and from the shouts and cries from the Orcs outside, he judged that the first volley had been effective. Yet the enemy still advanced, and it was not long before the trolls came through the arch of the Gate. Upon the Prince's signal the pikemen charged without hesitation and managed to slay the trolls before they broke through. Counting the losses among his men, Imrahil hoped fervently that the Enemy did not have many trolls in the field. Arrows had little effect on them and he did not have enough pikes.

A messenger came up from the far end of the First Circle to report that the Enemy's catapults had begun launching fiery missiles into the City. The City guards had so far been able to quench most of the resulting fires, but some houses had still caught fire. Imrahil sent the messenger back with orders to not risk losing much-needed men in fighting fires, and to start withdrawing from that end of the Circle before they were cut off.

Meanwhile, the arches of the Gate had been filling up with Orcs, and battle began in earnest. At first Faramir's archers kept the Orcs from advancing into the open square, but once their first store of arrows ran low, the Orcs started moving forward. Imrahil gave the signal to start dropping back. The Orcs, with support from the Easterlings, immediately began to push them harder, and at one point even briefly broke through the first line of men facing them.

"Should we be falling back already?" Amrothos asked, looking concerned.

"There is no victory for us in this battle," Imrahil reminded his youngest son. "At most we fight to delay the fall of the City. Holding the Gate arches and the square would lose us too many men for no gain. Among the houses, the greater losses will be the Enemy's."

As they kept slowly retreating, Faramir came running up. "There are fires near the gate to the Second Circle. Unless we move faster, we will be caught between the fire and the Enemy's troops," he said after catching his breath.

~*~

Elrohir had been gone for some time to look for news of how the battle was going. His expression as he returned was grim.

"The Gate has been breached," Elrohir said as he sat down, exchanging a look with his brother.

So, the end then... Halbarad put the thought aside quickly.

There had not yet been a call to evacuate, and Pippin asked, "What will happen now?"

Halbarad felt sorry for the hobbit, though he was impressed also by how well the young Took was holding up. Being caught up in this siege must be utterly overwhelming for one not used to battle.

He was about to reply, but Elladan spoke first, quelling further questions from the hobbit. "We can only wait, but in the end either we will have the chance to escape Minas Tirith, or we fall back to the Citadel to make a last stand there."

Not long after, Elrohir stood up again and asked Halbarad to come with him. The Ranger followed him outside, where Elrohir, clearly ill at ease, hesitated long before he spoke. "I did not want to say this in front of Aragorn, as he may still have some awareness of what is said. I heard from the healers that when we have to abandon the City, the path is such that it is impossible to carry a litter."

"What then? We cannot leave him behind for the Enemy!" Halbarad said sharply. Elrohir said nothing, only shook his head, not meeting Halbarad's gaze.

The silence between them dragged on as Halbarad struggled to accept what he would have to do. Finally, reluctantly, he spoke just as Elrohir was also about to continue. "I will stay with him then. If Aragorn lives yet when they find us, he will die by my hand before he can be taken."

"No." Elrohir shook his head resolutely. "Not you. I will stay."

"Elrond's son would be as great a prize for the Enemy as the Heir of Isildur," Halbarad objected.

"I would not be captured alive," Elrohir replied. "Halbarad, you are Aragorn's heir. Your duty lies elsewhere."

Duty be cursed. My place is beside Aragorn, Halbarad wanted to say, but he knew Elrohir was right. He had willingly accepted the charge Aragorn had entrusted him with. He could not turn away from that, not while there was another who was willing to stay behind. This, though... if anyone had to do it, it should be him. Yet to not wait until the last, but take Aragorn's life at the time that they should evacuate the City and then take up the Chieftainship, would be closer to murder than to mercy. Halbarad glanced at Elrohir. No other would I trust with that grim duty save you or Elladan. Legolas and Gimli he did not yet know well enough, and Gandalf he was no longer sure he trusted after his strange behaviour the night before. "I cannot ask you to die with Aragorn in my stead," he said in the end. "And Elrohir, what of your brother if you…?"

"He will understand. Halbarad, this is my choice to make, and I do not choose to do this lightly."

Halbarad lowered his gaze as he gave in. "So be it then. May we be spared the need." He fell silent, then asked after a short pause, "Do you think Sauron will try again to attack him through the shards as he did this night?"

Elrohir replied, "No, or at least not during the daytime, but that danger is another reason that I should be the one to stay behind, rather than you."

Halbarad nodded grimly as they went back inside. As he sat down again at Aragorn's side, trying not to think of what they might have to do, he could only hope that the final defence of Minas Tirith would hold long enough. If only there was something he could do, other than sit here and wait. He considered whether it might make a difference if he sent the Grey Company down to the battle, but what good could so few men do?

Some time later, Gandalf came in, and with a sigh sat down heavily. "The Nazgûl is dead," the wizard said. "I slew him at the Gate of the City."

Halbarad felt a brief surge of grim satisfaction at this news, as Elladan asked, "I would guess it was a hard confrontation?"

Gandalf closed his eyes wearily before speaking. "Harder perhaps than it ought to have been. I know not whether it is that the Wraiths are strengthened that much by their Master holding the One, or that I am weakened in some way."

After a short silence, he continued. "At least now I see what I must do. Legolas, Gimli, Pippin, the time for us to leave Minas Tirith has come. Get your packs and meet me at the stables." He then turned to Halbarad. "If there are any messages for the North that you need to have delivered fast, I can take them for you."

Halbarad could only look at Gandalf in shock. Had he even heard him aright? He shot a quick glance at Elladan, who appeared as taken by surprise as he was. Before Halbarad could think of anything to say, Gimli asked sharply, "Why would we leave now, Gandalf? Give us your reasons first."

Before Gandalf had a chance to respond, an indignant Pippin reacted as well. "Leave? But I am sworn to the Steward's service. And what about Strider? We cannot just go and leave him behind!"

Indeed, what about Strider? Halbarad thought as he looked at his kinsman's unconscious form. He found it almost impossible to believe that Gandalf would so casually abandon Aragorn. At least now he had the answer to what he had been wondering about earlier in the day. Whatever Gandalf's feelings might be, he could no longer accept that friendship or affection were any part of them.

At first, Legolas had not even looked up at Gandalf's words, but when the wizard pressed him for an answer, he replied, "Pippin is right, Mithrandir. What can be so urgent that you would abandon in his final hours one you call friend? Where do you intend to go? Tell us."

Gandalf lowered his eyes when Legolas looked at him. It seemed that he was going to say something, but in the end the wizard remained silent as he stood up and walked towards the door.

"Gandalf!" Halbarad called him back, flinching at the wizard's casual dismissal of Aragorn. "Will you not at least look at Aragorn?" The wizard paused and looked back at Halbarad. That he did not, even then, spare so much as a glance for Aragorn incensed the Ranger. "Or do you no longer need to even pretend to friendship, or compassion, now you cannot use him anymore?" he asked in a low voice, trying to keep his rising anger in check. "Is he but a tool to you, only of value when whole, to be discarded when broken beyond repair? Go, then. Abandon Aragorn. Abandon this city. Abandon all you have fought for. Get out of here."

Halbarad shrugged off Elrohir's restraining hand on his arm, and met Gandalf's gaze, seeing only anger in it. He looked back steadily, angrily, ignoring a brief twinge of doubt at the wisdom of confronting the wizard.

Then, just as the other looked away, Halbarad thought he saw a flash of sorrow or pain in his eyes, but it was gone so quickly that he could not be sure of it. Before he could say anything more, Gandalf turned around and walked out.

"He is still wearing Narya," Elladan said.

"Should I go after him?" Elrohir asked.

"No," Elladan replied. "He has made up his mind. He will not change it."

"But should he not again be warned against using..."

"I have warned him, brother," Elladan interrupted pointedly. "He has chosen to ignore that warning."

Legolas spoke. "Mithrandir is one of the bearers of the Three?"

"Yes," Elrohir confirmed, "and that knowledge should not go beyond those in this room." He briefly caught Gimli's eye, then held Pippin's gaze much longer, until the hobbit blushed and looked down.

"For that alone it would be a severe blow to lose him to the Enemy. And knowing this, I share your earlier concerns," Legolas continued, looking troubled.

Silence returned to the room as all were deep in thought, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Halbarad wondered what Gandalf had in mind, and why he was so unwilling to disclose it. Whatever it was, he reckoned he was unlikely to find out any time soon, if at all. The worst, though, was not the wizard's secrecy, or the expectation that he would be obeyed without question – those Halbarad had become used to over the years – but the cold way he had walked away from Aragorn. After decades of what appeared to be friendship, that cut cruelly. Halbarad could but hope that Elrohir had been wrong before and that Aragorn was no longer aware of what went on in the room. It would be awful had he had to hear this.

Halbarad stood up to ask the Ranger who stood guard outside their door – young Hunthor it was now – to send someone to find out how the battle for the lower Circles of the City was going. Then he sat down again, letting his hand rest on Aragorn's arm, trying to keep his mind off Gandalf's betrayal, yet also hoping that at least the wizard's defeat of the Nazgûl might have given them enough time that they would not have to abandon the city yet.

It was at least an hour before Hunthor came in to report that the defenders were still holding the First Circle, though large parts of it were on fire and they had been pushed back near to the gate to the Second Circle. After he made his report, the young Ranger hesitated before leaving. As Halbarad looked at him questioningly, he spoke. "Sir? The men are asking how the Chieftain is. What do you want me to tell them?"

"Tell them he still lives.There is naught more to be said."

~*~

"Fall back!"

Imrahil's order was passed along quickly to the last few groups of defenders still in position in the First Circle. Hopefully all of them would make it out. He noted that Faramir had gone back on to the roof of one of the houses near the gate to the Second Circle, but lost sight of his nephew as he himself moved nearer the gate.

As the last defenders retreated to the square in front of the gate, Orcs followed close behind. Archers from the walls above provided cover for Imrahil and his men to get through the gate, forcing the Enemy's archers with their weaker bows to stay out of range. He heaved a sigh of relief as the gate closed behind him. That should at least slow the advance of the Enemy's troops somewhat.

Imrahil looked around for Faramir, but did not see him at first. Then he spotted him sitting on a low wall, with a healer tending him. Alarmed, he rushed over. "Faramir! You are wounded?"

"No more than a scratch," the younger man replied, his pained expression as the healer handled his arm belying his statement.

The healer snorted dismissively. "That so-called scratch ought to be enough to take him out of this battle, my lord."

Imrahil nodded, and looked sternly at Faramir who was about to protest. "Go to the Citadel, and report to the Steward that the First Circle is lost. Your lieutenant can take over command of the archers."

While Faramir spoke to Mablung, Imrahil went up on the wall and returned his attention to the defence of the gate. The Orcs were waiting, staying out of his archers' range. It was not long before it became obvious what they had been waiting for, as a ram was rolled into the square before the gate.

Mablung soon joined Imrahil on the wall, and they watched while the ram was put into position. The Orcs pushing it were being picked off by the Ithilien archers who stood near the gate, but they were replaced almost as quickly as they fell.

"How are we doing for arrows?" Imrahil asked.

"We do not have a problem so far, sir," the other replied. "We have retrieved most of our own arrows all this afternoon, as well as used the ones shot at us."

Once the ram had been manoeuvred into place, Imrahil left the walls again, with a final warning to Mablung to not be caught on the wall near the gate once the retreat continued.

By the time the Enemy's troops had broken through the gate and started advancing into the Second Circle, the sun had gone down. From now on, it would be close quarters and man to man, or rather man to Orc, the Prince thought. It was going to be hard fighting the night-seeing Orcs. At least they had accounted for most of the Easterlings.

For the next hour or so, the defenders could not do more than slowly retreat. The Orcs were setting fires as they advanced into the streets of the Second Circle. Imrahil knew it mattered little any more, but it still hurt to see fair houses where not long ago people had dwelt go up in flame. He spared a brief thought for Denethor and what the loss of his beloved city would do to him, and wondered how long it would be before the same fate befell Dol Amroth.

At least, Imrahil thought, the light from the fires meant that the Orcs had little advantage of their night sight, and he could still use his archers. Suddenly he noticed there was fire behind them as well as in front. Had Orcs managed to sneak through their line, or was there a breach in the inner wall somewhere? As he looked behind, and saw his banner blowing about, he realised that it was most likely just windblown sparks from the fires in the First Circle that were the cause.

They had almost reached the tunnel through the Rock now. Though this would make an excellent spot to block the Enemy's troops, Imrahil decided against it. He would rather that the Orcs followed along the slow path through the streets of the City than that they would notice that there was a way up the rockface to the next circle, difficult though it was. One precaution he took against that was to send Erchirion on to the Third Circle with a small company to protect the vulnerable area along the side of the Rock. He much preferred not being surprised by any of the Enemy's soldiers, should they find a way up, he thought grimly.

After the tunnel, the pace of the assault slowed, and they even pushed their opponents back again. Yet Imrahil knew it was no more than a temporary reprieve, welcome though it was. Then a messenger from Erchirion's company came running; the high winds were blowing sparks into the Third Circle, and they did not have enough men to fight the resulting fires.

Imrahil told the messenger to wait for his answer before returning. To delay now would be unwise. They were still holding their enemies at bay, and could continue to do so for some time to come, yet the fires were as great a threat to the city as the Enemy's armies.

He returned his attention to the messenger. "Tell Erchirion to keep the fires under control as much as possible. Then go on to the Citadel, and find the Steward. Tell him it is time to start preparing to evacuate the City. We can still hold back the Enemy for some hours, but with the fires, the Third Circle may be lost before the Second. It is over. Minas Tirith is lost."

Chapter Text

March 16, 3019

He knew not to follow the voice that called him, whispering his name at the edge of his hearing, trying to lure him into the cold grey mists that were ever closer, ever denser. He knew it was the voice of Sauron, and that if he gave it heed, he would be enslaved by the Morgul spell, even if the shards did not take him. His fear of that fate only seemed to strengthen the pull of the mists.

Before, Elladan and Elrohir had helped to keep him from that place, and he knew well that he must not give in, that he should not follow that voice. Yet he was nearly spent, and it would be so easy to stop fighting, stop resisting and go down that grey, silent path. No, he thought, gathering what strength remained him to challenge that call. I. Will. Not. And for a short, blessed time the voice was silent.

Once more he had found the will to resist, but he wondered how much longer he would be able to hold out. It helped that he was not alone, and even if that too took strength he no longer had to spare, he concentrated on the presence of his foster-brothers at the edge of his awareness.

~*~

Over the course of the afternoon, Aragorn had been sinking ever deeper into unconsciousness. He barely stirred now, except for an occasional twitch of arm or leg or a grimace of pain. Halbarad was about to ask Elrohir how long Aragorn still had, when the peredhel leant forward to put one hand on Aragorn's brow, holding the other over his heart. He is trying to sense where the shards of the Morgul blade are, Halbarad realised, and a chill ran through him at the thought that Aragorn might yet be lost to that vile spell.

~*~

Awareness... How could he even be aware? He knew he was unconscious, so what was it that now sustained thought and even sensation? His soul? He somehow knew his body still experienced intense pain, yet he no longer felt it. Even so he was still aware of Elladan and Elrohir, and he did still also feel Halbarad's hand holding his. He wondered that such awareness of touch remained him. No, it was not awareness of touch, it was awareness of Halbarad. And how it would embarrass his outwardly gruff, dour – and oh so beloved – kinsman to know that he knew of that tender gesture, he thought with a flicker of amusement. Then again, no, Halbarad would not be embarrassed, and he wished that his kinsman could know that he knew.

He felt Elrohir's presence within his mind now, and a light touch of his foster-brother's hand on his brow. He tried to respond, but did not know whether his brother could still hear him.

~*~

Elrond's son did not stir until the sun had disappeared beyond Mindolluin and the room slowly started to darken. Watching Elrohir's hand on Aragorn's brow softly smoothing back his hair, Halbarad held his breath as the peredhel finally spoke. "It cannot be long. He is waning fast, and I doubt he will last much beyond the fading of this day's light."

"The shards?" Halbarad asked. Even if he dreaded the answer, he had to know. "Will he escape the Morgul spell?" As Elrohir did not answer immediately, Halbarad's fear rose. No... "Elrohir?" he prompted.

At the mention of his name, the other looked up, meeting Halbarad's gaze, yet still not speaking. Finally, he did reply, relief clear in his voice. "Yes, he will. The shards move faster than I would have held possible, but that fate at least should be spared him."

Halbarad looked away as his sense of loss, mingled with his own bitter-tinged relief that Aragorn would not be made a wraith, nearly overcame him. No one else spoke, and after a short time Legolas got up to light some lamps, pausing to lightly touch Aragorn's arm before he sat down again. The room was silent but for the sound of Aragorn's laboured breathing. Halbarad found himself counting every breath.

Outside, the pale sunset sky darkened into dusk, Eärendil's light bright just above the dark bulk of the mountain. All the while, Halbarad sat holding Aragorn's hand, even if he knew his kinsman would not be aware of it. It was all he could do now, to wait, and watch as Aragorn's last strength faded.

~*~

Slowly, the world became darker, colder, smaller, his awareness drawing inwards ever more.

Then, suddenly, for one moment, there was nothing but white-hot agony, and he shuddered as the pain shot through him; had he still been able to, he would have screamed.

Black

Cold

He was, nothing more.

A Darkness, grasping, clawing, tearing. A stern Voice, summoning him to the Halls of Mandos. Both pulling at him.

A third presence, a brightness, the Dark pushed away from him, and another voice. Go! Go now! Look West. Follow the Summons. Sauron shall NOT take you!

~*~

Had this been Aragorn's last breath? No, yet another... he still lived. Then Halbarad felt a shudder go through Aragorn, and a sigh of breath, exhaled.

Silence.

Still holding Aragorn's hand, Halbarad bowed his head, waiting against reason; yet he knew it was over. Aragorn was dead.

After a few minutes, Halbarad looked up, meeting Elrohir's gaze. Elrohir seemed lost in thought, but then he stood up and again laid his hand on Aragorn's brow. "Thus passes Aragorn, son of Arathorn," he said, then added softly, "The Enemy did not take him, even at the last."

Halbarad nodded in gratitude at the reassurance that Aragorn had indeed escaped the Morgul spell. He now stood up as well, looking around as he did so. Pippin stood staring in wide-eyed distress. Legolas stood next to him, head bowed, a hand on the hobbit's shoulder. Elladan and Elrohir were standing close to each other, heads together, letting their tears flow freely. Gimli appeared stoic, except for the gleam of tears in his eyes.

It was some time before Elladan came over to Halbarad and said, "If we may, Elrohir and I would take care of our brother's body."

Not trusting himself to speak without breaking down, Halbarad nodded his agreement. He closed his eyes against his tears, and took several deep breaths to collect himself, as Elrohir spoke next. "You should send someone to notify the Grey Company. They must be told."

"I shall go myself," Halbarad replied. He did not want to leave Aragorn's side, but the men should hear it from him.

"And I will send a messenger to the Steward of Gondor to inform him of the passing of the Heir of Elendil," Elladan said.

As he left the Houses of Healing, Halbarad found he was grateful for the chance to be alone for a few minutes while he walked to the house where the Rangers were lodged, but it was only a short distance, and he reached the place all too soon. Some of the men called out a greeting when he crossed the threshold, but all fell silent when they saw his grim expression. He looked around, meeting the eyes of each man briefly, then took a deep breath and spoke. "Aragorn is dead."

More than a few of the Rangers wept, others turning away to gaze into unseen distances. While Halbarad waited to give them time to regain their composure, Halmir immediately came over to him, not speaking, but putting a hand on his shoulder. Halbarad drew his son into a brief embrace, before calling the Company to attention, telling them to prepare to come with him to the Houses of Healing.

It was a grim and silent group that walked back towards the Houses. Upon their arrival they were directed to a large chamber near the back of the main building.

At first, Halbarad remained with the Grey Company, waiting. Elladan was standing with Legolas and Gimli by the bier on which Aragorn lay. Elrohir was talking to Pippin in one of the corners of the chamber. When Elladan and the other two moved away, the men went over in twos and threes to give their lord his final honours. Halbarad waited yet. He would give others the time they needed.

With the arrival of the Steward of Gondor and his son, Elladan went over to speak to them. Aware that he ought to do so as well, Halbarad headed across the room to join them, first going to stand at the bier. The Elendilmir was on Aragorn's brow, and the cloth that had been placed over his body was the King's standard, he noted. Not only was it right that something made by Arwen would even now accompany Aragorn to his final rest, but he also would go with the honours due him as Elendil's Heir. That careful attention to detail was Elladan's doing, Halbarad doubted not.

Looking at how the pale light of the Elendilmir softened the harsh lines of pain in Aragorn's face, Halbarad tried to tell himself that now Aragorn was at peace, his suffering over. Yet those words were but platitudes; empty, meaningless. Aragorn had given his life over to his fate, withholding nothing in pursuit of a victory beyond hope, and still he had fallen. What peace could there be in that? He had been prepared, trained, honed for this single purpose, to bring about the defeat of Sauron. What peace then was there in knowing that the Enemy had won and all had been for naught? But what good were such thoughts of destiny or fate or high purpose? All that mattered now was that his kinsman, his friend, lay here dead. With a sigh and a shake of his head, Halbarad let his hand linger on Aragorn's arm before he turned away to join Elladan and Denethor.

The Steward was just saying to Elladan that he would send servants from the Houses of Healing to the Hallows with the order to have a pyre built. "A pyre?" Halbarad asked.

Denethor replied, "There is no time to prepare a tomb. Would you see the body of your lord dishonoured and displayed as a trophy by the Enemy when he takes the City?"

Elladan added, "Or perhaps still worse, with a Morgul wound..."

Denethor's words had not made Halbarad think beyond Aragorn's head on a pike over the Gate of Minas Tirith, but Elladan clearly feared even worse than that. Halbarad felt sick at the thought of what the Necromancer might do still. Fire at least would be clean. "A pyre it shall be then. Have your servants see to it, lord Steward," he answered Denethor.

Leaving Elladan to arrange further details with the Steward, Halbarad returned to the bier. He stood by Aragorn's side head bowed, his hand on his kinsman's arm. Elrohir joined him, not speaking, but placing a hand on his shoulder as they stood there together.

After some time, a messenger came from the Hallows to announce that all was in readiness. Halbarad left Elrohir at the bier and joined Elladan in arranging the order of the procession that was to take Aragorn to the Hallows. Halmir, Borlas, Beleg and Hunthor would be the pall-bearers. As they were about to take their places, Legolas walked up to them and spoke with Halmir and Beleg. Beleg nodded at his words and came over to Halbarad.

"Captain, would you mind if I yield my place to Legolas? The Fellowship should also be represented," Beleg asked. Halbarad gave his agreement and the Ranger returned to take his place with the other men.

In silence, Halbarad led the Grey Company as they bore Aragorn from the Houses of Healing through Fen Hollen. Behind them followed the sons of Elrond, Gimli, Pippin, and Denethor and his son. When they reached the Hallows, the Rangers placed their lord's body on the pyre that had been set in the square outside the House of the Kings and took position in a guard of honour.

Halbarad was about to step forward, when to his surprise Denethor, carrying a wrapped object, joined him and the sons of Elrond. He wondered what the Steward was up to. Surely the man would not cause a scene? Not here. Not now. He cast a glance at Elladan, who indicated his approval of Denethor's action, and waited to see what had earned the peredhel's agreement. As they reached the pyre, Halbarad halted with the others, then took another step forward, so that he stood next to Aragorn. He closed his eyes briefly, attempting to collect himself. He started to reach for the Elendilmir, then stopped and first took off his Ranger star, pinning it on Aragorn's cloak. Only then, after another short pause to steady his hands, did he take the jewel from Aragorn's brow and put it on his own.

He would rather have let the Elendilmir remain with Aragorn. Had the decision been solely personal, Halbarad thought, he would have done so, but the jewel was not only a symbol of Arnor and its Kings, but also of the Chieftain's authority, and he knew he could not afford to do as he wished.

Looking away from Aragorn, Halbarad first glanced at the Rangers standing grimly, silently in place. He then looked around the square and at the great dome of the House of the Kings that towered over it. All those who lay there, surrounded by cold marble, were Aragorn's ancestors, and his own as well, yet he felt very little at that thought.

In the North, even in Annúminas, there had never been such an extravagance of splendour around the tombs of the Kings, and the Chieftains – except those that had fallen in the Wild, and were buried like any Ranger, hastily and often anonymously in whatever resting place could be found – lay in simple mounds in the Angle, alongside their people. And now, for the last of the line of the Kings, there would not even be a grave.

Halbarad reluctantly stepped back, making place for Denethor. The Steward did not move forward immediately, but first unwrapped the bundle he had carried with him. Halbarad suppressed a gasp as he realised what it was that Denethor held in his hands, and he saw a stir go through the other onlookers as well.

The Steward's face was impassive as he moved forward. After a brief look at Aragorn, he made a slight bow and placed the winged crown of Gondor on the pyre at Aragorn's side. He then stepped back again and spoke in Quenya, "Sië terquanta ná vanda Arandurion Ondórëo."

Thus indeed is the oath of the Stewards of Gondor fulfilled. Could you not have found it in your heart to acknowledge him while he still lived? Halbarad thought in bitterness, as he turned to Elladan to take the torch the other held. He stepped forward again, his resentment of the Steward out of mind as soon as he turned to the pyre. A deep breath, and a last look at Aragorn's face, as he thrust the torch in the pyre before his tears could overwhelm him.

Not until he stood with the Grey Company again, watching the flames rise high to claim Aragorn's body, did Halbarad allow himself the tears he had been holding back since the moment his kinsman had died. Tomorrow, he would be what he now had to be, be Chieftain to his people, but now, here under the stars, he could only grieve for his friend.

Chapter Text

March 17, 3019

Denethor found that he mainly felt bored as he stood watching the pyre. Any satisfaction over the death of the one who would have taken the rule of Gondor from him was muted by the knowledge that the situation they were in threatened Gondor's very existence. As he had not had the opportunity before, he looked round to study those present. The Elf and the Dwarf could be discounted; the sons of Elrond, on the other hand, could not. He still found it all but impossible to fathom the two, and he wondered what lay hidden beneath that surface of Elven detachment.

The Northern Rangers and their Captain, now their Chieftain... there had to be more to the man than mere devotion to his lord. One thing Thorongil had not been was overly sentimental, and while he might be expected to generously reward a liegeman's loyalty, the Steward doubted that such generosity would go as far as handing rule to one unsuited.

At least this Halbarad might turn out not to be another of Mithrandir's pawns, as rumour from the Houses of Healing suggested that the wizard had left there after some disagreement before abandoning the City altogether. Of course, in Mithrandir's stead there might well be a peredhel, or two, wanting to rule from the new Chieftain's shadow.

The North was definitely going to bear watching, that much was certain; especially since it was unlikely that Gondor could hold Anórien. They would need a replacement source of grain, and that would have to come from the North. The resulting supply lines would be long and vulnerable. Perhaps by sea? Or through Rohan and reclaim Tharbad from the wilderness, if they could spare the men, and use either the river or the old northern road.

With a start of annoyance, Denethor realised that Thorongil... Aragorn had been a step ahead of him, and necessity would indeed force him to work with the northern Dúnedain. Gondor was going to need what resources the North had, as much as the North needed the strength of Gondor.

And Mithrandir's departure; clearly, with Elendil's Heir dead, the wizard had no further use for Gondor in whatever plan he had in mind. The feeling was mutual. The wizard's meddling and plotting – together with the other so-called Wise – had brought them to this situation, and Denethor doubted he would do much worse without the benefit of that wisdom than with it. Or, and that was not a comfortable thought at all, was Mithrandir just fleeing the ruin of the West, and did he really no longer have a plan? No matter. Even if the Enemy had already won, Gondor still stood – and his own task to see that she remained doing so – and they could only do what they had always done, stand and fight.

After a while a messenger quietly came up to Denethor and whispered that he had urgent word from Imrahil of the battle for the City. Denethor nodded and, together with Faramir, followed. Almost immediately the messenger spoke, "My lord, the Prince wishes to advise you that it is time to start preparing for the evacuation of the City."

"What is the situation?" Denethor asked.

"We still hold the Second Circle, but the Enemy's troops are setting fires everywhere, and now the Third Circle is in danger from the fire. Lest ..."

"I will go down to the Second Circle to see for myself," Denethor interrupted the messenger. "Lead the way."

"Yes, my lord."

They quickly set off back up Rath Dínen and down the winding road through the Circles, the Steward and his son soon outpacing the messenger. They stopped in the Third Circle to see how Erchirion's men were doing fighting the fires. Faramir and Erchirion were soon deeply involved in a discussion of good places for ambushes in the Second and Third Circles.

Briefly going up to the top of the wall, Denethor found that the Second Circle was a confusion of fire and smoke, with the dark silhouettes of the Enemy's forces moving about between the burning houses. Beyond thick screens of smoke nothing could be seen of the First Circle and the outer wall.

Denethor rapidly descended, and called Faramir from his conversation before going on through the tunnel in the Rock and towards the gate to the Second Circle. It seemed the fires in the Second Circle had not yet progressed to this side of the Rock, though there was smoke rising from the other side of the wall that separated the First and Second Circles, and the smell of burning was everywhere.

Some of Imrahil's men were waiting near the gate, and one took them to where the Prince was directing his force's slow retreat. They found Imrahil as he was wiping the sweat off his brow with a rag that might have been clean not too long ago; now it served only to redistribute the smears of ash over his face. As soon as he saw them, the Prince came over. "Denethor, I did not expect you to come down here yourself, but now that you are..."

"Is it not too soon to abandon the City? You seem to be holding back the Enemy well enough."

"For now, but in the end it is hopeless," Imrahil replied. "We are holding them back, but it is costing us dearly. And with the Third Circle already at risk from the fires, we could be cut off from retreat at any time, and then the Enemy's troops would be able to advance unhindered."

Faramir asked, "Can you defend the way until after dawn? The mountain path will be too hard for many in the dark."

Imrahil turned to look down the street, and stood in thought for some time, before replying. "That will be too long, especially if we want any of the rear-guard to have a chance of getting out. By dawn, the City should be empty."

"Most groups will have to set off in the dark, but that cannot be helped. Once they are across the crest of the mountain, they can light torches," Denethor answered Faramir, then turned to Imrahil. "Send Húrin of the Keys to the Sixth Circle with some men that are not immediately needed here, and have him check that all houses are empty on his way up."

Imrahil replied, "I will do so. Do you want me to command the retreat?"

"Yes, but keep me informed," Denethor said.

The decision made, Denethor went back to the Citadel, Faramir walking beside him. Neither said anything as they made their way up through the Circles. Once they reached the Citadel, Denethor spoke. "Go pass the order to prepare to abandon the City to the Guard. Then pack only what you can easily carry and join me in my quarters."

While Faramir nodded and went off to find the captain of the Guard, Denethor briefly rested before going to the hidden chamber at the top of the White Tower. He dared not risk using the palantír now, but it should not fall into Sauron's hands either.

By the time Faramir rejoined him, Denethor had finished sorting the pile of paper on his desk, and had started on destroying what should not be disclosed to the Enemy. He had not bothered packing anything except what would be of practical use. The mountain path would be hard enough to negotiate in the dark even without unnecessary encumbrances, and the memories he wanted to take with him did not reside in objects.

Leaving the White Tower, the two first headed for the embrasure at the point of the Citadel for a last look at Minas Tirith. Faramir was silent as he stood looking out. Denethor found he did not want to speak either. Standing at the edge of the battlement, looking down upon the lower Circles of the City outlined in fire, there was no need for words. Denethor turned away from the sight. "Come," he called to Faramir. "It is time to leave."

They had not been the only ones who had wanted to take a last look at their city, and by now a small crowd had gathered near the point of the Citadel. Once people realised that the Steward and his son were there, some came over to ask what they were supposed to do. Denethor told them to gather near Fen Hollen, and to take only what they could carry. Most were satisfied with this, but there were some who wanted to know where they would go and what would happen to Gondor, and to them. These, too, Denethor answered, reassuring them that none who had been in the last defence of Minas Tirith would be left in want as long as Gondor stood.

All questions answered, the Steward set off for the tunnel to the Sixth Circle, and down the streets to the square near Fen Hollen, where the first groups were gathering. The Tower Guards let people into the Hallows, keeping as much order as they could and taking care that the people went through in the order they should be leaving in. Only those deemed capable of taking the hazardous path in darkness were being let out.

Denethor sought out the Captain of the Guard of the Tower. When he spotted him, Belzagar was engaged in a rather heated conversation with someone whom the Steward recognised as a minor noble from one of the southern fiefs. The man was trying to persuade the Captain that he should be let through with one of the first groups. Belzagar looked unconvinced by his arguments and was about to walk off, when he noticed the Steward and headed over to him instead.

"My lord," Belzagar greeted him.

"Captain," Denethor replied. "Has there been much of that?"

"Not yet," the Captain said, "But I do not doubt there will be more who think they should be given precedence."

"No doubt," the Steward agreed drily. "Deal with them as you see fit. How is the evacuation going otherwise?"

"So far, everything is going well. The first groups have started up the path, and the plan is to keep people moving through as fast as is possible in the dark. Luckily it is a clear night, and there is at least some light from the moon."

Denethor nodded. "Who is placed in charge at the other end of the path?" he asked.

"No one, so far," Belzagar admitted. "I thought..."

The Steward raised his hand to stop him. "That is an oversight, Captain." He then turned to Faramir. "How is the arm?"

Faramir gingerly moved his wounded arm. "Not too bad, a bit stiff."

"Very well," Denethor said, deciding to ignore the wince of pain his son tried to hide. "Then you will be on your way to take command at the other end of the path, and make certain there are no enemy troops near the area."

"I do not want to be given preferential treatment," Faramir protested.

"Nonsense," replied the Steward, "I need a captain I can rely on at the other end, and while you cannot fight with that arm, you can still command." He would have sent Húrin, but with Faramir out of the battle, Imrahil would need him more.

Denethor half expected Faramir to object again, but his son fell silent, and after some thought replied, "Thank you, my lord. I will do as you wish."

Faramir spoke to Belzagar. "Can you spare me five or so of your men?"

"Of course," the Captain replied, and called over one of his soldiers. "Beregond, choose four of your companions. You are to accompany the lord Faramir."

While waiting for Beregond and his fellows, Denethor and Faramir took their leave. As Faramir was about to head for the Hallows, he turned and, in a low voice so that no other could hear, spoke. "Father, do not risk waiting until the very last to leave the City. Your people need you. I need you."

Denethor nodded. "I will see you at the other end of the path, son."

The Steward watched as Faramir walked off. He was pleased that his son had learned his own mind and had realised at last that the wizard's advice was not given for Gondor's benefit. With their newfound accord still so fresh, it hurt to send him from his side, though he knew that Faramir would not be entering into any great danger as yet, or at least no danger greater than that which any of them would face.

Turning again to Belzagar, Denethor asked the Captain to send Peregrin Took to him as soon as he saw him. The Captain said he would, and went back to his men. Almost immediately, the perian came over. It turned out that he had been with the other Guards for some time already, but had not known where to find Denethor.

"What is going to happen now, sir?" Peregrin asked, looking apprehensive.

Denethor looked at him, noticing once again how young Peregrin was. He had learned earlier that by the measure of his own people the Halfling was some years removed yet from his majority. He would still do well to remember that even so he was also the heir of one of his land's leaders. "The City has fallen, and we will abandon it."

"I know that," the other replied. "What I meant was, how are we going to get out, and where will we go then?" After a quick explanation of their path and their destination, Peregrin was briefly quiet, looking pensive. Then he looked up and spoke again, "I am sorry about your city, but at least everybody will get out."

At least most will get out. Denethor could not bring himself to mention to the Halfling that, for their own escape to be successful, a rear-guard would have to remain behind with no hope of escape.

Denethor now walked around the square, the Halfling trailing behind him. He spoke to some of the people waiting to leave, and, searching for anything that required his attention found that his men had everything well in hand. Then, as he turned round, he suddenly noticed he could see an orange glow, as of flames, in the Hallows. Surely the high winds could not be blowing sparks from the lower Circles as high as the Hallows? Or had their opponents somehow managed to scale the flank of Mindolluin? As Denethor strained for a better view, it struck him that there was a much more likely explanation: there had to have been stray sparks from the pyre.

By now, others had also noticed, and some of the Guards of the Tower hurried towards him. Denethor strode towards the Hallows, the Halfling running to stay at his side, leaving the soldiers to catch up to him. A fire too near their escape route could leave them cut off in the City if no effort to control the flames was made. As he went through Fen Hollen, he could hear the people in the square behind him, as they too realised that there might be a new danger upon them. Denethor stopped and ordered one of the Guards to go back and make sure the crowd was kept under control and to reassure people that they would not be trapped within the City.

Denethor made his way further along Rath Dínen, the Guards with him making sure that he could proceed unhindered. The edges of the square in front of the House of the Kings were full of people staring at the burning dome of the main building. The flames were already starting to eat through the dome's covering. Seeing that, he knew the building was lost.

"My lord," one of the Guards drew his attention as he stood watching. "What should we do?"

"Let it burn," he replied.

"My lord? Should we not attempt to put out the fire?"

"Let it burn," Denethor said again, speaking louder now, so that those nearby could hear what he had to say. "The time of the Kings is past. No hidden heirs to the throne will arise out of legend."

Denethor was certain that by now the rumour of his acknowledgement of a dead man's claim was known to all in the City, yet still a gasp of shock ran through the crowd at his words, the Halfling's high voice standing out, as he continued to speak. "We must face what is to come without hoping for anything we do not bring about ourselves. Only our own strength will protect us from the Enemy. Perhaps we are already defeated, but know that if we are, we will go down fighting, defiant to the last."

Those in the square were silent, until one cried out "Gondor! Denethor!" and all took up the cry. The Steward waited until the cheers had almost died down, then raised his hand to command silence.

"Let it burn," he repeated. "The fire will block our trail and stop the Enemy's troops from following." Another cheer went up at this, as Denethor turned and walked back through Rath Dínen, towards the square in front of Fen Hollen.

As he re-entered the square, a messenger from Imrahil was waiting. The man told Denethor that the Prince wanted him to know that they were still holding position, and that the pressure the Enemy's troops were putting on them had eased slightly. Denethor sent him back with a warning to Imrahil to be wary of surprises, for there was no good reason now for the Enemy to hold back. If anything, one would expect him to push harder at night, and make best use of the Orcs' strength.

For some time, little happened. Denethor stood and watched as the defenders of Minas Tirith filed past. He marked the departure of the Northern Rangers as they marched past, grey-cloaked and grim-faced. One of Elrond's sons met his gaze as they came by, but said nothing.

A while later, Denethor saw that the sky was no longer fully dark and there were noticeably fewer people waiting to go through Fen Hollen. He should not postpone his own departure from the City much longer. He called a Guard to him to take another message to Imrahil. The Prince had to be told that it was time to start the final phase of the retreat. The Guard sped off, and the Steward resisted the desire to look at his City once more, and walked off through Fen Hollen and down the Silent Street a final time.

As Denethor walked past the House of the Stewards, he heard another messenger come running up behind him, and turned to see a man of Dol Amroth speed towards him. The man stood gasping until he had regained his breath. "My lord, the Enemy brought in Men of Khand, and they saw that it is possible to climb the Rock. We managed to keep them in the Second Circle, but they are pressing their attack along that route now, and we will not be able to hold them back long."

"What of the men still in the Second Circle?" Denethor asked.

"Most have made it up into the Third Circle, and will now retreat further. Some have volunteered to stay behind to hold back the Enemy's forces in the Third Circle, so that all others may escape."

Sparing a thought for the men of the rear-guard, Denethor was briefly silent. "And the Prince?" he asked.

"My lord Imrahil was yet unscathed when I left, but his son Erchirion has been wounded," the messenger replied.

"Tell your lord not to delay his retreat. I will depart the City now, and expect to see him at the other end of the path." The messenger sped off again, and Denethor turned and went on down the road, to the path that led out of Minas Tirith.

Chapter Text

March 17 – 18, 3019

The path up Mindolluin turned sharply right around an outcrop of rock, and the light from the burning city vanished. Elrohir blinked, waiting for the instant it took his eyes to adapt. They had at last reached the point where they could no longer be seen from the city, and further ahead some men lit torches. Aside from the torches, the darkness was relieved only by the Moon sinking towards the horizon.

At the front of their group, Elladan handed his flask of miruvor to those behind him. Elrohir took a small sip from his own flask and passed it on ahead to the next in line, Hunthor. Between him and Elladan there would be just enough for all, and no more after that, but Elrohir reckoned they needed it now. He certainly did. And little wonder, he thought. After the last few days, it would be stranger had he not been weary. He shook his head sadly, and returned his attention to the path that would have been treacherous even in daylight.

After having to rely more than once on footholds hewn into the rocks to get past gaps in the path, they now came to a place where the side of the mountain had been considered impassable by even the makers of this precarious path, and a series of short tunnels and stairs had been hewn out of the rock face. It surprised Elrohir that, with all Gondor's skill in building, more had not been done to improve this escape route, but perhaps the path was no more than an afterthought, and no one had truly believed that it might one day be needed. Or they had been more concerned about the possibility of attack from this direction and did not want to provide an easy route into Minas Tirith. It was after all not that long ago that Orcs were a serious threat in the White Mountains.

Slowly, silently, the long line of people wound its way up and down the path, and just as slowly, the first grey light of day appeared.

The light had come too late for some who had gone before. Elrohir looked down as he carefully crossed a narrow shoulder of icy rock with great drops to either side, and glimpsed a crumpled shape lying in the shadows near the bottom of the ravine.

By midmorning, the path became slightly less difficult, and not a moment too soon, judging from the way even the hardy Rangers were beginning to waver and stumble. He could now perhaps think about other things than where to place his next step; and there was much that needed consideration.

Reluctantly, Elrohir remembered the day Arathorn had died. The Orcs that ambushed them had been craftier than usual, and the Chieftain was dead almost before they realised their party was under attack. At the time, both he and his brother had believed they were at fault for failing to spot the trap that killed their friend. Elrohir could not help but feel now that he had failed another friend, for neither his prowess as a warrior nor his skill as a healer had been enough to save Arathorn's son, though he knew also that even their father would not have been able to save their brother's life.

He thought back to Aragorn's last words. Arwen... These two loved each other so. Elrohir recalled when he had first heard about their troth-plight. His opposition to it had been almost as fierce as their father's; it had taken time, and, he thought ruefully, hard words from Arwen before he came to accept it. Elladan had done so much sooner, which had led to heated argument between him and his twin as well.

Heavy-hearted, Elrohir turned his attention to the next section of the path. They had to climb a short distance as the path took them away from Mindolluin and across a ridge to a less steep slope, heading down again. There were still miles and hours to go before they would reach the hidden vale in Lossarnach where the path came out, or so he had been told. The expectation was that they would arrive around nightfall. He hoped that would give them a chance for at least some rest, hopefully even a full night's sleep, before starting the next part of their journey back north. Despite the sip of miruvor he had taken, he was still weary to the point of exhaustion.

Once they left the southern shoulder of Mindolluin behind, the path widened enough that two could walk side by side. Many of the Gondorians were using it as a chance to sit down and take some rest without blocking the path for those behind them. The Grey Company halted as well, but only to eat a bite, and then they quickly walked on again.

Elladan joined him soon after their brief rest, but beyond a greeting neither brother spoke. Weary as they were, there was comfort in merely walking together.

Some while later, when the path started to wind its way among grassy patches and low trees, little more than shrubs, rather than bare rock and ice, Halbarad called for a longer halt, just as Elrohir started to wonder whether he would have to remind him not to push the men beyond their endurance. The Rangers sat down, clearly glad of the rest, while Halbarad walked around, occasionally sitting down next to one of them to exchange a few words.

As he needed to talk to Legolas and Gimli, Elrohir walked over to where the two were sitting and joined them. "Are your plans still unchanged?" he asked.

Gimli nodded as Legolas replied, "Yes, we will journey with you into Wilderland. I do not know yet whether we will go as far as Lothlórien. If we can safely cross Anduin earlier, we should perhaps do so, and then go on east and return to our own lands."

"It may not be possible to cross south of Lórien. The Enemy is likely to have control over both shores," Elrohir said. "It would also take you too near Dol Guldur, even if you can."

"Not if we can cut across the Brown Lands and travel up the eastern side of Mirkwood," said Legolas.

"There is safety in staying together longer," Gimli said, "And we do not know the situation in Wilderland. We must delay choosing our road until we know more."

Legolas was only willing to concede that he would wait until their road became clearer, and Elrohir let it go; they were yet far from the time that a decision would have to be taken.

Elrohir walked over to where Halbarad was standing. The Ranger nodded at him, but did not speak at first. "How are the men doing?" Elrohir finally broke the silence.

"Well enough," replied Halbarad. "They are weary, but even the wounded have no trouble keeping up this pace. The Company will be in good shape to ride back north at speed. I only hope we will find horses within a day or so once we are in Lossarnach."

"Do you want me to take a look at the wounded?" Elrohir asked, knowing that one or two of the men would still benefit from his care. Halbarad nodded and walked away. Elrohir had not asked how Halbarad himself was doing. That was clear enough to see, and he did not think the Ranger would thank him for asking. For now, the best he could do would be to merely keep an eye on him. Elladan joined him, and from his speculative look at Halbarad, it was obvious his brother shared his concern.

"Should I speak to Halbarad?" Elladan asked.

Elrohir shook his head. "Let him be for now."

Elladan nodded, then looked at him sharply. "And you?"

"Need you ask?"

"No," Elladan replied, "But look after yourself as well, brother. Do not lose sight of your own sorrow against that of others."

Elrohir smiled wanly at his twin's concern, but said nothing. As he walked over to where the Rangers were sitting, Elladan following him, he contemplated the bitter irony that though the Grey Company had been through some hard battles, there had been no losses among them, and only a few wounded. But for the devastation of the loss they had suffered in Aragorn's death, he would have called them lucky.

It was already close to dark when they went on, and as he looked west, Elrohir noticed Eärendil's light shining through a gap in the clouds that had started gathering that afternoon. He stopped to look pensively at the Silmaril his grandfather had brought to Valinor two Ages before. There would be no sailing West to ask the Valar for help in this conflict. The World was round and they had no choice but to face their enemy alone. Still, he was glad of the reminder that there was always a chance of the unexpected happening; and Sauron, even with the Ring, was not as powerful as Morgoth. Elrohir sighed as he walked on; he had little hope that they could prevail. It started to drizzle soon after. About an hour later they reached the deep valley where all were to gather, and by then it was raining in earnest.

One in the livery of the Tower Guard directed them to an area where they could set up their camp, such as it was. At least there was enough firewood lying around, Elrohir saw, though he doubted it would burn in this rain. He resigned himself to a cold and wet night, though it did appear that not all were so inclined. He watched as Halmir attempted to coax a fire from some of the less damp wood he had collected. To the peredhel's surprise the young man succeeded, but as he looked round and saw Halbarad looking on, Elrohir remembered that he too had always had a knack for getting campfires started under difficult conditions. It would seem that his eldest son had inherited this useful skill.

Elrohir let his gaze linger on Halmir, wondering what Halbarad's son thought about the fact that he was now the Chieftain's heir. He doubted it had even sunk in yet through the grief for Aragorn.

Joining Legolas and Gimli, Elrohir settled near the fire. He hoped he would be able to sleep this night, for once they started the journey north, there would most likely be little rest. As he sat watching, Halbarad assigned sentry duties for the night and walked away from their camp after a short conversation with Elladan. Elrohir gave Elladan an inquiring glance as his brother sat down next to him.

"He is going to look for whoever is in command of this camp, and see if he can find out where we might have some chance of getting horses before Pelargir," Elladan said.

Elrohir nodded. "Hopefully sooner rather than later. We are losing valuable time with every day that we remain in Gondor."

They waited, watching as new groups came down from the mountains. Just before Halbarad returned, Elrohir saw the Steward come in with the hobbit Pippin in tow. He smiled to himself, pleased that the hobbit had made it, given how difficult the path must have been for him.

As Halbarad came back, it was clear from his weary step and grim expression that he had not received a satisfactory answer. He sat down on the wet ground before speaking. "I have spoken to the Steward's son. He thinks there is a fair chance that we might be able to get horses somewhere along the road south here in Lossarnach, tomorrow or the day after."

"Is that all he could say?" Legolas asked.

"Yes," Halbarad replied. "And he was uncertain even of that. It seems most of the people of Lossarnach have retreated into the high valleys, and will be hard to find."

They fell silent again, until, just as their fire started to die down, Elrohir noticed Halbarad looking at him.

"Elrohir," Halbarad addressed him, then hesitated before he continued, "I may be presuming on our friendship, but I need to ask this." Elrohir waited. While Halbarad was often taciturn even for a Ranger, it was also rare for him not to speak what was on his mind when he felt the need.

Eventually Halbarad went on, "What is it like for you, befriending mortals? To know that in fifty or a hundred years you may be sitting just as companionably next to a man's grandson?" He paused as he held Elrohir's gaze and gestured at their campfire. "How do you see us? Brief flames that flicker up and are gone again, while you will still be here in a hundred years’ time, or a thousand?"

Elrohir noticed that Elladan and Legolas were listening closely as well. As he shook his head in denial at Halbarad's question, he remained silent for a while before replying. How to answer this? Finally, he said, "No. That is not how it is."

"Then how is it?" Halbarad continued relentlessly.

Elrohir took a deep breath, looking for the right way to express himself. "If anything, I find mortal friendships more, rather than less, valuable, perhaps because they are bound in time. When you stay away for a season, or a hundred, and pick up where you left off a century ago..."

"So, it is the intensity rather than the briefness of the flame?" Interrupting him, Halbarad looked close to anger. "A moment's brightness, and then on to the next? There is no picking up to be done with mortals."

"No! I am not putting this well, but that is not... perhaps you should not be asking me, but a full Elf." In frustration, Elrohir put his head in his hands, trying to order his thoughts.

Legolas stayed silent, seemingly irritated by the suggestion that he answer this, and Elrohir wondered why Halbarad had asked. It had of course to do with Aragorn; that much was obvious. Did Halbarad perhaps question in some way his friendship... No, that was not it. What, then?

Unexpectedly, Elladan said, "This is about Gandalf, is it not?" From Halbarad's look, Elrohir knew his brother had guessed aright, and he cursed his own lack of insight.

"Before yesterday I would not have questioned the truth of his friendship for Aragorn," Elladan said, "But now... I do not know." Lowering his voice, he continued, "Remember, though, that he may be influenced by... you know."

"Of course, I do not know Mithrandir as well as you do," Legolas now spoke as well, "But his grief at least seemed genuine to me."

"I would have thought so too," Halbarad said, "But we all saw the same, and I for one do not know what to make of it. I would prefer to think that he was... influenced, as I find it hard to believe that his friendship was feigned all those years, yet who can know the mind of a wizard, a Maia?"

"I cannot," Elrohir shook his head. Halbarad nodded pensively in response and said no more.

Elrohir watched as the others fell asleep one by one. He found it difficult to find rest himself, his thoughts leaving him no peace. He did share some of Halbarad's doubts, even if he was more willing than the Ranger to ascribe most of Gandalf's odd behaviour to the influence of his Ring. Yet, while Elrohir had never seen reason to doubt Gandalf's actions or motivations, it could also not be denied that Aragorn had been useful to the wizard's goals, even if that did not necessarily negate his friendship, or the worthiness of those goals. Between that and the thoughts of death and mortality that had been on his mind over the last few days, Elrohir was not surprised that he found it hard to sleep, yet in the end he did manage.

Just before dawn, it stopped raining, and word was passed through the camp that all should be ready to set off on the journey south by the second hour after sunrise. There were still stragglers coming in from the mountains, but only a few more were expected and these would have to make their way south on their own.

As they left the valley and headed for the road to Pelargir, the Grey Company followed behind the knights of Dol Amroth. Elrohir chose to walk at the front of their group with Halbarad and Halmir, while Elladan was further back with Legolas and Gimli.

After an hour or so, their small group was joined by the Prince of Dol Amroth. As they had heard of the death of the Prince's son Erchirion in the defence of the City from the talk of the men of Dol Amroth in front of them, the conversation first turned towards their respective losses. Erchirion had been badly wounded in the fight for the Third Circle and had stayed behind with others who could not have made it across Mindolluin, and some of their comrades who would not leave them, to make a last stand together with the rearguard of Imrahil's troops. At this, Elrohir winced as he briefly caught Halbarad's eye. Had Gandalf's defeat of the Nazgûl not delayed the fall of Minas Tirith, one of them would have been among that group.

At Imrahil's question as to what would be the best way to send messengers north, Halbarad suggested, "There will usually be Rangers near Tharbad for messengers from Gondor to find. If not, they should ride further North along the Greenway, the old North Road, towards the village of Bree, or if necessary as far as Fornost Erain."

"Would it be possible to take a small ship up the Gwathló as far as Tharbad?" Imrahil asked.

"Yes, it should be. But if not, do not forget that the Paths of the Dead should be safe to use now," Elrohir joined in the conversation.

Imrahil replied, "At least if the Rohirrim are prepared to let us travel freely through Rohan at need, though I doubt not that they will." He turned to Halbarad again. "I note that your directions are for how your people can be contacted, rather than to where they are."

Halbarad nodded. "Our main settlements are hidden from the eyes of all, and should remain so for as long as possible. Messengers from Gondor would be taken there, but by safe routes that avoid the open road."

"A wise approach," Imrahil replied, before he went forward to the head of his own troops again. Elrohir looked after him pensively. He wondered whether Halbarad had yet decided what to do about the Corsair ships.

As the morning progressed, and Halbarad's frustration with the time they were losing grew, Elrohir fell back to walk with his brother. They walked on in silence through the empty forests, which slowly ran into equally deserted farmlands.

Early in the afternoon, as they crested the brow of a low hill, Elrohir realised that he could see a great road in the distance, and beyond that a hint of reflected light on water that must surely be the river Anduin. Elladan grabbed his arm to draw his attention and pointed south along the road. After looking for some short time, Elrohir realised he could see movement along the road and turned towards his brother. "Could that be Angbor of Lamedon with his soldiers?"

"It may well be," Elladan agreed. "Legolas, what do you think?" he called to the Elf, who had walked on.

Legolas now came back and confirmed their observation. It was not long before the most keen-eyed among the Gondorians also spotted the approaching army, and runners were sent ahead. Halbarad stood next to him, watching impassively as several riders split from the mass of the army and rode towards the runners.

One of the riders continued towards the Minas Tirith column, the others returning to their own men. It did not take long before the lone rider reached the head of the column and dismounted, presumably to speak to the Steward. Word came back quickly through the line that they had indeed found Angbor and his men.

As more riders came towards them, Halbarad walked to where Denethor was talking with the first rider. In the throng of people ahead, Elrohir lost sight of him, and he had to settle for waiting. The column had halted fully by now, and many used the opportunity to take some rest, for they had been walking without pause since the morning.

It was well over two hours before Halbarad came back. From his bearing, Elrohir found it impossible to judge whether or not he had any news. The Ranger sat down in the middle of their group before announcing, "We have horses."

The men of the Grey Company looked up expectantly as Halbarad continued, "I talked to Angbor, and he is willing to let us have the horses and supplies we need, as he knows there will be no battle on this end of his march now and he can spare them."

Elrohir spoke. "That will not have pleased the Steward."

Halbarad shook his head. "The sooner we return North, the better, as far as he is concerned. No, he is displeased with Angbor, but not about horses."

Now Elladan, with a wry smile, said, "I would rather guess that the Steward's displeasure with the Lord of Lamedon is in connection with Angbor's unhesitating support of Aragorn."

"Indeed," Halbarad confirmed, and fell silent.

"But I doubt the Steward can afford to alienate any of the southern lords either," said Elrohir, catching Elladan's eye as his brother nodded pensively.

"Nor, in his current situation, can he complain overmuch about having four thousand men-at-arms at hand, no matter at whose command they originally marched," Elladan offered, malice noticeable in his tone.

"Do not enjoy the Steward's discomfort too much," Halbarad corrected him sharply. "Make no mistake. The North needs Gondor to stand strong and undivided, or we are lost all the sooner."

Elladan gave Halbarad an unreadable look. "You are right, of course," he said.

Silence fell over the group, until Elrohir asked Halbarad what he intended to do about the Corsair fleet.

"I have discussed it with Prince Imrahil," Halbarad replied, "And the law of Gondor agrees with that of the North. The ships are mine by right of inheritance and conquest. However, Imrahil also warned me that the Steward will be unwilling to let that fleet leave Gondor."

Elrohir nodded. "A thorny problem; yet I do not expect that we will need them in the North, while they may well be needed here soon."

In the silence that followed, Elladan asked, "So, what is to be done then?"

Halbarad was silent long enough that Elrohir wondered if the Ranger would answer, then said to Elladan, "I doubt we will be able to crew them and sail them north in the near future, and I do not think we will be waived port fees at Pelargir. Therefore, while I have not given up title to the ships, and they can thus be recalled North should we need them, for now I have granted their use to the Steward for the defence of Gondor."

"And this was Imrahil's counsel?" Elladan then asked. "If so, I would say he..."

Halbarad interrupted him, "Elladan, I like it as little as you do, and I know Imrahil is not a disinterested party in this, but we have not the time to argue this with the Gondorians. And yes, it is a major gain for the Steward, but it also gains us some good will with the coastal lords who will benefit most from it. Nor do I see any other option. Maybe you do?"

"No." No one spoke while they waited for their horses and supplies to be brought to them.

It was not long before the Grey Company was ready to set off. The plan was to follow the road south as far as the Crossings of Erui and then ride west. Elrohir looked at the detailed maps Angbor had provided, and was certain that they should be able to cut at least half a day off their journey time by taking the lesser roads closer to the White Mountains, rather than following the main road past Linhir as they had done on their way towards Pelargir. They would then rejoin the great road near Ethring. Halbarad cast a quick glance at the maps and gave his agreement.

When Borlas asked if it was wise to take a short cut along an unknown route when they were in such haste, Elrohir replied that he was confident about their road, as his cuts, be they long or short, never went wrong. That earned him a comment from Halbarad that he had spent too much time among Rangers if he was now casting their own boasts back at them, and a round of laughter from the men. After, Elrohir wondered whether any of the Grey Company had seen Halbarad's wince at his own moment of levity. It had done the men good, though.

The Company rode on until well after sunset, Halbarad only calling a halt once it had become too dark to risk continuing with unfamiliar horses on equally unfamiliar ground. Elrohir reckoned they had nearly covered the thirty or so miles to the Erui.

As the Rangers made their camp, Elladan offered to take first watch, and Elrohir added that he would join his brother. Weary as they were, they were still in better shape than the Dúnedain.

Elrohir sat gazing into the night, while Elladan walked the perimeter of the camp. Except for the soft sounds made by their horses, and the hooting of an owl in the distance, all was quiet. Elrohir let his thoughts return to the moments surrounding Aragorn's death. This was the first opportunity to step beyond his grief and examine closely what had happened. He had only just let go his awareness of his foster-brother's mind when he sensed the Enemy's presence, perhaps trying to ensnare Aragorn's soul before he had a chance to find the path to Mandos' Halls. Before Elrohir could even attempt to stop the attack, there had been someone else there, and Sauron retreated. It had happened fast, and all he had been able to make out with any certainty was that the Enemy's attempt had failed. Perhaps Elladan had seen more.

Immediately once Elladan returned and sat down beside him, Elrohir asked what his twin had felt. Elladan did not reply at once, but considered the question for some time. Finally, he nodded, and said, "I was not as near, but that is close to what I saw, except that the one who drove off the Enemy seemed familiar in some way, though at the same time I am certain he was unknown to me."

Though it would be wise to be wary of any who unexpectedly offered their assistance and not trust too soon, Elrohir knew they owed the stranger a great debt of gratitude. He and Elladan would not have been able to get Aragorn away from Sauron, not when he was fully in the spirit realm. What his foster-brother's soul would now be suffering at the hands of the Enemy… he shuddered, glad of Elladan's hand on his shoulder drawing him from that thought.

Chapter Text

March 19 – 25, 3019

Halbarad was awake well before dawn, his sleep disturbed as much by his need to leave Gondor behind as by thoughts of what lay before them. He wondered if he should let the sentry get some extra sleep and take over the end of his watch, but refrained from rising. There was no need for the men to know he was not sleeping well. Once it was light enough, before giving the order to ride, he studied the maps Elrohir had from Angbor while the others broke their fast. He could eat nothing.

The Grey Company rode fast all day, covering much distance, their speed leaving little opportunity for talk, even if any had been so inclined. They travelled west along minor roads that occasionally went through rougher terrain near the foothills of the White Mountains, but mostly the road took them through a gently rolling countryside of villages and small towns surrounded by ordered fields and meadows. It was disconcerting after the destruction of Minas Tirith and the dangerous flight on the mountain track to find themselves in a land seemingly untouched by war.

Yet the few people they saw watched warily as they rode past, not even calling out to ask for news. Remembering the enemy troops they had chased in front of them further south on the ride towards Pelargir, Halbarad was not surprised at that caution. Though there were no signs of battle to be seen here, people must have heard of events in the south, and obvious strangers would arouse suspicion.

"The horses cannot keep up this speed until Erech," Borlas said that night.

Halbarad looked at him in surprise. The horses are holding up well, even the one shared by the Elf and the Dwarf, and we made a good distance. I would push for more speed now, were it not for how far we must yet travel. Once we are on the other side of the White Mountains, then we will have need of true speed.

"The horses are sound, are they not?" he tersely replied.

"Yes, Captain," Borlas said, "But speed and little known ways serve us poorly. There is a risk abandoning the great road where we may more easily replace a lame horse or get news…"

"This is our road. It saves us many leagues. The maps of this area are from Lord Angbor and I doubt not but that the Gondorians have accurate maps of their own countryside."

Borlas seemed about to respond, but instead bowed his head in acknowledgement and went to see to setting up the camp.

Only as he sat down on the grass to eat, dismissing Borlas' concerns as he tried to ignore his irritation at his lieutenant, did Halbarad realise how weary he was. He welcomed it, for it meant there was a chance that he would not lie awake half the night, thoughts churning, as he had the previous nights.

"Captain?"

He did not look up.

A hesitant hand on his shoulder. "Father? Are you all right?"

He replied as Halmir sat down beside him. "I am fine. Nothing a good night's sleep will not sort." As he had hoped, Halmir was willing to be convinced that he was indeed doing well enough, and his son left him to his own company again after a short time.

The second day they continued their swift passage of Gondor, but that evening it was not Halmir who asked him how he was, but Elladan. The peredhel proved less easy to dismiss.

"Elladan, can you not leave me be? I said I am well," Halbarad snapped as the other persisted.

"I heard you," Elladan said calmly. "You are pushing the men as hard as you push yourself. Too hard. They too are grieving, and are weary."

"We need to get back home as fast as possible."

"And you are trying to go faster than that. It will do you no good to ride the horses into the ground or drive your men beyond exhaustion."

Halbarad could not push away his own doubts as he considered Elladan's words. Was he setting too hard a pace? There had been no complaints, and the horses were holding up. Yet Elladan would not have spoken if he had not thought it so, and Borlas had also expressed his doubts about their pace. But we have to leave this place, and swiftly. "The men can take it. So can the horses."

Elladan looked at him keenly. "Is there aught you cannot take? It is only four days since Aragorn died, and claiming you are doing well under that fact will not make it so. I see you flinch and try to hide it every time his name is mentioned or something reminds you of him."

"And what else have you seen?" Halbarad asked, coolly meeting Elladan's gaze.

"Grief outpaces the fastest horse and exhaustion cannot keep it at bay forever."

Halbarad looked down. If he was honest with himself, he could only admit that he was not doing all that well. Yet he could not give in to his grief either. To remain in this place, in these thoughts, would overwhelm me. "Curse it, what else can I do, Elladan?"

"Slow down. You will not drive out your grief for Aragorn by exhausting yourself. It will matter little if you arrive in the North a day or a week later than you have in mind," the peredhel said, "And remember you were near enough the Nazgûl that you may have caught a touch of the Black Breath yourself. If so, you have not completely shaken that off yet, and the last few days have been hard."

"Near enough the Nazgûl? Near enough would have been if I had been in time," Halbarad snapped before he could stop himself. He had been so intent on Aragorn that he had hardly realised that he was running towards a Nazgûl – he had barely even felt the dread through his fear for his kinsman.

"Are you saying Aragorn's death was my fault, then?" Elladan asked.

"No, of course not," Halbarad replied, startled by the peredhel's question.

"But Elrohir and I were ahead of you, and we were not in time either. Halbarad, I doubt there was anything any of us could have done that would have made a difference."

"I know, but it is hard..." Halbarad bowed his head before Elladan's piercing gaze. "And then to sit there watching him die..." He shook his head as he looked at Elladan again.

Elrond's son nodded. "I know." They sat in silence for some time.

There was so much else tied up with the loss of Aragorn as well, Halbarad thought. Foremost in his heart was of course losing his kinsman, his friend of well over sixty years. But he, and the Dúnedain, had also lost their lord, Isildur's Heir, the last of the line of the Kings, their hope of returning their people to their former state. And knowing that the Ring was back in Sauron's hand, that all the West faced utter ruin and destruction, that no matter what he did, it would make little difference to how it would end. He sighed gloomily. "And now I am Chieftain..."

In the gathering dusk, he could still discern Elladan's sharp glance. "Do you think Aragorn chose you as his heir merely because you are his nearest kin in the line of Isildur, for friendship's sake, or because you happened to be at hand? Had he not thought you capable of the task, he would have named someone else to lead the Dúnedain, and sent you home carrying that message. You know that well enough."

Halbarad remained silent for some time. "Yes," he finally acknowledged Elladan's words, "I do know it." After another while, as Elladan rose, he spoke again, "Elladan. Thank you." The peredhel briefly put a hand on his shoulder as he walked off.

As the company set off an hour after sunrise, Halbarad realised just how hard a pace he had set the previous days. He had not expected to see the great road today, and now they were already nearing it. Though he was pleased – and proud – that the Grey Company could keep up such speed even now, he resolved to be more careful of his men from there on. They should not encounter any trouble on the road until Dunland, and he doubted the Dunlendings would risk waylaying a sizable armed company. Still, it would not do to be unprepared or over-fatigued.

They reached Ethring by the middle of the afternoon, and Halbarad called a halt. Angbor had asked him to deliver some dispatches to the town garrison's captain, and the stop was also an opportunity to replenish their supplies and gather recent news of the road ahead. The town was soon left behind again, and they rode on for several more hours before stopping for the night. One rumour that Halbarad heard in Ethring, and later shared with Legolas, Gimli and the sons of Elrond, was that a rider in white on a grey horse had passed by the town in a great hurry two days before. It must have been Gandalf, and Halbarad questioned again what the wizard was up to. Where was he headed? Was he trying to reach the North ahead of them? Halbarad wearily shook his head, dismissing Gandalf from his thoughts for the time being, though he doubted he had seen the last of him.

The Grey Company reached the Hill of Erech late in the afternoon of the second day out of Ethring. There would be little point in riding on until dark, since it was unlikely they would find a better place to halt further up the Morthond Vale. Once their camp had been set at the foot of the hill, Halbarad went up to the top alone. As he looked out across the land, his thoughts went back to unfurling the standard for the Oathbreakers to behold when Aragorn had summoned them to Pelargir. That had been at night and with the fear of the Dead on the Hill. Now, though the late afternoon shadows lay heavy on the eastern side of the Stone, there was no longer even a hint of the dread that had surrounded the place.

The Stone was said to have been brought here from Númenor by Isildur, and Halbarad wondered at that as the story made little sense to him. Why, in the despair of the escape from the island, would Isildur have taken aboard such freight? Still – whether or not the Stone came from Númenor – at least some good had been accomplished here by the last of Isildur's heirs. Even if it had been for naught in the end, the lifting of the darkness that had hung over this place had been a good thing. Halbarad stood looking out into the falling dusk for a short while, then turned and walked back down the hill.

The next morning they were off as soon as it was light enough to ride. Halbarad had some hope that they would make it through the Paths of the Dead that day, even if he doubted that they would reach Edoras, or even Dunharrow. At first they made good speed, but around noon Beleg's horse pulled up lame, and after slowing down to little more than a walk for the rest of the day they had to make their camp on the southern side of the mountains.

The following day, the horse seemed sound again, though Halbarad reckoned it was just as well that they would not be riding at speed. Even so, there was yet more delay as they had to search for the entrance to the cliff-edged road that led towards the Paths. It was difficult to find the place, for it was well-hidden among the sheer sides of the mountains, and they had only been here in the dark before. In the end the opening was found by Gimli and Legolas.

The road was narrow and steep, and the Company had to ride in file. The cliffs were high enough that despite it being a bright and sunny morning, little daylight reached the road. After some time they reached the gateway to the Paths. Halbarad called a halt to light the torches they had carried from Ethring, and they went on their way again, now on foot, leading their horses through the darkness of the road under the mountains.

The path felt empty to Halbarad. Not that he particularly missed the fear of the Dead that had hung over this road before, but their absence seemed almost as tangible to him as their presence had been. After what he knew to be no more than hours, but what in the near-darkness under the mountains could as easily have been days, they came to the Dark Door that led out of the Paths of the Dead into the dreary Dimholt wood.

Halbarad caught the looks the men cast in his direction. They remember my words when we first went through this door. Elrohir walked beside him, watching him as well, so he turned to him as he spoke. "Foresight... What is it worth?" He met Elrohir's eyes with a wry smile. "I was certain I was going to my death when I passed this door. I had seen it. And yet, for Aragorn, I went on." He sighed and led his horse through the Door into Rohan.

When all the Grey Company had come through and were mounted again, he led the way down the steep path through the Dimholt, towards Dunharrow. Though it was cloudy and grey on this side of the mountains, judging by the light it was still only mid-afternoon, and Halbarad reckoned they should be able to ride on to Edoras that day.

The first people they saw ran away in fear of the Dead from the Mountain, but soon they were met and challenged by a group of Riders out of Dunharrow.

"Halt, strangers! If you not be wights out of the Dwimorberg, then declare yourselves and your purpose," one of the Rohirrim called out.

"We are no wights, but living men even as you. The curse of the Dead is broken," Halbarad replied. The leader of the Riders came forward to better look at them. As he did so, Halbarad recognised him. "Herulf! We should at least be known to you," he said as he let his horse step forward slightly.

"You are indeed known to me, Halbarad of the Dúnedain. The curse broken, you say? And you come to us on southern horses. I would guess you have a tale to tell," the man of Rohan spoke as he nodded in welcome at the Ranger.

"That we have," Halbarad said, "Though it is not one I will tell gladly. But tell me how the Rohirrim have fared."

Herulf looked down briefly before he replied. "That too is not a tale to lighten the heart, and it will have to wait until we come to Dunharrow."

The Grey Company now followed behind the Riders through the last of the dark Dimholt, until they reached the Firienfeld and the Hold of Dunharrow. Once they were inside the Hold, all dismounted, and Halbarad walked over to Herulf. "If possible, I would ride on as soon as we have spoken to the Lord of Dunharrow, for our goal for the day is Edoras, and it is better to arrive in daylight," he said.

"Then your horses shall be looked after, and refreshment will be brought for your men," the Rohir said. "Dunharrow is lordless, for alas, our lord Dúnhere is among those who have not returned from Gondor. I command here until the Queen decides who is to rule the Hold."

Halbarad bowed his head at hearing of the fall of the Lord of Dunharrow. He did not doubt that he would hear of many more losses among the Rohirrim. Then Halbarad realised what else Herulf had said. "The Queen?" he asked.

"Queen Éowyn, as the last of the House of Eorl, now rules Rohan." Herulf said. "I will tell you some of how the Rohirrim have fared in coming to the aid of Gondor, but it is a long story, and one which you should for the most part hear in Edoras. First, though, I would hear your tale, for I would know how it is that the curse of the Dead is broken, and I also note the absence of the Lord Aragorn from your Company."

"He has fallen," Halbarad said tersely.

"Fallen? Among all the other tidings of the war, that is grievous news, for he was a valiant man, and a friend of Rohan," Herulf replied. "Where did he meet his end?"

"On the Pelennor," Halbarad answered him.

"Alas, then he shared his doom with many of the Rohirrim, for Théoden King fell there, as did Éomer King after him, and a great number of our host with them." Herulf bowed his head in sorrow.

It saddened Halbarad to hear of the death of King Théoden, but even more to hear of that of Éomer, as he had taken a liking to the young man from their brief acquaintance. "Then Rohan's losses have been grievous indeed," he said.

"That they have," agreed Herulf, "But let us speak no more of them now, and tell me how it is that the Paths of the Dead are free of the curse."

Halbarad briefly related the tale of their journey under the mountains and Aragorn's summoning of the Dead at Erech, ending with the ride to Pelargir and the release of the Dead from their oath. "Expect to see the Paths being used, for with the fall of Minas Tirith, the road through Anórien has been cut off, and they are now the quickest and the safest road between Rohan and Gondor. At first I doubt many will dare take them, but there will at least be errand-riders."

Herulf nodded. "I will keep it in mind, and have word sent out to those who dwell near there, so that they know they need not fear. Now, for your journey towards Edoras, I will have Frána, my lieutenant, accompany you, for strangers are welcomed in Rohan even less than before."

The Grey Company soon followed Frána down the steep road from Dunharrow to Harrowdale at the bottom of the valley. Halbarad noted that it was already late in the afternoon and asked how long it would be until they reached Edoras. Their guide reckoned it would be no more than three hours. The road took them quickly north, until they could see the end of the valley, and on a high hill the roof of Meduseld's great hall bright in the last rays of the sun.

Halbarad wondered how they would be received there. After the losses Rohan had suffered in their response to Gondor's call, the Rohirrim were probably not inclined to any new alliances, even if no great demands would be made. Luckily, the one thing he truly needed would be unhindered passage to the Paths of the Dead and through them to Gondor.

It was not long until they reached the foot of the hill, and Frána spoke to the guards at the gate. Though Halbarad knew only a few words of the speech of Rohan, and he could overhear little more from the softly-spoken exchange than 'Gondor' and 'Paths of the Dead,' it was not so difficult to guess what was being said. After some minutes of talking, the gate was opened. Most of the Grey Company stayed behind with their horses, while Halbarad, with Borlas and Halmir, as well as the sons of Elrond and Legolas and Gimli, followed Frána up the paved path that led towards the top of the hill and the hall of Meduseld.

Before entering the hall, Halbarad tried to set aside his previous impression of the Lady Éowyn, which had not been favourable. The way she had attempted to throw herself at Aragorn spoke of a wilful, impetuous child, incapable of ruling even herself, rather than of one who could lead Rohan in these hard times. Yet Théoden had had enough trust in her to place her in charge of the refugees in Dunharrow and thereby of what could have been Rohan's last defence.

Following Frána past the guards at the doors, they entered the dimly-lit Great Hall of Meduseld. Halbarad looked fleetingly at the many pillars holding up the roof and the half-seen woven cloths along the walls. As they approached the dais at the end of the long hall, Éowyn, after a brief nod of recognition, welcomed them in Rohirric, and Halbarad haltingly replied in that same language. The Queen looked at him sharply as he named himself Chieftain, but went on without further question to repeat her welcome in Westron, adding, "You have had a hard journey from Minas Tirith. Long are the miles that separate us from there, and I expect you are weary and would rest after you have eaten. The morrow will be soon enough for the news you bring."

"Yet the news will not look better in daylight, though we welcome your hospitality, for the journey has been hard indeed," Halbarad replied.

"Then a guest-house will be prepared for you and your men, and a meal will be set there. In the morning we will take counsel," Éowyn said.

As they were led from the hall to the guest-house, Halbarad wondered about Éowyn's apparent lack of curiosity about events in Gondor, and their rapid dismissal from the hall. Even if what remained of the Muster of Rohan had already returned with news of the fall of Minas Tirith, surely the Queen would want any further tidings as soon as possible?

In the guest-house, they rejoined the men of the Grey Company, and it was not long before a meal was brought to them. Once they had eaten, Halbarad sat talking for a while in a side room with Legolas, Gimli and the sons of Elrond to prepare for the next morning's council and to consider how they would proceed after Rohan.

"How open should we be about the One Ring?" Legolas asked.

"The less said, the better," was Elrohir's immediate reaction, "We should perhaps not even tell the Queen, unless she already knows."

"No, I think she should know. Besides, if we do not tell her, no doubt there are those in Gondor who will, once they can send messengers to their ally again," Elladan now said. "That news, and the lack of trust in its withholding, would do much to sour any agreement we may reach with Rohan tomorrow. We cannot afford that."

"But there is nothing to be gained from revealing too widely that Sauron has his Ring again," Elrohir objected.

"There is very little to be gained from further secrecy either," Halbarad said. "I see no harm in telling the Queen of Rohan. It should be up to her then how much she will tell her advisors." Elrohir still looked sceptical, but said nothing. Halbarad went on, "In any case, I will need to tell the Council once I return to the Angle. Even with Aragorn's death, tidings of war in the South and skirmishes in the Misty Mountains alone will not be enough for them to realise the seriousness of our position in the North."

"Would you really have all that much trouble from the Council were you to keep quiet about the Ring?" Elrohir asked. "Aragorn never..."

"Aragorn had me backing him up," Halbarad replied sharply, "And even so, there was more than enough grumbling over being kept in the dark about reasons for actions taken, both in the Council and among the Rangers. I doubt I will get that support from Borlas, and I would rather have the Council working with me than constantly having to fight them."

Now Elladan gave him a searching look, asking, "Halbarad, how long have you known about the Ring?"

"Truly known?" Halbarad asked in return, then continued at Elladan's nod, "Since the Hornburg, but I was as good as certain for years."

"How did you find out? I trust Aragorn was not careless?" Elrohir interrupted.

"Hardly," Halbarad replied indignantly. "He only said something once, obliquely, and there were none but myself and Gandalf present. Afterward, he would not even confirm whether or not I had guessed aright. And before you ask, I kept quiet about my suspicions."

Gimli now spoke, "Silence no longer serves a purpose. We should be open about the One Ring where needed, and I at least will tell King Dáin all when I get back home."

Legolas agreed, "I will inform my father, and leave it to him to decide whether or not to speak more openly."

Just as Halbarad was about to respond, there was a knock on the door, and the head of Merry Brandybuck peeking round the door as it opened. "I thought I would see if there was anything you need," Merry said.

Gimli replied, smiling, "No, master hobbit, we are well looked after, though there are some leftovers I am certain a hobbit would welcome."

Merry smiled fleetingly in reply as he came into the room. "The last few weeks have been tight on food, so I am sure I can relieve you of what remains of your meal."

As Gimli replied, "Tight on food? But surely Dunharrow has been well-provisioned?" Halbarad expected Merry to make a joke about Big People not appreciating hobbit appetites. To his surprise, the hobbit said nothing. Gimli went on, asking if Merry knew why the Lady Éowyn had been so quick to have them out of the Hall of Meduseld.

"I would not speak ill of my Lady," the hobbit replied, looking ill at ease, "And for me to tell you now would be seen as such by some. No, it is best if you wait until the morning to hear in full what happened to the Rohirrim after the Muster rode from Edoras." Gimli looked annoyed at Merry's refusal to tell them, but left it at that.

Merry then turned to Legolas and asked him what had befallen them after they set out for the Paths of the Dead. Halbarad only half listened as the Elf told Merry all that had happened. He was relieved the hobbit had asked Legolas and not him. And at least, with Pippin safely in Gondor, Merry would have some good news about one of his kin. After the elf finished his tale, Merry sat quietly for some time, neither speaking nor moving.

"Trust Pippin to be taken to safety by Gandalf only to end up in a city under siege," Merry finally said, with a forced-sounding little laugh. As Halbarad glanced at him, he noticed tears trickling down the hobbit's face.

As Merry continued talking with Legolas and Gimli, Halbarad sat back pondering the evening's events. Obviously, Éowyn's position was not yet secure, and he wondered what lay behind that. Was it merely that her rule was still new and that Rohan had not had a ruling Queen before, or was there still something else? Merry's initial slip-up about Dunharrow, followed by his refusal to speak, indicated the latter, especially when Halbarad added that Herulf had been unwilling to give details of the ride of the Rohirrim.

Chapter Text

March 26, 3019

The day dawned overcast and grey, matching Éowyn's mood and her expectations for this council. Her dismissal of her guests from the hall the night before had been close to rude, but her own people's disapproval of her leaving Dunharrow was hard enough to accept; she could not speak of it before strangers in the hall. Then, when the Northerner named himself Chieftain, Éowyn knew that could only mean that the lord Aragorn had fallen, and she could not bring herself to face such bad news at that time. Watching him enter the dark Dimholt with his followers, she had abandoned the hope that he would let her escape the cage her life had become – whether through gaining his love or through letting her ride to battle and the chance of great deeds. Yet, though she had come to admit in the bleak days after he left that she did not love Aragorn, it was still bitter to learn that even the greatest were no match for the Darkness in the East. Alas for her brother and her uncle! And alas that I did not fall with them, for what hope is there for me or for Rohan? But such black thoughts were best consigned to the dark night, and should be given no place in the light of day.

As Merry led the Northern delegation into the room, Éowyn turned away from the window where she had been waiting and came over to welcome her guests. "Lord Halbarad, I am sorry to hear of the death of the lord Aragorn," she said. "Rohan shares your grief."

He bowed his head at her words, but she noticed the pain in his eyes before he looked away. Halbarad mourned his fallen lord as deeply as she did her kin, Éowyn realised. As he looked at her again, he hesitated briefly before speaking. "Lady Éowyn, there is one thing I would speak of to you before this council."

His tone was grim, and Éowyn wondered what this thing might be. "Tell me," she said, bracing herself for yet more evil tidings.

"Lady, do you know of the Last Alliance of Elves and Men, and of the Ring of the Enemy?" Halbarad asked.

Éowyn recalled the Gondorian tutor her uncle had sent for one winter for her and her brother. Even from the dry lessons he had made them read from a dusty and faded tome, the Last Alliance and the great battles of those days had stirred her imagination. "I know somewhat of the Last Alliance," she said, "But not of this Ring."

Halbarad nodded sharply in acknowledgement. "I can only tell this very briefly," he began, "In the Second Age of the World, the Enemy made a Ring into which he put most of his strength. In the final battle of the Last Alliance it was taken from him, when it should have been destroyed."

"Taken, you say?" Éowyn said. "Then, who has it now?" she added at the other's impatient nod.

"Alas, he has it back in his possession," he replied, "And so it is that he has regained all his strength of old. More can be said of this, but time is short, and I would only have you consider whether this should be spoken of in council."

Éowyn thought quickly. She knew naught of such matters, but anything that strengthened the Enemy was dire news. It would be best if it were not known widely, not so soon after the disaster of the Pelennor, and certainly not until she understood more. "No, it would be best not to. If such news were to spread, the people might lose heart even more, and I do not trust all those who will be present to keep such knowledge to themselves. If there is more to be told, we should speak of it afterwards."

It was not long before all whom she had called to this council had arrived. Éowyn looked round the table as they sat down. When it came down to it, she only trusted Elfhelm and Erkenbrand of her advisors. Elfhelm was unreservedly on her side, and Erkenbrand had been clear that while he disapproved of her actions, he was loyal to the House of Eorl, and would give her his support on that basis. The other two? Folcwine had ambitions of his own; tainted by bastardy his descent from Fengel might be, he had enough of a following that she could not ignore his influence. She hoped Erkenbrand could keep him in check. Swithulf had been too friendly with Wormtongue, though he had distanced himself very quickly when the Worm was banished. He remained one of her councillors only because her uncle had not had time to remove all of Wormtongue's supporters from important positions before he rode for Gondor. That oversight would soon be amended. Once introductions had been made, Éowyn asked Halbarad to speak first.

"Much of what I am about to say will already be known to you, so I will be brief in the telling," he told them. Éowyn watched her councillors as much as she listened to Halbarad's tale. He quickly related his company's journey through the Paths of the Dead and on to Pelargir. Erkenbrand looked ready to interrupt him when Halbarad mentioned that they had found the bones and armour of Baldor son of Brego under the mountains and Éowyn was distracted into wondering whether she should have Baldor's remains retrieved for a more suitable burial.

As Halbarad spoke of Pelargir, and described the release of the Dead from their oath, Elfhelm said, "That is a wonder, the curse of the Dead lifted, and the shadow of their presence gone from Harrowdale. So now the Paths are open?" Halbarad confirmed this, and Elfhelm turned to Éowyn, "You should send messengers to Gondor as soon as possible, my lady. We do not know when or where the Enemy will strike next, and early news will be vital."

Folcwine interrupted, "But can we be sure that the Paths are safe? Who knows that the Dead will not return?"

"We do not know that," said Éowyn, "But that risk we will have to take. The First Marshal is right that we need news quickly, and I will send messengers to Gondor through the Paths of the Dead as he suggests. Before we discuss what will be done, though, all should know fully what went before. Please continue your tale, Lord Halbarad."

Halbarad went on, speaking now of the Pelennor and Aragorn's fall. Éowyn tried to keep her face expressionless, though she paled at his description of the confrontation between Aragorn and the dwimmerlaik. The wraiths had unnerved her even when they flew high over the Mark towards Isengard weeks before.

As Halbarad told of the fall and evacuation of Minas Tirith, Éowyn asked, "Where has the Steward retreated to? Pelargir or Dol Amroth?"

"Pelargir," he replied.

Éowyn looked at him pensively. She would have expected Dol Amroth, since it was said to be the more defensible position. She continued, "How heavy were Gondor's losses? Do you think they will be able to withstand another attack?" It seemed Erkenbrand had wanted to ask the same things, as he nodded at her question.

"Close to half the troops in Minas Tirith were lost," Halbarad said, "But though they were attacked in the southern fiefs as well, Gondor's strength there is mostly unaffected. Whether they will be ready depends on when the next attack comes. The Enemy's losses have also been great, and he may not have the numbers at hand to press his advantage immediately. That makes it all the more important that we prepare as much as we can for when he does strike."

Erkenbrand was about to speak, when Éowyn raised her hand to stop him, replying to Halbarad herself, "I agree with you, Lord, but first you should hear Rohan's tale." She looked at Elfhelm, waiting for him to begin.

"The tale of how Rohan fared before Minas Tirith will also darken the heart, though many deeds worthy of song were done. Théoden King led us out from Harrowdale under the darkness that had come out of Mordor the day before," Elfhelm started his tale. Swithulf began to interrupt, but Elfhelm silenced him with an abrupt gesture, adding, "I will tell it as it happened, not from hearsay."

"In the dark, we rode east towards Gondor as fast as we might, ignoring the news of the north of Rohan being invaded. With aid from the Wild Men of Drúadan Forest we avoided the Orc host that lay in wait for us near Amon Dîn, and so at last we came to the Rammas at dawn."

As Elfhelm continued speaking, Éowyn recalled how the Riders of the Mark had come down from the hills towards the Rammas, waiting for Théoden's command. She had felt the first touch of the wind as the weather changed to blow away the Enemy's darkness, and the pale light of dawn revealed the devastation that had been wrought on the fields and orchards that dotted the Pelennor. The Sun rose, and the host of Rohan cut through the Orcs that were on the northern part of the Pelennor. Though she had feared for her uncle as he rode at the front of the first éored, the charge of the Rohirrim as they swept over the field had been glorious. All too soon, though, the day turned black, as the Riders came up against the main force of the Haradrim, who, unlike the Orcs they had faced at first, met them head-on. Their attack faltered when the Southron line failed to break. She had watched in horror as Théoden was hewn down when he engaged a Haradrim chieftain and his guards.

The Riders quickly reformed as Éomer, now King of the Mark, gathered them to attack the Haradrim again. Éowyn had dismounted and, together with Merry, briefly paused beside her uncle, overcome by grief. She knew she could not linger long, and all too soon she was back in the saddle, the hobbit clinging on behind her.

As she caught up with the first éored, Éowyn saw that Éomer too had charged ahead with only a few men around him. Elfhelm had already noticed the danger, so she followed as he and his men raced towards Éomer. Her horse Windfola easily caught up with them, and she was at the front of their group as the Haradrim closed in on Éomer and the Riders with him.

Though he fought well and slew more than a few of those surrounding him, Éomer was overwhelmed before Éowyn could reach him. Desperately, knowing she was too late, she fought her way through to her brother, Elfhelm and his men close behind to hold off the Haradrim.

Éowyn rushedly dismounted and ran the few steps to where Éomer lay. He was badly wounded, with a deep wound in his chest, and many other cuts. Her brother turned his head and met her gaze. Éowyn knew he recognised her despite the disguise of her helm. "Brother, Éomer..." Éowyn spoke softly, as she reached for his hand. She looked up briefly as Elfhelm knelt at Éomer's other side, but quickly returned her attention to her brother.

Éomer was gasping for air, flecks of blood on his lips. Finally, he found the breath to speak, and looking at the Riders standing around them, he said, "Éowyn shall rule after me." He closed his eyes, but when Éowyn raised her hand to remove her helm, he opened them again, and looked at her. "Hail, Queen of the Mark!" he spoke as he died.

There had been no time to mourn. The Haradrim were pushing them hard and the main body of the Riders had been thrown into chaos with Éomer's fall. Éowyn had cared little whether she lived or not as she sat by her brother's side, but prompted by Elfhelm and Merry, she remounted Windfola. She had pleaded with Elfhelm that they should at least retrieve Éomer's body, but they were driven back before the attempt could be made.

The charge by the Men of Harad had been fierce, and the Riders disheartened by their losses. They were driven back towards the Rammas, until Éowyn took the banner of the White Horse from Elfhelm's banner-bearer and called all to rally to her and stand their ground. The Riders heeded her call, and what had been a rout became a holding line.

With the Enemy's armies distracted by the arrival of the Corsair ships, the Rohirrim briefly regained some of the ground they had lost earlier. Even so, the pressure from their enemies was such that for the rest of the day and overnight they had to settle for holding position near the Rammas, occasionally gaining or losing some small amount of terrain. It had helped their situation that they were joined by a company of Gondorian foot soldiers who had been cut off from the city.

The next day, Éowyn had wanted to take the field again, but Elfhelm forbade her to do so. Though she had argued, he held his ground, telling her that while he had condoned her riding with them, he would not now risk the life of the last of the House of Eorl. Even her argument that her presence would lend the Riders courage he dismissed, saying that would be just as true if they knew her to be there, but safely behind the lines. In the end, she had given in; not that she agreed, but to argue further would achieve nothing, and the effort would be better spent against the enemy.

She had watched in frustration as the Riders, now led by Elfhelm, attempted to break the siege again. They made some headway at first, but when the Enemy put even more troops in the field, the men of the Mark were driven back. Their opponents had kept on pushing, and in the end they had to fall back behind the Rammas, completely yielding the Pelennor. Some time later, signal flags were raised over the walls of Minas Tirith, telling Rohan to withdraw, to abandon the siege. The Gate of Minas Tirith had been breached, and the city was lost.

The final retreat of the army of Rohan had been a terrible sight. Éowyn had known that their losses were bad, but it was not until she saw the Riders file past on their way towards Drúadan Forest that she realised that they had lost close to half of the six thousand who had set out. And not only had so many fallen, they had lost both her uncle and her brother, and had failed to deliver Minas Tirith. She wondered how long it would be before Rohan came under attack from the East.

The Gondorians who had been cut off from the city would come to Edoras, and make their way home from there, rather than attempt to break through to Minas Tirith. There were enough riderless horses that they could all be mounted. The Gondorian captain had suggested that on the way he should find out what the situation in Anórien was. Any who had remained behind in its villages and towns would be told to follow the retreat towards Rohan, as they were cut off from the rest of Gondor, and would be in danger if they remained in Anórien. Gondor could not protect them, and Rohan would be stretched to keep more than a light presence that far east.

To Éowyn's surprise, Anórien had been clear of enemy troops, at least as far as the scouts she had sent out reported. Though the ride home had been a sombre affair, they made good time, and had arrived back in Edoras four days ago.

While Théoden's death was sad – and she would dearly miss the man who had been as a father to her for most of her life – it had been clear when they set out that he expected not to return even in victory. And to fall in battle had been a better death than he would have looked for in his old age, weakened by the Worm's whispers and ministrations.

Éomer... Part of Éowyn had died with her brother. While he too had fallen sword in hand, as befitted a Rider of the Mark, it was a hollow consolation. She herself had ridden out in search of a glorious end in battle, but now there was no other choice than to resume the duty she had abandoned, and face her responsibilities to lead her people. She still felt overwhelmed at the thought that she now ruled the Mark. Death would no doubt find her soon enough, and she wondered if, when that day came, she would face her doom as well as her kin had.

Éowyn also spared a thought for Théodred; it had been no more than a few weeks since his fall, and so much had happened in the meantime that one could almost forget that it had been the Battle of the Isen and her cousin's death that had started it all.

Shaking off her dark thoughts, Éowyn returned her attention to the present. Elfhelm had just started describing the ride back from Gondor. Waiting for him to finish, she watched how her guests were reacting. While the others were concentrating wholly on Elfhelm's tale, she noticed Halbarad's disapproving gaze on her. She briefly met his eyes, almost as if in challenge, and as Elfhelm finished speaking, addressed him, "Are you surprised, Lord Halbarad?"

"Surprised?" he asked in return.

"That a woman would take up arms to stand beside her kin, rather than wait at home to find out whether they will come back to her or not?"

"Do you want me to speak plainly?" he asked.

"Yes," Éowyn replied, though she suspected she might regret it; from what she had seen of this Northerner so far, she could expect him to be direct in any case, if not outright blunt.

Halbarad nodded, then spoke. "Then, Lady, I will say that, yes, I am surprised that, woman or not, you forsook the task you accepted from your king, failing the trust placed in you. You took up a lord's responsibilities in accepting the rule over Dunharrow, then abandoned your duty within days. Did you not consider that, had you fallen with your kin, you would have left your people leaderless and it would have been the end of the House of Eorl?"

Éowyn hid a wince at Halbarad's reply, and angrily met his gaze, though she knew he spoke nothing but the truth. Her councillors made a show of outrage at his frank words, but backed down when Éowyn looked at them sternly. "Do not tell me, Men of the Mark, that you have not had the same thoughts, or that you would not have voiced your agreement did you but dare," she said coldly as she looked around the room, and then laughed. None spoke, though she noted Erkenbrand and Elfhelm at least looked abashed. Éowyn continued, now addressing Halbarad again, "Does mere duty come before loyalty to lord and kin in the North?"

"No, but neither do we leave our posts to abandon those left in our charge."

"Is obeying the yoke of duty all that matters then?"

"A yoke, Lady? Is that what duty is to you? Then why did you accept the charge offered you?"

"Your answer first, Lord."

~*~

Halbarad remained silent for some time, deep in thought. Loyalty. Kin. Duty. Perhaps that was what it came down to, but it was not all the answer. He had honoured Aragorn as his chieftain and lord, as the Heir of Isildur, but served him as his friend. The service one owed one's lord, duty, if it must be called so... it had never been a yoke. Not that Aragorn had not demanded much, but it was service gladly given, in token of friendship rather than duty. Nor had it been cast in terms of lordship and fealty all that often, if truth be told. For what did it matter who was lord and who was liege when slogging through mud and rain for days in search of raiding Orcs, or when grudgingly let into the Prancing Pony, but shuffled off to a side-room, because even if you had coin to spend, you still looked too roadworn to sit in the common room with the respectable folk of Bree?

He closed his eyes as an unexpectedly sharp stab of grief hit him at the memories that flooded his mind. Taking a deep breath, Halbarad regained control of his emotions and thought further on Éowyn's question. There was indeed a point where duty became mere duty.

Reluctantly, his thoughts returned to Minas Tirith. Had the City been faster to fall, and Elrohir not willing to take on that grim task if needed, he would have stayed behind with Aragorn, and, if he had to, would have killed him to keep him from Sauron's grasp. And then, rather than be taken alive by the Enemy, either turn the blade on himself, or attempt to take some few of his enemies along with him and let the Orcs finish him off. Thankfully, it had not come to that, but if it had, he could have made no other choice. He could only have abandoned his appointed post, abandoned the people left in his charge by his lord. Protecting Aragorn, even if all he could do was keep him from the Enemy, would have overridden any other duty.

Yes, Halbarad thought grimly, he dared say that he understood about hard choices. And the choice the Lady Éowyn had faced had been hard, to stand – or fall – with her kin, or to stay behind, caught in her duty. At the same time Halbarad disagreed with her answer, for her actions had served no greater purpose than her own desires, and could have been the end of her House. No matter what duty meant to her – and it was clear there was much she was not speaking of – what it came down to was that Éowyn had willingly accepted the charge Théoden had given her. For her to abandon her responsibility so easily, for mere self-indulgence, even if it was partly love of kin that had moved her, did not speak well. Maybe it had turned out well in the end, for based on what he had heard, Halbarad agreed with Elfhelm. Had Éowyn not made herself known upon the Pelennor, the Rohirrim would not have rallied after her brother's fall, and their losses would have been even worse. He had to admit that what she might lack in sense, she more than made up for in courage, though that combination of traits was not generally what one looked for in a ruler.

Finally, Halbarad replied. "Yes, Lady, there is that which goes above mere duty. I deem, however, that your actions in following your kin into battle were not such." As he spoke, he held Éowyn's gaze until she lowered her eyes. He hesitated whether to press her further on why she had accepted the task offered her if duty was such a burden to her, but decided against it. He had already said much, and while she had wanted him to speak plainly, he should still practice some restraint.

An uncomfortable silence lay over the room until Erkenbrand coughed apologetically, and spoke. "My lady, shall we continue?"

Éowyn remained silent at first, as if she had not heard him, then looked up and met the eyes of each of her councillors in turn. "Yes, let us. Now that we know what went before, it is time to look ahead." She turned to Halbarad, and went on, "Am I right that you expect the Enemy to not be satisfied with the fall of Minas Tirith?"

Halbarad nodded. "When will depend on how the war has fared elsewhere, but the Enemy will continue his attack, both here and in other places. There will be some time to prepare, I think, for if he could crush us immediately, he would have done so."

"But how would we oppose the might that we saw put against Minas Tirith?" Elfhelm asked. "The strength of the Mark is in our horses, and while we would long have the advantage on the plains, sheer numbers would in the end give that advantage to the Enemy. We have already been lucky that he did not push harder in the Eastfold."

"Nor do we want to rely overmuch on either Helm's Deep or Dunharrow," Erkenbrand added. "While both can be defended long if need be, once we retreat that far, we have already as good as lost."

Halbarad was about to reply when Elladan interrupted, "But you do not stand alone, Men of Rohan. Gondor has not fallen yet. Eriador will give what help it can, and on the eastern side of the Misty Mountains there is also Lothlórien."

At this, Swithulf laughed scornfully, "Dwimordene? That is at best a children's tale."

"As Ents are?" Éowyn asked. Halbarad noted the glares from both Elladan and Elrohir at the Queen's advisor. Swithulf fell silent, looking embarrassed as well as angry.

Folcwine now spoke. "We must not forget Gondor. Our alliance of old comes first."

"That is as it should be," Halbarad said. "Still, the two are not in opposition, and one thing we would ask of you is in fact connected with Gondor." At Éowyn's questioning look, he went on, "As the Paths of the Dead are now the quickest and safest route to Gondor, I would ask of Rohan that our messengers be allowed to use them at need."

Éowyn nodded. "That is not too much to ask, and I see no reason not to grant it, for I know you and yours to be true and stalwart friends of both Gondor and Rohan."

Erkenbrand said, "I fear that, with our attention necessarily being turned eastwards, Dunland will try to intrude on Rohan's land again once they recover from their defeat at the Hornburg. And as long as Saruman sits in Isengard the Westfold is not as secure as I would like."

Halbarad briefly held Elladan's gaze before he reacted. If Elladan was going to commit the Dúnedain to action without asking him first – even if that action was what he intended to do – Elrond's son ought to be just as free with Rivendell's resources. "There we can offer some help. The Rangers can keep Dunland in check, provided we will get help from Rivendell when needed."

Elladan hesitated marginally, then confirmed Rivendell's support. "That will be possible, though we will need to work out the details later."

"But Saruman?" Éowyn said. "I agree with the Lord of the Westfold. He no longer is a direct threat, and his supporters within Rohan will be rooted out, but Saruman will still be dangerous as long as he sits in Isengard."

Now Elrohir spoke. "There I fear very little can be done, except to trust to the Ents to keep him safely imprisoned, and keep a close guard on Isengard."

"Would not Gandalf Greyhame be able to help us?" Erkenbrand asked, "I would expect a wizard to..."

"Alas, we do not know where Gandalf is, or what his plans are," replied Elrond's son, "And even for him, Isengard would be impenetrable."

The wizard would be a concern as long as he remained in Isengard, Halbarad knew. He also noted how careful Elrohir had been in his reference to Gandalf. "Yet we will need to do something about Saruman. I would urge you to send messengers north once we know how the war is going elsewhere, so that we can see what can be done both in Isengard and in other places."

"I will definitely send messengers to Eriador," Éowyn said, "And if possible..." She looked at Elladan and Elrohir, hesitating briefly before going on, "Would it be… would Rohan's envoys be welcome in Dwimordene?"

"I cannot speak for Lothlórien," Elladan replied, "But I deem that if you send messengers along with us, they would at least be given a hearing."

"Then I will do that," Éowyn said. The other Rohirrim looked decidedly uncomfortable at the idea, but no one said anything. Halbarad noted with some amusement the uneasy glances Folcwine and Swithulf cast at Legolas and the sons of Elrond.

Now Legolas spoke as well, "Mirkwood, too, should not be forgotten. I cannot offer any promise of aid or alliance, but we will do all in our power to harry the Enemy on the eastern side of Anduin."

Elladan leant forward eagerly at that. "It would be good for Mirkwood and Lothlórien to work together as closely as possible. You should perhaps reconsider your travel plans and come with us to Lothlórien."

Legolas looked thoughtful, then said he perhaps should.

Halbarad saw that Éowyn was waiting to interrupt, and guessed she was about to call for an end to this council. There was not that much left to talk about, and details of alliances would have to wait for later. He caught her eye and she nodded at him. Good, she had not forgotten about the Ring.

Éowyn raised her hand to ask for silence and spoke to dismiss her councillors. As Folcwine and Swithulf left, Éowyn held back Erkenbrand and Elfhelm, and went to the door to speak to Merry who had been on guard duty outside. The hobbit nodded at her words and went off, following Folcwine and Swithulf.

Éowyn came back inside and spoke softly with Erkenbrand and Elfhelm in Rohirric. The two looked at Halbarad before returning their attention to their queen. Elfhelm left the room, but Halbarad saw that he did not walk away, but took up position to stand guard outside the door where Merry had been before. Éowyn was being very careful then that no one would overhear them, by accident or otherwise. Of course, this also ensured that the curiosity of all about what was being discussed would be raised, but that could not be helped.

Elladan and Legolas also left at Halbarad's sign, leaving just Éowyn, Erkenbrand, Elrohir and Halbarad himself inside. As Elfhelm closed the door, Éowyn sat down again and spoke, "Lord Halbarad, I told Lord Erkenbrand and the Marshal of what you told me before. You can now speak freely. "

"Thank you, Lady," Halbarad said. He waited for a moment, taking note of Elrohir's disapproving expression. Clearly, the peredhel had not changed his mind after the discussion of the night before. "I must ask you to be careful about sharing further what I am about to say." He waited while the two Rohirrim agreed, then continued, "You know already that it is of the Ring the Enemy made long ago that I would speak. The Enemy again holds that Ring, and has thus regained all the power that was his before he was defeated by the Last Alliance."

Both Éowyn and Erkenbrand remained silent for some time, until Erkenbrand asked how they had learned of this. Halbarad spoke briefly of how the Ring had been found and the attempt to destroy it.

"And is there anything to be done now about this?" Éowyn asked.

Elrohir now replied, "Alas no, at least not about the Ring itself. Other than that, we can do no other than to fight the Enemy."

"Much as we have been doing up to now, then," Erkenbrand commented. "If, as you say, that is indeed all, then that is what we shall do."

Halbarad was surprised that the Rohirric lord was taking this so calmly. He wondered whether it was because Erkenbrand lacked the lore to understand what it meant, so that to him it would be merely another piece of bad news added to things that would seem to affect Rohan much more. Éowyn at least had seemed to grasp the implications of the Enemy regaining his Ring, and Halbarad suspected that her desire for an alliance with Lothlórien was based to some extent on that understanding.

Thinking back, he considered his own reaction. While it had been a horrible shock to learn that the Enemy held the One Ring again, it had been pushed to the back of his mind, first because of Aragorn, and then by the journey from Minas Tirith. Now, if he allowed himself to dwell on it, he did feel that same fear he had felt when he had first realised why Gandalf wanted Gollum found; yet there was too much to do to let it take over his thoughts, and he suspected it was much the same for Elladan and Elrohir. And they all knew the Enemy used fear as a weapon as much as force. Even so, Erkenbrand had shown no sign of alarm at all. Surely, no one could be that unshakeable?

Éowyn asked, "Is there anything else we should discuss now rather than later?"

"No, I do not think so," Halbarad said. He did not know what he could say to impress Erkenbrand with the seriousness of the news, and catching Elrohir's gaze, it was clear to him that the peredhel did not know what to make of it either.

"Very well," Éowyn replied as she stood up and walked to the door. Outside, Elfhelm stood talking to Elladan and Legolas. Elrohir and Erkenbrand joined them immediately, which left Halbarad with Éowyn.

"What are your plans for the rest of your journey?" Éowyn asked him.

"I will continue north with the Grey Company as quickly as possible, and the others will journey to Lothlórien and on from there," he replied.

"Do you not wish to go to Lothlórien?" Éowyn inquired.

"It is more important that I return home," Halbarad said, "And I have visited Lothlórien once before." He remembered that visit well. He had thought he was used to being around Elves in Rivendell, but the Golden Wood had been... he had no words to describe it. He had been travelling with Elladan and Elrohir, and he doubted he would have been allowed in otherwise, even if he had been with Aragorn. Though the Elves had been courteous enough, the sense of dangerousness, of a certain edge to them, that some even in Rivendell had, was much stronger. Not that the place felt evil or threatening, rather the opposite, but it made one very aware of how different Elves really were from Men. It had been an experience he would not have missed, though.

"What is it like?" Éowyn asked. "Is it as dangerous as men say? And as fair?"

"I would say it is fair. And dangerous? Yes and no," Halbarad said just as Elladan came up.

"That is a very Elvish thing to say," the peredhel commented drily.

"Appropriately so then, as we were talking about Lothlórien," Halbarad said.

Elladan nodded and turned to Éowyn, "Do you still intend to send an envoy there, lady?"

"Yes, though I do not yet know who to choose. I doubt many would be willing to go," she replied, hastily adding, "No offence intended, of course."

Elladan smiled at that, and said, "I have talked with Lord Erkenbrand and he expressed some curiosity about Dwimordene. I think he may well be willing to act as your envoy."

Éowyn looked pleased. "If you are willing to guide him and one other there, Lord Elladan...?"

After Elladan had confirmed they would take the Rohirrim with them, Éowyn turned to include Halbarad again. "Then, lords, I would ask if there is anything you need on your journeys, and if it is in my power to give you it, it will be done."

Elladan said his party would need nothing more than some supplies, and after some consideration Halbarad added, "We too do not need much beyond supplies, though if you could lend us one or two spare horses it would be welcome."

Éowyn spoke her agreement. "That is little enough to grant. Do you intend to leave on the morrow?"

It was already late in the day for them to set off now, so a reasonably early start the next day would do just as well, Halbarad thought. Both he and Elladan said that was their intention, and Éowyn continued, "Then will you and your men take your evening meal in the great hall this night?"

Halbarad said they would, and they took their leave of the Lady. As he and Elladan walked to the guest-house, he wondered how Éowyn's decision to send messengers to Lothlórien would work out. Though it was necessary that all would work together, it remained to be seen how the Rohirrim would take to being allied to the Haunted Wood. Impetuous indeed, he thought. Yet, when tempered by some wisdom, that impetuousness may make her a bold and decisive leader. She has done well enough this day.

Chapter Text

March 27 – April 1, 3019

Elrohir watched as the Grey Company rode off westwards and quickly disappeared out of sight behind a dense grey curtain of rain. Halbarad and his men should have a speedy journey home. And then the news would come to Rivendell, though it might well not be more than confirmation of what had already been perceived. Elrohir shuddered at the thought. Elladan looked at him questioningly.

"I was thinking of Father," Elrohir replied, not adding "and Arwen." Neither he nor Elladan had much hope that they would see their sister alive after she heard of Aragorn's death. The letter they had written, which Halbarad now carried with him, was not much of a farewell, and it might already be too late even now, but it was all they could do.

Their own road was not as clear as that of the Grey Company, and they would have to proceed much more warily. While they were all familiar with at least parts of their route, they had no news about what they might encounter along the way.

Elladan and Elrohir had already taken their leave of the Lady Éowyn; they now waited until she and Elfhelm were done talking to Erkenbrand and the Rider who had been chosen to accompany him, Wídfara, a man of the Wold. Soon the Lord of the Westfold turned his horse around to join the rest of the travellers, while the Queen and the marshal rode back towards Edoras.

Erkenbrand led the way as their little group rode north, Wídfara alongside him, the others following. Elrohir noted the nervous glances Wídfara cast at his unusual travelling companions. He hoped the Rider would settle down somewhat in the following days. Erkenbrand might well be as ill at ease, but if so, the older man hid it much better.

They encountered no others all that day, except for some small herds of horses, which they passed by with a casual wave from Erkenbrand at the herdsmen. Elladan was surprised that there were any herds out here, as he had understood that all had been called further west when Anórien and the Wold had come under attack. Wídfara explained that the first herds had returned to the plains the day after the Riders' return from Gondor. Even if there might still be enemies about, the herdsmen considered the new grass of spring worth the risk.

Wídfara seemed better at ease after Elladan's question, and for much of the rest of the day the two rode together. From what Elrohir could hear of their conversation, they spent most of that time discussing horses, a topic on which his brother should be able to match the enthusiasm of a man of Rohan. Neither Legolas nor Gimli said much, and Erkenbrand seemed to prefer the company of his own thoughts.

That night they camped in the middle of the empty plain. Elrohir would share guard duties with Elladan and Legolas, letting those who needed more sleep rest. It was a cold camp, for even if the effort of a campfire had been worth it in the rain that still poured down, Erkenbrand and Wídfara both had spoken against it. A fire would be visible for miles, and there might be stray bands of Orcs even this far west.

Despite the cold and damp, Elrohir fell asleep quickly. Legolas woke him halfway through the night, whispering that all was well before lying down for a few hours of rest. The wind had shifted to the north, and it had stopped raining. The sky was still overcast, and no stars could be seen, but Elrohir believed they might yet see the Sun the next day.

Elrohir thought on the results of the talks with the Queen of Rohan. In addition to Rohan being allied closely with the Dúnedain and Rivendell, it would definitely be welcome if Rohan and Lothlórien could combine their efforts. Together, the two might hang on to Anduin's western shore in the north for far longer than if they stood alone. The only thing that worried him was that he seemed to be the only one who was still concerned with even a minimum of secrecy about the One Ring. At least there had been no further mention of the Three.

Perhaps staying silent about the One no longer mattered, even if the knowledge that the Enemy held his Ring again would be more than enough reason to despair for many. Yet too much secrecy was not good either, for that would breed mistrust between allies when the truth came out. Elrohir knew he could only wait to see what came of this. Decisions had been made, and consequences could but follow. Suddenly, he wondered; what if, like Gandalf, either Elrond or Galadriel had been taken through their Ring when Sauron regained the One? Should that be so, they were riding to their own doom, and that of the West. With a shiver, he repressed the thought, but not before he saw that Elladan was awake, watching him.

Once all were awake, they set off again, choosing to ride longer hours rather than setting a fast pace. While the Gondorian horses were good enough, Elrohir knew they were no match for Erkenbrand's and Wídfara's steeds, and he spared a brief moment of regret for their own horses that they had left behind in Minas Tirith, and which had undoubtedly ended up butchered by Orcs.

Before noon, most of the clouds had cleared, and they rode in bright sunshine until the southern edge of Fangorn came into view halfway through the afternoon. Suddenly, Elladan, who was some distance ahead, halted and dismounted, crouching to take a closer look at something on the ground. Elrohir urged his horse to greater speed, at the same time scanning the plain and the edge of the forest ahead for anything that could be amiss. He stopped some paces away as Elladan held up his hand. Joining his brother on foot, Elrohir immediately saw the tracks that ran from west to east. "Wargs. A large pack."

Elladan nodded in agreement. "Long gone, though. I sense nothing nearby."

By now the others had caught up with them, and Elladan gestured them back also to keep them from trampling the trail.

"Wargs?" Wídfara asked. "Where did they go?"

"East," replied Elladan.

"There should be no herds there," Erkenbrand interrupted, looking relieved.

"Should we go after them?" asked Wídfara.

"The trail is old, two days or more," said Elrohir, taking a closer look, "And were we to catch up with them, we are but six, and we carry no spears. Nor can we afford the time a Warg hunt would cost. I fear we must let them go." The others reluctantly agreed.

As Elrohir was about to get back on his horse, Legolas caught his arm and pointed towards the edge of the forest. Elrohir looked, at first seeing nothing out of the ordinary, until he realised that what he had taken for a tree could only be an Ent. He tried not to gape in amazement. It was one thing to have learned the Ents were taking part in events, it was another to encounter one.

"He only just appeared," the Elf said. "But I think we have been watched for some time."

"We should go and greet him," Elladan said eagerly. All agreed, Gimli and Wídfara somewhat reluctantly, and they set off for the edge of the forest.

"It is Fangorn himself," Legolas said as they came closer. "I wonder why he is here rather than at Isengard?"

The Ent came over to greet them. "Have you come to visit my forest as you said you would, Master Elf?" Treebeard said, giving all members of their group a searching look, letting his gaze linger longest on Elrohir and Elladan.

"Alas, no," replied Legolas, "I must return north without visiting your woods."

"Hoom, north you say? Then be wary, for there are many Orcs beyond the forest, though not as many as there could have been. Where are you headed?" the Ent asked.

"Lothlórien," replied Elladan.

"Hoo, hm! I doubt you can reach it, for the foul vermin are all around that fair wood. An army came over the River some days ago, too many for the Ents to stop before they turned towards Laurelindórenan."

Elrohir cast an alarmed look at his brother. Even if Lothlórien yet stood, this news bode ill. With days of travel still ahead, they could only hope the defence of their grandparents' realm would hold.

Elladan asked Treebeard, "Not as many as there could have been?"

There was a grim light in the Ent's dark eyes as he looked at Elladan. "The Ents have not been idle. Two weeks ago, from over the River there came a great inrush of Orc vermin into the Wold. We stopped them before they could get further into Rohan. Not many escaped us, and most of those drowned in the River. Since then, we have kept them from returning to attack again, and that was well for you, for had we not, you would not have ridden this far, if indeed you could have set off."

Erkenbrand spoke now. "Rohan is in your debt, both for this and for your aid in Isengard, and it shall not be forgotten in Edoras."

"Not while your kingdom lasts, you mean; but it will have to last long indeed before it will seem long to Ents," said Treebeard.

"That is true," Elladan replied, "Yet we now face the end of all kingdoms and of the Ents, too, if all do not work together."

"Hm, hoom, the news from the south is not good then, I take it," said the Ent.

"Indeed not," Elladan said, "Minas Tirith has fallen. This is only the beginning of Sauron's War and he will not rest until he has all lands under his dominion."

Treebeard remained silent for some time, standing quietly until he shook himself with a rustling as of leaves in the wind, and asked, "Gandalf – where is he? – spoke to me of a secret hope. If you know of what I speak, can you tell me what has come of that? And what news of the two young hobbits?"

Legolas now spoke. "Alas, the hope you speak of has failed, and Sauron now holds his Ring again. Merry and Pippin are both well. Gandalf has ridden off, we know not where to, and it troubles us, for his manner before he left was strange."

Elrohir feared Legolas might accidentally bring up Gandalf's Ring, and spoke quickly, ignoring the Elf's irritated glance at the interruption, "Treebeard, do you know where exactly the Orcs are?"

"No, only that there are none in the forest. Your road will be safe until you cross Limlight; beyond that I do not know. There will be Huorns coming from Isengard, to harry the Enemy's army if it is driven back from Laurelindórenan. No Orcs shall return to his dark home across Anduin again. Yet your journey will be more dangerous even if you do not meet any of them, for the Huorns when roused will not wait to find out that you are not Orcs should you encounter them."

Elrohir feared the Ent was only too right with that warning, and noted the concern on his companions' faces. "How long do we have?" he asked.

"Still several days, and I will not let the Huorns go too far north, so though you need not rush, you should not delay long either," replied Treebeard. "Now if you will excuse me, I myself do need to hurry – a most un-Entish thing to do, but it cannot be helped. There are Wargs upon the Wold. You may rest here tonight, and take fallen branches from the forest floor for a campfire, and you can journey under the eaves of the forest tomorrow. The trees know you, and no harm will come to you from them."

"At least Lothlórien still stands," said Gimli, after the Ent had gone. He had remained silent through the conversation with Treebeard.

"Yes, but will it still do so when we get there?" asked Legolas.

Elrohir said nothing. He wanted to dwell longer on the wonder of meeting an Ent; he regretted there had not been more time to speak with the ancient tree-herder, and wished they could have met in a time of peace. Instead, in his mind he saw the massive forces that had been fielded against Minas Tirith, and he wondered how Lothlórien could resist such an army, especially if Galadriel could not use her Ring. The Elves of Lórien would fight fiercely to defend their home, but would it be enough? He cast a quick glance at Elladan, who sat on the edge of the clearing where their camp was, knowing his brother shared his fear. He wished they could reach Lothlórien faster. Now at last he truly understood Halbarad's desire for speed on the journey through Gondor, and just as Halbarad had come to admit, he too knew that they could not travel any faster than they already were. Certainly, if the land between Limlight and Lórien was crawling with Orcs, they did not want to exhaust their horses before they got that far. To have the animals fresh enough to outrun Orcs, or Wargs, could well come to mean the difference between life and death.

The next day dawned clear and cold. First, they rode in the open, though near to the edge of the forest. Elrohir rode with his brother for much of the morning, warily watching the edge of the Wold on their right, fearing to hear the howling of Wargs on their trail. Around noon the wind started to carry a faint hint of burning, and their tension heightened, though Elrohir was certain it was not Fangorn's woods that were on fire. The smell was too faint, and he was sure the trees around them would react if there was a fire anywhere near. Was it Lothlórien that burned? Though they were a great distance away still, smoke could easily carry that far on the wind. The horses were nervous too, spooking at the slightest disturbance. They found themselves edging closer towards the trees, and Erkenbrand and Wídfara rode with their bows in hand.

Elrohir had hoped they would reach the northern edge of the trees that day, but they were still well inside the forest's boundary by the time they stopped for the night. The air still bore a hint of smoke, and their camp that night was cold again. As he reluctantly chewed on a piece of dried meat and the last of the bread they had brought from Edoras, Elrohir doubted they would be secure enough to allow a campfire again until they reached Lothlórien.

The camp was silent as well as cold, as all were occupied with their own thoughts. Elrohir found himself recalling the times he and his brother had travelled with Aragorn, just the three of them or in the company of other Rangers. Still alert for the sound of Wargs on the hunt, it was not surprising that he remembered Aragorn's first Warg kill. Aragorn had been seventeen, and while a certain amount of luck was involved, it had still been a great achievement for one so young. Of course, afterwards he and Elladan had soon enough grown tired of days of boyish boasts about the hunt. Elrohir sadly shook his head at the memory and got up to take his turn on watch.

Though the night was silent, Elrohir imagined that he could hear the rustling and creaking of marching Huorns in the south. His imagination was getting the better of him, he knew, and it was probably time to wake Elladan and get some sleep before he truly started jumping at shadows. Elladan was grumpy at being woken early, but that was better than raising an alarm over nothing.

Elrohir fell asleep almost immediately and was last to wake up the next day. The morning started shrouded in mist, which did not clear until they reached the edge of the forest just before noon. They paused before leaving the shelter of the trees.

"What is the terrain like beyond this point?" asked Erkenbrand.

"Mostly as you see now, open grassland and thickets of trees," Elladan replied.

"There will be little shelter from hostile eyes," Elrohir added, "so we must hope that we do not encounter any Orcs. If we do, we should run rather than fight if at all possible. It is more important that we get to Lothlórien than that we reduce the Enemy's army by thirty or forty Orcs." All agreed, though none of them liked the idea of running from what enemies they might encounter.

They made good progress that afternoon, finding no trace yet of Orcs, though they heard Wargs in the distance several times. Close to dusk, Wídfara and Elladan, who had been scouting ahead, came back.

"There are about three hundred Orcs camped about three miles from here. No sign of Wargs," Elladan said.

"Then we should rest here tonight," Elrohir responded. "It is too late in the day. We cannot risk going on past them when it is already nearly dark.

"Perhaps we should keep a double watch with the enemy so near?" Erkenbrand suggested.

Elrohir agreed and took the first watch together with Erkenbrand, using the opportunity to observe the man more closely. He had been intrigued by how calmly Erkenbrand had taken the news that Sauron had his Ring back, and had since reached the conclusion that there was very little that would shake this man's calm demeanour. He already knew the Lord of the Westfold as a bold and canny man, but still wondered why he had put himself forward to come with them to Lothlórien. Erkenbrand did not strike him as the kind to be led by fey dreams of Elves, and most Rohirrim feared the Golden Wood rather than feel curiosity about it.

Near the end of their watch, Elrohir suddenly heard a great confusion of shouting and other noise to the north, and he was instantly alert. In the light of the nearly full Moon, he noticed that Erkenbrand too had heard it, and was now looking at him.

"I think the Orcs are on the move," Elrohir whispered.

"Can you make out where they are heading?" Erkenbrand asked, speaking just as softly.

"Not yet, not with certainty, but I do not believe they are heading this way," he replied.

The others had woken up as well, and all sat waiting until it was clear that the Orcs were not coming in their direction. Elrohir went to sleep then as Legolas and Gimli took over the watch.

They warily moved north in the morning, finding that the Orcs had indeed broken camp and were heading east. Elrohir thought they were close to halfway across the plain; if their luck held, they should reach the eaves of Lothlórien well before dark that day.

Throughout the day they had to be careful to avoid small groups of Orcs heading south and east. Elrohir suspected this meant that the attack Treebeard had told them about had been repelled, and Lórien still stood. At one point they found the arrow-riddled carcass of one of the flying beasts the Nazgûl used, though Elrohir did not sense a Ringwraith in their vicinity. Had the Wraith been slain, or merely driven off?

By mid-afternoon they were nearing their destination and it became clear that, even if the attack Fangorn had told them about had been beaten back, great damage had been done. Where the southern bank of the Silverlode had been covered in trees, only blackened stumps remained, and it looked to Elrohir as if the burned area continued for some distance on the other shore of the river as well. He could clearly smell it now too, an unpleasant, acrid smell that seemed to cling to everything. He exchanged a distressed look with Elladan as they moved closer.

"What now?" Elladan asked. "It is about three miles without cover from here to the river. The only chance I see is to make a break for it and hope the remaining Orcs do not expect anyone to charge through from the south."

"But we cannot cross the river here, not with horses. We should try further west." Elrohir objected.

"We should not leave our horses behind," said Wídfara, with Erkenbrand nodding in agreement.

"There is at least one group of defenders on this shore that I can see," Elladan pointed out. "If we can get to them, we should be out of trouble."

Elrohir suspected it would not be so easy, not when Lórien had been under attack so recently. Despite his optimistic words, it would seem that Elladan shared at least some of his concerns, as his brother now turned to the others, warning especially the two men of Rohan not to make any move that could be seen as threatening once they reached the Elves.

Hopefully the warning would be enough. Elrohir knew it was warranted, and he hoped they were not about to ride to their accidental deaths at the hands of the defenders of Lothlórien. Still, he could see no other way than a headlong charge to get past the last Orcs.

Almost immediately, Elrohir gave the command to ride. He hoped they would make it through unchallenged, but they were not even halfway across when shouts of alarm went up from the closest Orcs. Luckily they were too far away to do more than shoot a few hastily-aimed arrows. As the arrows landed far short, Elrohir looked ahead again. The Elves had also seen them and were now raising their bows. Had this charge been a mistake? No, the bows were not aimed at them, but at the Wargs racing towards them.

If the Warg riders reached them, they would single out one or two of their party and try to take them down or drive them back towards the other Orcs, to be slaughtered within sight of the safety of Lórien. Elrohir urged his horse to go faster yet, and somehow the animal found the speed he asked for. Elladan was ahead, and would certainly reach the protection of the Lórien Elves in time. The others? Elrohir risked a backward glance. Erkenbrand and Wídfara were close behind, and were even gaining on him. They too would make it. Legolas and Gimli were too far behind, their horse faltering under its double load.  

Three would stand a better chance than two; Elrohir halted and was about to ride back, when Wídfara came up from behind him. The Rider had his bow already drawn, and now sped towards the Elf and the Dwarf. He shot as soon as the Wargs were in range, and though his first arrow fell short, the second and third hit both the first Warg and the Orc riding it. The remaining pursuers quickly fell back to outside the range of Wídfara's horse bow.

Elladan and Erkenbrand had waited until Elrohir and the others caught up again, and they now approached Lothlórien together. Elrohir could see the Elves clearly, and noticed several familiar faces among them. He repressed a twinge of apprehension as the Lórien longbows were resolutely aimed at them. They had been allowed to come this close, they must have been recognised. Surely they would not be slain without challenge or warning?

Chapter Text

March 28 – April 13, 3019

The ride north from Edoras left Halbarad with too much time to think, and none of his thoughts pleasant. He should be using this time to think on how to strengthen the defence of the North, or how best to handle the Council of the Angle. Instead, he kept returning to his argument with Éowyn of Rohan; not merely her abandonment of duty – that was plain enough, but how she had risked the very existence of her House. At the council, he had spoken in anger, but who had that anger been directed at? How could you be so reckless with your people? Halbarad wanted to shy away from the thought, but there was no denying that he was angry at Aragorn, angry for having gambled with the line of the Kings, for getting himself killed, for leaving him bereft and hopeless, for failing...

But what else could he have done? Would you have had him stay in the Angle, perhaps keep him penned up in Caras Dirnen, to keep him safe? Or married to a woman he did not love, just to perform his duty and beget an heir? No, that would not have been right either. Halbarad knew he could not have borne seeing Aragorn thus restricted and reduced. Arwen... Elrond should not have set his conditions. Aragorn might still have fallen, but at least there might have been another heir to Isildur's line.

And if he was fair, Halbarad could only admit that previous Chieftains had also taken their time about marriage and heirs. While none had waited – had been made to wait – quite this long, it was not the custom of the Dúnedain to wed young. Aragorn had taken many risks and faced many dangers in his life, but hardly ever had he been reckless or impatient, certainly not in his actions; bold, yes, but not reckless. If Aragorn had been reckless, it was in working towards his goals so single-mindedly, knowing full well the price of failure. Oh curse it, Aragorn! Even if you had left an heir, what difference? You would still be dead. Halbarad pulled up the hood of his cloak to hide sudden tears, glad for the steadily falling rain.

They crossed the Fords of Isen and left Rohan on the second day after leaving Edoras. Over the next few days, as they passed through Dunland, the constant rain gave way to showers, but it was still cold and windy. Though there were old tracks that suggested at least one large group had passed this way, the road was empty. Halbarad was wary for trouble even so; he doubted many Dunlendings would risk attacking a sizable armed company such as theirs on the open road, but he could not ignore the possibility.

The Grey Company made good time despite the weather, the men's spirits lifting somewhat as they left the south behind. Though all were still deeply grieved by the loss of Aragorn, they also longed to return home, and Halbarad had seen more than one Ranger look north wistfully. Making sure yet again that the oilskin-wrapped package that contained the scrolls with Aragorn's will and the letter for Arwen that Elladan had given him was secure in his pack, next to the palantír, Halbarad was uncertain how he felt about returning home. He missed Dineth, and he would be glad to see her, but the closer to the Angle he came, the more apprehensive he felt about what lay ahead, and the less clear his course of action appeared.

On their fifth day from the Fords of Isen, they came to Tharbad. Halbarad hoped they would reach the ford in time to cross in daylight. The crossing was always hazardous, and if the weather further north had been anywhere near as bad as it had been in Rohan, Gwathló would be even more treacherous than it normally was.

Halbarad had always found the ruins of Tharbad a dreary, miserable place, and they looked no better to him this time. Eriador had many ruins of keeps and towns, but most had not been lived in for a thousand years or more. Tharbad had still been a living city almost within his own lifetime. He looked critically at what was left of the city and the causeway leading to it.

Should the Steward of Gondor decide he did need what resources the North could offer, how much work would it take to restore the ruins enough to transport goods south? Rebuilding the bridge would make it too easy for the Enemy's troops to cross the river; clearing the remaining stones from the water would make it impossible to ford the river, and they could then use barges to ferry goods. Halbarad nodded in satisfaction. It was not much, but it was a start at least.

The Grey Company approached the ford slowly, giving the Rangers guarding it time to recognise them. As his horse stepped into the river, Halbarad thought he spotted a sentry moving among the ruins of the bridge's gatehouse on the other side.

Ignoring the icy water that seeped into his boots, Halbarad kept driving his now reluctant horse forward. At least the animal kept going, even if he felt its hooves slip on the treacherous footing of the ruined bridge more than once. Others had more trouble to get the Gondorian horses into the water, but all succeeded in the end. As he passed the broken support arch that marked the halfway point, Halbarad saw that a number of Rangers were waiting to meet them on the other shore. As the first of the Grey Company reached dry land again, the Tharbad Rangers quickly led horses and men to shelter.

Halbarad dismounted to greet the captain of the Tharbad company, his brother-in-law, Daeron. As they clasped hands he noticed the barely healed scar running up the other's arm. Noting his glance, Daeron looked slightly sheepish as he explained, "I did not duck fast enough. It has been busy since you last came by. But what of your mission, did you find Aragorn?"

"We did," Halbarad replied.

Before he could continue, Daeron spoke again. "And what is the news from the South? We have heard only vague rumours of the war."

Halbarad tried to steady his voice as he spoke. "Aragorn is dead. As we tried to break the siege of Minas Tirith, he took a mortal wound against one of the Nazgûl."

"Aragorn, dead? No..." Daeron stared at him in shocked disbelief, as did the other Tharbad Rangers within earshot. "Against a Nazgûl?" He had paled, trembling.

Of course, Halbarad thought. Daeron had been one of the few to survive the Ringwraiths' attack on Sarn Ford the previous autumn. Daeron remained silent for some time, and though he looked at Halbarad, it was clear his thoughts were elsewhere. Then he shook his head, banishing whatever it was that haunted him. "You are Captain now?"

"Yes," Halbarad said.

Daeron nodded. "You had better come inside. We can talk later." Halbarad followed him to the ruined inn that served as the Tharbad Company’s quarters.

"It has been busy here, you said," Halbarad prompted Daeron.

"Yes," Daeron replied, as Halbarad sat down on a bench near the fire in what had been the inn's common room. "Mostly Dunlendings and some of those half-Orcs with them. We stopped all, except one group. It is just as well we are back at full strength here and no longer have most of our men around the Shire, or we would have stopped none."

"How many got through? When?"

"Two hundred, ten days ago. They lost forty in the crossing. We lost three men, several wounded. I set some men to follow them and sent a warning to Fornost and Sarn Ford, but the man I sent to Fornost is not yet back."

"What else?"

"Those ruffians that set up near Bree over the winter are still causing trouble. They tried to move into the Shire as well, but have been kept out so far, partly by the hobbits' own efforts. Other than that, Orcs in the mountains, and attempting to strengthen their foothold in the Ettenmoors. Some came as far south as the Road. Rivendell and the eastern patrols are taking care of that. The mountain passes were still closed due to snow, from the last I heard. No large battles, but we have been kept busy everywhere."

It was too much to hope that the Dunlendings would not join with the band already troubling the Bree-land, but they would have to be dealt with wherever they had gone. Daeron's messenger to Fornost should return soon and then they would know.

"Losses?"

"Twelve for Bree and Fornost, and eight that I know of in the eastern patrols. There have been deaths among the Bree-landers as well, but I do not know how many."

It was not yet as bad as Halbarad had feared, but still worse than he had hoped, though he was alarmed at Orcs from the Ettenmoors getting so near the Angle. And the hobbits taking to arms... That at least was good news.

"How is the Greenway?" Halbarad asked.

"Quiet, at least as far up as the Barrow-downs. Muddy."

If their luck on the road held, they should be home in no more than ten days or so, even if the weather remained bad. Halbarad noticed Halmir waiting nearby, and motioned for his son to join them. Daeron greeted Halmir and the two spoke briefly before Daeron walked off to attend to other tasks.

"How long until we get home?" Halmir asked as he sat down.

"Are you that eager to return?" Halbarad asked in return, and continued teasingly, attempting levity. "Lossiel does have some patience, even if you have not, but I reckon it should be no more than two weeks."

Halbarad smiled as Halmir blushed at the mention of his intended. He suspected that here sat one Ranger who would not delay marriage by much longer, even if he was still young for it. He suddenly had a feeling – not a foresight, he had been spared those since the Paths of the Dead – that it might not be all that long before he held his first grandchild. He repressed a flash of anxiety at that thought; even knowing that the War would not spare the North, he could not deny Halmir what joy was still to be found in life.

Later that night, Halbarad went outside to stretch his legs, and consider the actions before him. Not only would the Dunlendings have to be dealt with, it was also even more important now that the remains of the bridge be cleared soon, before any more of Saruman's men could cross the river. After a few minutes, Daeron joined him.

"I did not want to ask in front of the men, but what will happen to the Dúnedain now, with Aragorn dead? Who will lead us?" Daeron asked.

"Aragorn appointed me Chieftain," Halbarad replied.

Daeron gave him a sharp look. "Then what about the line of Isildur? Are you Heir as well?"

"No." He shook his head wearily. "The line of the Kings is ended."

"Ended?" Daeron looked puzzled. "But you, can you not..."

Halbarad shook his head again, now more emphatically. "Aragorn decided thus, and I agree. Not all would accept me as Heir, and we cannot afford strife." He would not yet speak of the Ring, but he should not let their position seem less serious than it was either, so at Daeron's questioning look, Halbarad added, "The Enemy will not stop with Minas Tirith, nor even with Gondor. He will come north in force. Not yet this year perhaps, but come he will, and we must be ready and undivided."

Daeron looked down, thinking, then after some time met his gaze. "I understand. You have my support."

The next morning the Grey Company set off again. Two men from the Tharbad garrison went with them, both to bring the news of Aragorn's death to Sarn Ford and the captains at Fornost, and to bring details of the Dunlendings' whereabouts when they returned to Tharbad.

Halbarad hesitated whether he should not ride north and see for himself; it would take no more than a few days. No, the captains should be able to handle this for now, and he could return west quickly enough if necessary.

By the evening of the third day they neared Andrath and the southern edge of the Barrow-downs. Halbarad had been checking their supplies and instructing the man from Tharbad who would ride on towards Bree and Fornost the next day. As he paid attention again to the general conversation, he just caught the end of an argument between Hunthor and Borlas.

"We can make better time if we keep to the Road," Hunthor said.

Borlas scoffed at the idea. "Go through Bree? In full battle gear? Even if the Road is not held against us, we might as well put up signposts to the Angle while we are at it. No, we must turn east off the Greenway and not return to the Road until after the Marshes."

Hunthor looked down, his embarrassment at having his suggestion dismissed clear to see.

Halbarad agreed with Borlas, but he had some idea also of what bothered Hunthor and gesturing at Borlas to leave it to him, he replied, "Hunthor, I do not like it either, but the time to reveal ourselves has not come yet. Eriador is not Gondor, and the Dúnedain must remain hidden a while longer."

"Then when? When can we stop skulking in the shadows?" the other asked bitterly. "What they say in Bree and the Shire, 'when the King comes back,' for what people know is not going to happen? You may as well tell me that now, for it is about as likely to occur."

When the King comes back... Somehow, Halbarad managed not to flinch at the familiar old saying. He held Hunthor's gaze without saying anything until Hunthor looked down and started to fidget at his silence.

"I doubt it will be long before we come into the open," Halbarad finally said. Soon, he would have no choice but to reveal the Rangers' purpose, for he doubted the brigands around Bree could be rooted out without that happening. Even knowing it was unavoidable, Halbarad did not understand this eagerness to be out in the open. They had all seen the Enemy's armies before Minas Tirith. Hunthor should be able to figure out how long the Angle would stand against such numbers.

Later, when Halbarad relieved Hunthor from his sentry duty, the younger man hesitated, then said, "Sir?" Halbarad nodded, and the other continued, "Captain, earlier, what I said... I must apologise, I did not mean to say it like that."

Halbarad held Hunthor's gaze as he spoke. "Hunthor, this is hard on us all. I will not take you to task over well-intended words spoken from the heart, even if badly put. But keep some rein on your tongue nonetheless. While I would have you free to talk about Aragorn and to remember him, I will not tolerate disrespect towards him."

Hunthor looked half relieved, half ashamed. "I am sorry, Captain. I would not... I meant no disrespect."

Halbarad shook his head as Hunthor walked away. The young Ranger meant well enough, but he seemed on occasion to have an uncommon talent for saying things the wrong way.

Despite the detour around Bree and the continuing bad weather, the Grey Company still made decent time over the next days, though they had to ease up slightly after Beleg's horse pulled up lame again, and he had to switch to one of their spare mounts.

They were now only a few miles from the Last Bridge, and nearing the end of their journey. That night, after he finished cleaning Andúril and had resheathed it, Halbarad addressed Borlas, "After the Bridge I will go on to Rivendell and you can take the rest of the Company into the Angle to bring the news to Caras Dirnen. I will follow as soon as I can."

Borlas looked up from where he was sitting mending a strap on his saddle. "I am coming with you."

"Why?"

"You are the Chieftain. You should not be riding around on your own, certainly not when Orcs have been seen near the Road."

"I can look after myself."

"Is that what Aragorn told you before the Pelennor?"

Halbarad had to swallow before he could reply. He hoped his voice was steady. "That is a low strike, Borlas."

"But to the point. And another thing, why do you go to Rivendell before the Angle? Should not our own people come first? Let someone else be messenger to Rivendell. Prove to the Dúnedain that you are not another who looks to the Elves more than to his own, like A..." Borlas abruptly fell silent as he met Halbarad's gaze.

"Without Rivendell, the Dúnedain would have dwindled to nothing a long time ago."

"Perhaps, but if not for Rivendell's recent counsel, we would have had a living Heir of Isildur."

Halbarad bit back an angry reply, and stood up instead, staring at the dark forest beyond their campfire for some minutes. He sighed as he turned to address Borlas again, "Very well then. You and Gethron can accompany me to Rivendell. Halmir will lead the Grey Company to the Angle."

Borlas started to agree, then exclaimed, "Halmir? He is barely more than an untried youth!"

Halbarad merely raised an eyebrow at his lieutenant. He had never unfairly favoured his son, and Borlas knew well enough that no man who was chosen for the Grey Company could be called an untried youth. Borlas met his gaze and gave him a hard look, but said nothing before he walked away.

Some time later, Halbarad sat staring into the campfire, wondering whether Borlas' hostility to Rivendell would become a problem later on. In itself it was nothing new, though his second had never been this outspoken before. Still, these questions were to be expected, nor would Borlas be the last to raise this point. Halbarad had questions himself about the reasoning that had led to sending out the Fellowship to destroy the Ring, though Elrond might well be unwilling to answer them.

Halbarad shook his head. He would have to watch Borlas, even if he did not like giving the impression that he would stifle dissent. A man should be free to speak his mind to his captain, or to his lord, as long as in the end he would abide by what was decided. Aragorn had certainly always expected him to speak plainly and give his honest opinion. Halbarad knew well that even so he had more than once come very close to overstepping the mark in arguing with Aragorn; yet, once a decision had been taken, he would fall into line. However, he was not Aragorn, and Borlas was not him. He could not afford leniency, not as Chieftain and not as Captain, not yet at any rate.

Borlas' outspokenness also complicated the choice for Halbarad's second and the new captain of the Grey Company. Borlas was the obvious choice for the position, and despite his misgivings, Halbarad had already as good as decided that it would have to be so. Several of the younger Rangers, including Halmir, did show promise, but it would be some time yet before they were ready to lead a company, let alone serve as his lieutenant and command the Grey Company. The other captains were all needed where they were, so he could not move one of them, even if he would much prefer having Daeron as his second. He would just have to continue to work with Borlas; he knew him well enough, though they did not get along, and never had. At least he was capable, though to Halbarad's mind overly cautious at times. Even so, it would be better that the news come to Caras Dirnen from someone who would not speak against Halbarad choosing to go to Rivendell first.

The three Rangers set off long before dawn the next morning. They would not make it to Rivendell that day, not even if they rode their horses to exhaustion, but Halbarad still set as hard a pace as was possible.

Around noon, Borlas, who had been keeping back to watch the road, warned that there were four riders behind them.

"Rangers?" Halbarad asked.

Borlas' reply was just as curt. "Elves."

"We wait," Halbarad decided. The first of the riders soon caught up with them and as he approached, Halbarad saw it was Glorfindel.

The normally cheerful Elf looked grim, and as Halbarad was about to speak, he said, "I already know. We came past Tharbad and heard the news there. You are going to Rivendell?"

"Yes," Halbarad replied.

"Then let us ride on together."

Chapter Text

April 1 - 3, 3019

Elrohir reined in his horse and dismounted. They were no more than fifty yards from the Lórien Elves. The others followed his lead, and they walked on, leading their horses. Elladan moved forward to walk by his side.

"They are still on their guard," Elrohir observed as he looked at those waiting for them.

"Not surprising. The fighting must have been fierce," Elladan replied.

As Elrohir looked around, he could only agree. While the only bodies he could see were those of Orcs and Wargs, charred trees and burned stumps told their own story, and the ground was littered with broken spear shafts and arrows from both sides, many of them burned.

Elladan called out a greeting as he recognised the Elf who led the group of defenders. Rather than being welcomed in return, they were told to stand where they were and place their weapons on the ground.

"Celegir! What is the meaning of this?" Elladan asked even as he complied with the order. As Celegir's command had been given in the Silvan speech, Elrohir quickly translated into Westron for the Rohirrim and Gimli.

"No questions. You will be brought before the Lord and Lady," the other replied curtly. "And do not talk among yourselves," he snapped as he turned towards Elrohir.

"Celegir, be reasonable. Not all our companions understand your speech," Elrohir replied, irritated by the Elf's brusque manner.

Celegir did not answer him, but he did speak Westron, albeit slowly and hesitantly, when next he ordered them to stand apart from each other to have their hands bound and be blindfolded. Gimli snorted indignantly at something Legolas said to him, but obeyed without argument, as did Wídfara and Erkenbrand, though Elrohir could see that even Erkenbrand was more than a bit anxious. He could only admit to sharing their concern. Being careful was one thing, but this suggested more than simple precaution, and he repressed a shiver as he recalled his fear that Galadriel might have been subverted through her Ring.

As Elrohir stood waiting in the darkness of his blindfold, he heard Elladan ask about their horses.

"They will be brought in by another path," Celegir replied, before instructing them to follow all commands they were given by the ones leading them. He added that any who attempted to remove his blindfold would be slain.

Elrohir wondered again at the reason for their unfriendly reception. Was it precaution, was it because they had led strangers to Lothlórien, or...? What if Galadriel was under Sauron's influence and they had walked into a trap? He hoped they had not made a mistake in coming here.

Await what happens, Elladan spoke in his mind. It may just be that they are being careful.

Perhaps, Elrohir thought. But if not... what then? Elladan remained silent.

It was already late in the afternoon, and Elrohir doubted that they would reach Caras Galadhon that day. He attempted to keep some idea of where they were, but found himself lost before they reached Celebrant. On the other side of the river they were handed over to a different group of Elves and quickly led further into Lothlórien. He tried to sense what was happening around him, but felt nothing beyond Elladan's wary tension.

It was not long before they stopped. Forcing himself to seem at least outwardly patient, Elrohir awaited what was going to happen as his blindfold was removed and his bonds undone. His brother and the others remained bound and blindfolded. Two Elves led him up to a nearby flet, and stayed with him until the Lord and Lady themselves arrived; both were clad in mail. He stood long under their silent scrutiny.

"Open your mind to me," Galadriel said finally, barely waiting until he did before she entered his thoughts. Despite her urgency, Elrohir had hesitated before he assented. What if his grandmother was indeed under the control of the Enemy through her Ring? Though he could still not be sure, and his questions about their reception remained, Elrohir did not now think that was the case. Her manner, while abrupt and slightly distant, was not as alarming as Gandalf's had been. He cast a quick look at her hand. She was not wearing Nenya; that was a good sign. Also, now that he thought about it, he doubted that Lothlórien would still be standing if she had been overwhelmed by Sauron. He hoped he was right. Not only would his own life and those of his companions be forfeit, he doubted the defence of the West could take the loss of Lothlórien. But how could he be certain?

Despite the tight knot of fear and doubt in his stomach, Elrohir tried to keep a calm stance while his grandmother searched his thoughts and memories. She stood in front of him, Celeborn behind. Elrohir knew that Celeborn's hand was on his dagger, and that if Galadriel commanded it, his grandfather would slay him without hesitation. He felt his fear rise even more. Was it a trick of the Enemy after all? But no, Celeborn would not be party to this if he thought there was anything amiss with Galadriel.

"You are free of the Enemy's influence," Galadriel said after some time, relief and fatigue both clear in her voice. "But before we can welcome you and your party to Lothlórien, I will need to speak to your brother as well."

Elrohir spoke before she could continue. "Has it been bad here?"

Celeborn was the one to reply. "Yes, and it will no doubt become worse."

"How much of what has happened in the south is known to you?" Elrohir asked him.

"Much, though not all," Celeborn said. "We know of the One Ring, and of the fall of Isildur's Heir."

Before Elrohir could respond, Galadriel spoke again, "Elrohir, we will speak further on this later, but first I must know that your brother is also free of the Shadow. Please, wait below."

Elrohir climbed down from the flet just as his brother, looking very uneasy, was brought up by some of their guards, who looked equally ill at ease. Elladan tried to catch his eye, but Elrohir could not bring himself to meet his brother's gaze. They had both been in direct contact with Sauron. What if Elladan was in some way under the Enemy's influence? He could not believe it was so, but Galadriel clearly thought it was possible. What if she were to find some hidden compulsion or command? Elrohir knew that he might well have looked on his brother for the last time. He almost panicked at the thought that he was still not fully certain either that Galadriel herself was not under the Enemy's control through her Ring. If she was, he had let Elladan walk to his death without even warning him. Elladan's mind was fully closed to him now. Why was this taking so long?

Elrohir paced nervously, trying not to listen for any sudden noise or disturbance from above, not to let his thoughts run away with him. He started as Galadriel came down the ladder, followed by Celeborn. Elladan was last, and Elrohir breathed a sigh of relief as his brother stepped down to the ground. Elladan met his gaze briefly, then looked away.

Galadriel came over to Elrohir, Elladan following her. "I saw what you fear, but rest assured. I am not under the influence of the Dark One."

Elrohir glanced at his brother. He wanted to believe her, but could they be sure? Elladan appeared more settled now, so perhaps all was indeed well.

"Through the Mirror, I saw as soon as the Ringbearer was captured," Galadriel added. "This too we shall talk about later."

"Now tell me about the two Rohirrim," Celeborn commanded Elrohir and Elladan, as Galadriel walked towards where the others were still kept under guard. "Legolas of Mirkwood and Gimli son of Glóin are known and welcome in Lothlórien. The two Men of Rohan are strangers to us, and before I decide on their fate, I would know why you have brought them here."

Elladan answered, "The Queen of Rohan seeks an alliance with Lothlórien, to stand together in opposition to Sauron. The elder of these two men, Erkenbrand, lord of the Westfold, has come here as her envoy, and his companion is Wídfara, a man of the Wold."

Celeborn looked at him in surprise. "That is unexpected. The Rohirrim are not known for being great Elf-friends."

"These are unusual times, and the Lady Éowyn is bold, close to reckless some would say. Had I not supported her intention, I would not have brought her men here," Elladan said, adding, "I have also spoken for Imladris in promising Rohan what support we may be able to give."

Celeborn looked pensive, then turned to Elrohir. "And what do you say? You have been quiet so far."

Elrohir did not have to think long about his answer. "I agree with Elladan, and would remind you that, even though it is not remembered in Meduseld, Lórien has aided the Men of the Mark before."

"That is true," Celeborn agreed. "And an alliance would be wise. I shall hear what the lord of the Westfold has to say."

They waited in silence, until Galadriel returned with the other members of their party. Erkenbrand and Wídfara, though still not fully at ease, were looking round in wonder. Gimli only had eyes for Galadriel, while Legolas waited quietly.

As they stood together, Galadriel addressed them, "Though I make no apology for your cold welcome, now at last I can welcome you to Lothlórien, both those who are already known here and those who visit here for the first time."

Celeborn now spoke, addressing the two Rohirrim. "I have heard of the reason for your journey. As it is already late in the day, we shall speak further tomorrow. You may take your rest on the flet above, and in the morning you will be guided to Caras Galadhon."

"Thank you, lord," Erkenbrand replied. "If I may ask, where are our horses?"

"They have been taken to a safe place near the river: they are well looked after," said Celeborn, before he and Galadriel turned away and headed into the dark forest.

Elrohir's gaze lingered where the Lord and Lady had disappeared from view. Before, he had not noticed, but now that he could put his full attention on it, there was a difference in how Lothlórien felt to him. It was not just the heightened sense of watchfulness that hung among the trees, but there was something else as well, something much more subtle. Perhaps it was the effect of Galadriel not using her Ring that he felt. Lórien was still protected, not yet wholly open to the world, that he also knew, but there had been a change in its defences.

"I feel it too," Elladan, who had come up to him unnoticed, said softly.

"What do you think? Is she safe?" Elrohir asked his brother.

"It would seem so," Elladan replied.

"At least she was not wearing her Ring," Elrohir said.

Elladan nodded, then suddenly asked, "Could you not have given me some warning?"

Elrohir looked down as he replied, "Perhaps, but I suddenly doubted... we had after all both been in contact with the Enemy's mind... I doubted even myself."

Elladan looked at him long, but said nothing.

Some time later, on the flet, as they ate a cold meal brought them by their former guards, Erkenbrand asked Elladan, "I understand that you are kin to the Lord and Lady of this land?"

Elladan replied, "Yes, indeed. They are our grandparents."

Erkenbrand merely nodded, while Wídfara stared at them both in amazement. "The Lady is your grandmother? She looks no older than you yourselves."

"Thus is the life of the Eldar," said Elladan, adding, "The Lady Galadriel has seen three Ages in Middle-earth and is over eight thousand years old."

Wídfara looked at him in disbelief, and even Erkenbrand, who so far mostly seemed to be taking Lothlórien and Elves in his stride, looked amazed. Elrohir waited for the question that would now inevitably follow.

"Then how old are you?" Wídfara asked.

"Close to three thousand years," Elladan replied with a faint, half-embarrassed shrug. As Elrohir had expected, this ended the conversation for the evening.

Rather than falling asleep immediately once their lantern was turned down, Elrohir lay thinking for a while. Wídfara's reaction to the revelation of their kinship to Galadriel and Celeborn had served to remind him once more that he was neither Elf nor Man. While he felt much in common with both kinds, the time would unavoidably come that he would have to Choose. Not yet though, even if he knew that with the War, the moment might be upon him sooner than he would have wished.

Elrohir cast a glance to where his brother slept, careful to keep his thoughts to himself. The two of them had talked about it often enough over the years, yet they had always put the decision aside, to be considered later. It was only with Arwen's Choice that they had given it serious thought again. Elrohir was as good as certain of his own mind now, yet in the end it would depend on Elladan, as he would not be parted from his twin, even if their preferred Choices should differ.

The next morning, they were woken just after dawn by the Elf who would take them to Caras Galadhon. She was in a hurry to have them on their way, and barely gave them time to break their fast before setting off.

Elrohir noticed that the forest bore signs of war as they got nearer the city. He asked their guide and she replied that this was where they had stopped the Orcs that had broken through across the river in the most recent attack. Elrohir was worried that the attack had penetrated this far into the forest, no more than four miles from Caras Galadhon, and thought he now understood even more of their unfriendly reception. If this was what they had just been through, it was no wonder people were on edge. It also made him wonder again how long Lothlórien would stand.

At the gate of Caras Galadhon, they were handed over to another Elf who would take them to the great flet at the centre of the city.

Wídfara had been silent all morning, but after their first guide disappeared into the forest, he came up to Elrohir and asked, "Tell me not that she is also eight thousand years old?"

Elrohir answered, "No, hardly. She is practically a child, less than two centuries old."

Wídfara first looked confused, then replied with a quick grin, "Indeed, a mere child."

*-/-*

At a gesture from Galadriel, Erkenbrand spoke first. "I am here on behalf of the Queen of Rohan, to seek an alliance against the Darkness that threatens us all."

Galadriel inclined her head at his words, but did not speak. Beside her, Celeborn leant his chin on his steepled fingers, holding Erkenbrand's gaze. "An alliance? Why does Rohan now seek an alliance with the Golden Wood? Is it that we are feared less than the Shadow in the East? Or are the times so dire that even those out of half-forgotten and wholly-unbelieved children's tales suddenly seem good allies?"

The lord of the Westfold briefly looked away from Celeborn's gaze, but then met his eyes again and replied, "I cannot deny there are some... many in Rohan who feel that way, but both our defences will gain strength if we work together. We will each benefit if we can keep control over the western shore of Anduin, but the lands between Rohan and Lórien are largely empty, and the Wold is vulnerable to attack from across the river."

Do not be too harsh on him, husband, Galadriel spoke in mind to Celeborn. It means much that he has even come here, and that the Queen of Rohan is inclined to an alliance.

"That is true," Celeborn responded to Erkenbrand after nodding at Galadriel in acknowledgement of her words, "But if Rohan does not have the numbers to protect the whole of the river between Lórien and Emyn Muil, neither do we. It would still be doubtful whether we could hold the River against the Enemy."

Now Elrohir spoke. "Do not forget Fangorn. Treebeard seems more than willing to extend his defence and the Ents have already done much to our benefit. I doubt Rohan would still be standing without their help." Erkenbrand agreed as Celeborn looked pensive.

Galadriel had seen some of what the Ents had done; what might they yet do, should Treebeard take an active role in the battles ahead? The Ents did have vulnerabilities, most notably fire – though they were not as vulnerable to it as the trees of Lothlórien –, yet they and their Huorns were a formidable force when roused. She doubted the Ents would turn the tide in their favour, but together with an alliance with Rohan, they might be enough to keep the Enemy back for much longer than any of them could do alone. Lothlórien's defences had ultimately held against the Enemy, but Galadriel was not sure how they would fare against the attacks that were certain to come, as she could no longer draw upon her Ring for strength. Without Nenya to support her, other support must be found. Yes, Treebeard, but how to make use of him? She had to shake herself out of this speculation when she heard Gimli's voice.

"All I can do is to speak to King Dáin when I return to the Mountain," Gimli now said. "All must stand together, even if Forest and Mountain will find it hard to do so."

Galadriel nodded as she looked at the Dwarf. It would be hard indeed. Thranduil could be as stubborn as any Dwarf, and both Dwarves and Elves remembered the ancient conflicts between their two kinds, no matter who had originally been at fault in any of them. Yet, seeing the friendship between Thranduil's son and Gimli, son of Glóin, she had some hope that Mirkwood and the Lonely Mountain could work together in the face of this common threat.

"I cannot commit Mirkwood to action or alliance without my father's knowledge, but it would be well if we can combine our strength where possible," Legolas added. "Dol Guldur is as dangerous to us as to Lothlórien, if not more so, and I believe cooperation would be welcome."

"Dol Guldur is our greatest danger," Galadriel agreed. "Five of the eight surviving Nazgûl are there now, led by the Witch-king, and their power is greater than I had thought possible. They are not invincible, but even among the Elves many would now be outmatched by these shades of Men."

She was interrupted by Elrohir who started to ask, "Do you know..."

"... which of the Ringwraiths it was on the Pelennor? Khamûl, the Witch-king's lieutenant." She saw her grandsons look at each other with narrowed eyes. Yes, they would want to know the name of the one who had killed Aragorn, even though that Wraith had already been slain by Mithrandir.

Mithrandir... She had tried to think of any explanation of his behaviour in Minas Tirith that led somewhere save the answer she did not want to imagine, but was forced to conclude that he had been at least partly under Sauron's influence. Worse, she feared the influence would grow as long as he held Narya. Could the Enemy's hold still be broken or was Mithrandir as lost as Curunír?

"On our way here we saw that one of the Nazgûl's flying beasts had been brought down," Legolas now said, "But if you say that eight survive, that means its rider escaped? And where are the other three?"

"Alas, he did," Celeborn confirmed. "Though had he been less quick to flee, he would have been overcome. And the remaining three are likely to be still at Minas Morgul," he added, before addressing Erkenbrand again, "But to return to the original matter at hand, I will say that Lothlórien welcomes an alliance with the Riddermark, and we will do all that is in our power to keep our combined lands safe."

"Then, on behalf of the Lady Éowyn and the people of Rohan, I thank you, and long may we stand together against our enemy," Erkenbrand replied.

The next day, Galadriel sat in conversation with Elrohir and Elladan, while Celeborn spoke with Legolas, Gimli and the two Rohirrim on the details of their agreement. Legolas and Gimli intended to continue homeward as soon as the scouts who had been sent north returned with news of what lay ahead. Erkenbrand and Wídfara would also leave within a few days, travelling with an escort of Elves, who would not only go to Edoras for further talks, but would also try to meet with Treebeard.

Elladan and Elrohir were eager to go home as well, but there had been much snow in the last months of winter, and spring was slow to come to the mountains. It would still be several weeks before the passes would be safe to take, so her grandsons had no choice but to wait.

"But what will we find in Imladris?" Elrohir asked. "Our father has no Mirror to warn him. What if the Enemy has overwhelmed him?"

"Then our home will already have fallen," Elladan said softly, looking at the ground.

"Unless I risk using Nenya, I have no way to know for certain," Galadriel said, "But I might be able to give you some hope at least." She paused to gather her thoughts, then quickly went on at their expectant looks. "As I understand this, only if Elrond was using Vilya at the moment Sauron took the One, will he have been overwhelmed without a chance. Otherwise, he must have had at least a brief warning, and some short time to take off his Ring." Though Elrond had never held Vilya while the Enemy had the One Ring in his grasp, he must have suspected as soon as Sauron had It again. Even the old hobbit who had borne the One might have been able to give warning. Worst would be if Elrond had not been immediately overcome, and believed himself able to master Vilya while Sauron held the One.

Galadriel thought back to seeing in the Mirror that Elladan and Elrohir had confronted Sauron, and the confirmation in Elrohir's memories that he and Elladan had touched the Enemy's mind. The lurch of fear she had felt then that they might have fallen under Sauron's influence was enough to make her shiver even in hindsight. Mithrandir being under the Enemy's influence was bad enough, but her own kin...

Turning to Elladan, she said, "I would know more of what you did in Minas Tirith, especially your confrontation with Sauron." At her grandsons' questioning looks, she reminded them, "I did see some of what you did in your minds. Now tell me."

"We merely reinforced the strength of Aragorn's own will to resist the Enemy's attacks," Elladan said, "That was all."

Her fear for Elrond grew at the account of her grandsons' recklessness. "That was all? Merely? Have you any idea of the danger you were in? Had any one of you three faltered, you would all have been lost to Sauron."

Elladan first bowed his head at her stern glance, but then looked up again to meet her gaze. "Yes, I knew the risk, but we could do no other."

"No?" She knew the answer, nor could she fault their actions, but they had to understand fully the danger they had been in. "What you did was brave, but also foolhardy. It only worked because you are twins and had a strong affinity with Aragorn as well. Minds that were not as familiar to each other would have been overwhelmed."

"We could not let the Enemy take him. How could we not stand by our brother?" Elladan replied indignantly.

Brothers... Her brother had given his life to save Beren, and her grandsons would have done the same for Aragorn. Cold fear gripped her heart as she thought of Lúthien, and Arwen. What would be Arwen's fate now that her love had been taken from her? The Mirror refused to show her. It had likely been unwise to try to find out, it hurt less to let some things happen as they would without knowing in advance. And, though she had no explanation for it, for she had not drawn on Nenya in making it, the Mirror was slow to respond, nor would it show her anything beyond the summer. Much was confused and obscured by the Enemy's machinations, and had been since he held the Ring. The Mirror still showed her enough that they had been prepared for Sauron's attacks on Lothlórien, but it was a constant struggle to use it.

She realised Elladan was still watching her. "You did well," she told him. Galadriel now looked closely at both Elladan and Elrohir. "However, I am also much concerned with what you described happened after Aragorn's death. While we seem to have gained an unexpected ally, there is yet much that remains unknown about this person. What are his or her reasons for helping? Was there anything you saw or felt that can throw a light on this?" Both remained silent for some time, and she waited, letting them gather their thoughts.

Elrohir was the first to speak. "It is difficult to say. I was watching the Enemy, and did not notice the other until he shoved Sauron aside, away from Aragorn. Mostly there was anger at Sauron, but also protectiveness towards Aragorn. It happened too fast for me to see more."

Elladan added, "I also had a feeling that he was, or perhaps should be, familiar to me."

Galadriel thought deeply. She suspected the answer was obvious, but it eluded her. She was still weary from her work in defending Lórien against the last attack; maybe she would see clearer when she was rested. She pushed away her wish that she dare use Nenya. "Has this stranger tried to speak to either of you two, then or later?" she asked. Both Elladan and Elrohir shook their heads in denial. "If... when he does, you should of course be wary, certainly until you know who he is, but I think he can be trusted."

Elrohir gave her a sharp look then. "You know who he is?"

"Not yet," she answered. No one spoke for some time, as they were all three deep in thought.

"I wonder..." Galadriel broke the silence again, speaking softly, "The Ringbearer offered to give me the One of his own free will when the Fellowship passed through here."

As she sadly shook her head, she noticed Elrohir and Elladan glancing at each other in alarm, but they met her gaze as she spoke again. "Alas, while it is true that we would not be in this predicament had I taken the One then, It would have overcome me, sooner or later." She continued, "I know Frodo offered It to Mithrandir as well. And on the Fellowship's journey, and before then as well, there must have been opportunities, moments of temptation, that Mithrandir could have taken the One Ring, and he resisted. Why did he not realise that he was opening himself to as great a danger when he continued to wear, even use, Narya, once the Enemy held the One again? If I knew when Sauron retook the Ring, he too must have felt it."

Elladan suggested, "Perhaps he thought he had the strength to resist Sauron?"

"If that is what he thought, then Gandalf the White is one thing Gandalf the Grey never was," Galadriel said.

"What?" Elladan asked.

"A fool," she replied coldly. "Even so, he may not yet be irretrievably lost, though what you showed me of his actions before he left Minas Tirith is deeply worrying. We can only wait and see if and when he returns, and the manner of that return."

"Wait?" Elrohir asked. "It seems that is all we can do." His brother raised his hand to stop him, but Elrohir plunged on. "We have to wait until the passes are open. You must wait for the Enemy to attack, because you do not have the strength to take the war to him. Gondor and Rohan also wait to be attacked. The North can only wait until all other realms have fallen, until it is our turn. I am sick of waiting." He stood up, seemingly about to walk out of the room, then looked at his brother, shook his head and sat down again.

"I am sorry, grandmother," he said. "It is just..."

"I do understand," Galadriel said firmly, smiling at his surprised look, "I may speak of patience, and waiting, and wisdom, but I, too, would rather act than sit here waiting. Alas, all I can offer you is that it cannot be very long before the Enemy makes his next move." And that is hardly consolation.

Chapter Text

April 14, 3019

Bilbo was determined to have his morning stroll. The day might be cold and grey, but it was the first dry morning in more than a week, and he had not enjoyed being cooped up inside for so long, not even in the Last Homely House. He had been oddly restless for weeks, and being indoors made it worse.

After an hour or so of wandering through the gardens, Bilbo had decided that enough was enough, and he might as well go inside again to warm up, when he spotted Arwen sitting on a low bench near a copse of birches. She had been unusually quiet and withdrawn lately, yet something in her manner suggested she might welcome his company.

"Would you mind if I join you, Lady Arwen?" he asked.

Arwen smiled as she replied, moving aside to make room for him, "No, not at all, Bilbo; come, sit down."

Bilbo joined her on the bench. "Has there been word from Glorfindel yet?" he asked.

She shook her head in denial. "No, but he should be back any day now, even if he went as far south as Tharbad."

The old hobbit cast a critical glance at Arwen. He shared her worries; he too was anxious to hear tidings of the Fellowship, but he worried about her as well. He could only hope Glorfindel would have news when his patrol returned

~*~

Halbarad paced impatiently as he waited for the others to get ready to depart. The dawn start he would have preferred was already lost, and at this rate they would not be under way before mid-morning. Gethron and Borlas both studiously avoided meeting his gaze, but the Elves were not so easily daunted.

Finally, Glorfindel called him over as the Elf walked to where their horses stood. "Stop pacing, Halbarad! We are less than five hours from Imladris."

"Five? About two, I would have thought," he answered, sounding more snappish than he had intended.

"Five," Glorfindel repeated, and went on as he was about to protest, gesturing him to silence. "You may not care whether you ride your horse to death on the final miles of the journey, but I will not thus needlessly risk our mounts."

Though his tone was sharp, the Elf's gaze was not unfriendly, and Halbarad had to admit the Gondorian horses were reaching the end of their endurance. Once they had set off, they rode in silence through the familiar surroundings of the road to Rivendell. Glorfindel set a steady pace; though faster than the leisurely ride he had threatened, it was still slower than Halbarad would have liked.

The nearer they came to the Last Homely House, the more Halbarad felt his heart sink. Telling Elrond of the death of his foster-son and of the failure of the Quest would be bad enough, but he truly dreaded having to tell Arwen. Now their pace seemed too fast, and he would gladly have slowed down.

To keep his mind off his failure to think of anything he could say to Arwen, Halbarad tried to at least give some thought to what he would say to Elrond; not just Aragorn's death, but Sauron's capture of the One Ring and Gandalf's strange behaviour... Gandalf! What about Elrond? He has a Ring as well. What if he... No, had Elrond been subverted, Rivendell would not still stand and Glorfindel would not be here. He looked over at Glorfindel. Would he know? Halbarad realised he did not know when the elf had left Rivendell. He had to speak to Glorfindel on this; at least he would not be breaking any confidences by mentioning the One Ring to him. Either Glorfindel could assure him that Elrond was safe, or else the Elf would be warned of a grave danger.

As they neared the Ford of Bruinen, Halbarad let his horse fall back to ride beside Glorfindel, and turned to address him. "I did not speak of this before, but there is worse news from the South. The Quest has failed. Sauron holds the One Ring again."

"Sauron has his Ring again?" Glorfindel said softly, careful that their companions could not overhear him. "That explains..." The Elf fell silent.

"That explains what?" Halbarad asked.

"Elrond," was all Glorfindel said, and Halbarad looked at him in alarm.

"His Ring? Has he been revealed to Sauron?" he asked urgently.

At that, Glorfindel pulled up Asfaloth, looking at Halbarad in surprise. "You know of the Three?" he murmured. Halbarad nodded once. Waving at the others to ride on as one of the Elves looked back to see what kept them, Glorfindel studied the Ranger with a keen gaze before he softly said, "No. I would have known if it were so, but that was not what I was about to say. I think now that Elrond knows, or at least suspects, already that the One is back in the Enemy's hand. But how is it that you know of the Three?"

"I will tell you later, if there is time," Halbarad replied, as they followed the others again.

Later on, letting the two Rangers and the other Elves go ahead once more, Glorfindel halted as they turned into the path that led to the stables. "Let me take your horse in. I will tell Elrond while you speak to Arwen."

Halbarad sighed as they dismounted. Delay would achieve nothing, even if it meant that he would have to face Arwen at once. Glorfindel added, "I will keep Elrond from coming to look for Arwen immediately. I think it best if she hears this from you."

"Tell Master Elrond I will need to speak to him later," Halbarad replied. "Would Arwen be in her rooms?"

"Yes, or in the gardens." As Halbarad was about to leave, the Elf held him back. "Halbarad, wait. Before you go, what news of Elladan and Elrohir?"

"They intended to go to Lothlórien first before returning here. They were well when we parted in Rohan," Halbarad responded, as he belatedly remembered that Glorfindel would know no more than what he had heard from Daeron in Tharbad.

As Glorfindel led their horses to the stables, Halbarad paused to pull himself together before he walked to the house. I have to see this through. I promised Aragorn I would do this for him, and I owe it to Arwen also, though she will not thank me for it…

~*~

Bilbo shivered; it was still too cold for April, even if it was not raining. Perhaps he should go to the library to work on his translations for a while before lunchtime. The hobbit was about to take his leave of Arwen and go back inside, when someone came into the little garden. From the boots he heard approaching, he already knew it had to be a Ranger, and when he looked up, he saw it was the Dúnadan's cousin, Halbarad. Bilbo smiled to see him, but then he noticed how tired and grim the other looked. And it was only two months since he had ridden south with the standard Arwen had made for Aragorn; why was he back so soon?

The hobbit was about to ask whether Halbarad had any news for them, when Arwen stood up to greet him. To Bilbo's surprise, Halbarad, after stepping forward slowly and almost reluctantly, knelt before Arwen in a very formal manner, his eyes cast down.

"Halbarad," she exclaimed, looking bemused, "Please! Rise."

As Halbarad rose, still keeping his eyes low, Bilbo noticed the sword on the Ranger's belt. It looked like, no, it was Andúril, and he gasped, his heart understanding what his thought fumbled to comprehend. No, Aragorn, no...

At Bilbo's gasp, Arwen looked to see what had caused his dismay. For a moment she stood as if frozen, then asked in far too calm of a tone, "He is dead, is he not?"

Only then could Halbarad meet her gaze. "Yes, my lady. I... I am sorry."

Arwen sat down abruptly, and Bilbo, pulled out of his own shock, asked worriedly, "Arwen, are you all right? Do you want me to call for someo..."

"No, no need," she answered in that same unnervingly calm tone, yet her gaze as she looked up to speak to Halbarad belied that calm. "Halbarad, sit down. Now, tell me. Tell me all."

The Ranger first remained standing, looking away from them, then replied as he sat down, "Twenty-eight days ago. Upon the fields of the Pelennor, before Minas Tirith. Aragorn fought one of the Nazgûl and took a mortal wound. He died the next day."

Arwen bowed her head and was silent for a long time. Just as Bilbo was about to speak, Arwen's head jerked up and she sharply said, "A Nazgûl? Did he... was it a Morgul wound?"

Bilbo sat listening in shock. Like Frodo. It would be awful if... not that it was not so already, but he did not want to think about how much worse it could be. Last autumn, Frodo had only been saved from that horrible shard because of Master Elrond's skill in healing. The Dúnadan would not have had such a healer at his side.

"It was," Halbarad confirmed, and as Arwen buried her head in her hands with a low moan, he hesitantly reached out as if to put his hand on her shoulder. He continued speaking as he let his hand fall back down, "Arwen, heed me. Your brothers tended him. Elrohir said the shards of the knife did not reach his heart before he... before he died. He has not been made a wraith."

The hobbit breathed a sigh of relief. Only the shudder that went through Arwen gave any indication that she heard Halbarad's words. After some time Arwen sat up straight again, looking south, her face expressionless.

"How..." She started to speak, then fell silent again, before she stood up abruptly and asked, "Halbarad, will you be here long?"

Halbarad shook his head as he got to his feet as well. "No, I must leave for Caras Dirnen tomorrow morning, but there is yet more we should speak of."

"Then come to me in an hour. I... I cannot... I need to be alone for a while." She walked off quickly, before either Halbarad or Bilbo could say anything.

The Ranger looked after her as if he would have followed. He sat only when Arwen was out of sight and dropped his head in his hands. Bilbo wondered whether he ought to go after Arwen. Even if she said she wanted to be alone, she should not be. Perhaps he should look in on her a bit later to see how she was? He glanced at Halbarad. Nor should you be alone. The hobbit made himself sit, and waited.

After some time, Halbarad raised his head. "Alas, there is more, Bilbo, and that too concerns you."

Bilbo looked at him inquiringly, and with not a little apprehension. Halbarad hesitated before he went on. "The Quest failed. The Enemy has his Ring back."

The hobbit felt as if the ground was pulled from under his feet. Oh, my lad. "Frodo?" he asked.

"I know not," replied Halbarad sadly. "He is either captive or dead."

Bilbo's shiver now not was from the cold. He could almost hope it was the latter. To be Sauron's prisoner... No matter what else the Enemy would do to Frodo, the worst must be to see him wearing the Ring.

Had it been the right thing to do to send the Ringbearer as the Council had, with only a few to protect him? Had they only sent Frodo to death or torment? Would it have made any difference if Elrond had accepted his own offer to take the Ring to be destroyed? Bilbo almost laughed at his foolishness. Even if he did not like to admit it, he knew very well he was too old to be out travelling in the Wild. The Fellowship would have had to carry him like fat old Bombur before even crossing the mountains. No, he might not like it, but the Council of Elrond had made the best possible choice under the circumstances.

"And the other hobbits in the Fellowship?" Bilbo continued, emerging from his thoughts again. He had little hope for them on this day of bad news, but he had to know. "They are my cousins as well, you know, except of course for dear Samwise."

"Pippin is in Gondor, he serves the Steward," Halbarad answered. "Merry is sworn to the Queen of Rohan. They both asked me to have word of them sent to their family."

Relieved to hear that they at least were well, Bilbo suggested, "I can have messages sent through the Elves, if you like."

Halbarad agreed, and Bilbo went on. "And Sam? You said nothing about him yet."

"Alas, Sam is dead," Halbarad replied.

"Do you know how he died?" Bilbo asked. He would have to see that word was brought to the Gaffer along with the other messages. It was easier to think of this than of Frodo.

"Men of Gondor found him and Frodo in Ithilien. It seems Frodo evaded them by putting on the Ring."

Bilbo frowned. Frodo should have known better than to use It again.

Halbarad had fallen silent, and Bilbo indicated he should carry on. "Sam was captured. He tried to escape to follow Frodo, and was killed by an archer."

Poor Sam... At least it will have been quick. Bilbo sighed. "Why did Frodo leave him behind? That was ill done."

As he spoke, Bilbo wondered whether it had been the influence of the One Ring trying to reach Its master again that had made Frodo put It on. He knew very well how the Ring could get on one's mind. Has it truly been eighteen years since I gave It up? He shook his head. He had heard a lot this day, and none of it good. My poor lad.

Suddenly Bilbo thought of Gandalf. What if there was a way to rescue Frodo? After all, Gandalf had broken into Sauron's dungeons long ago to find Thráin, too. "Halbarad, what about Gandalf? Where is he? Could he not do something for Frodo?"

The Ranger looked away, his face unreadable. Bilbo was about to repeat his question, when he replied, "I know not where Gandalf is. He was in Minas Tirith with us, but left on his own before the fall of the city. Even if we could find him, I doubt it would be possible to rescue the Ringbearer." Bilbo looked down. Halbarad was likely right, but one never knew what surprises Gandalf might have up his sleeve. He thought about all the narrow escapes and miraculous rescues Gandalf had performed on their long-ago adventure and tried to find some hope.

Halbarad spoke again, "Bilbo, before I talk to the Lady again, there is one last thing." Bilbo raised his head to look at the Ranger, noting the slight catch in his voice. "Aragorn asked me to give a message to you." The hobbit nodded as Halbarad continued, "He said, 'Ask Bilbo to remember his friend the Dúnadan kindly, and if he can, forgive me for failing Frodo.' "

Bilbo closed his eyes trying to keep back his tears, for Aragorn, for Sam, for Frodo. Dúnadan, Dúnadan... How could I not think kindly of you, my friend? Yet he also nearly sighed in exasperation. There is nothing to forgive. "But what you told me, there was nothing he could have done. It was not his fault."

The other almost smiled at that and shook his head. "No... but you knew him well enough. He would have thought Frodo's safety his responsibility, even after the Fellowship fell apart. And now I should go to see Arwen. Will you be all right?"

"Yes, thank you. I think I shall go inside soon. Halbarad, do not worry about me. Go to the Lady."

It took a long time before Bilbo felt like going inside. He would miss his friend terribly, and he knew that with the Ring back on Sauron's finger, bad times were coming, but his main worry was for Arwen. She would take it hardest of all, worse even than Master Elrond. And Frodo... Bilbo shivered. Gandalf, save my lad.

~*~

As he walked towards the house, Halbarad wondered how Elrond had taken the news. Even if he had been relieved to leave telling him to Glorfindel, he would still have to speak to Elrond later. First though, there was Arwen.

Inside, Halbarad first went to the room that was his to use when he was in Rivendell, leaving his pack and his cloak there, taking only what he needed to give to Arwen. As he took off his sword belt and placed Andúril against the wall, he cursed himself for his thoughtlessness in letting Arwen find out like that, before he had a chance to say anything to prepare her for the shock.

He knocked on Arwen's door, walking in as she called for him to enter. Though she was pale, her eyes were dry, and she appeared calm.

"Halbarad, there was more you needed to tell me?"

"Yes, my lady. And it is more bad news. The Quest has failed. The Enemy has his Ring again."

Arwen looked at him sharply. "Does Father know this yet?"

"Glorfindel will have told him by now," Halbarad replied, then went on, "I also have a letter from your brothers."

"A letter? They did not return with you?"

"No, they are going to Lothlórien first, and intend to return here once the passes are open."

He handed Arwen the letter, waiting while she read it. She remained silent, staring at the paper for a long time after she finished reading, then looked back up at him.

Halbarad hesitated before he went on. "Aragorn asked me to bring the Elessar back to you," he said as he took the jewel from the piece of cloth it had been wrapped in and held it out to her.

First, Arwen only looked, then she took it from him with a trembling hand. "I left this in Lórien when I was last there, and asked Grandmother to give it to him when he passed through, for I knew he would do so, even if I did not know when," she replied softly, as she traced the edge of the great eagle brooch with a finger. "With this token I sought to strengthen his resolve, his hope for the final trial. Now the stone returns to me, and hope is forever lost."

"Aragorn also asked me to tell you... to give you his message. He said: 'Tell Arwen I love her unto the ending of the world, and beyond.' "

Arwen looked at Halbarad expectantly, wanting more. He shifted his feet uneasily, wondering whether to speak of Aragorn's last words. It was all he could offer her. Overhearing that whispered outcry, so filled with despair, had felt like an intrusion into his kinsman's most private thoughts, yet Arwen should know of it. "Arwen, his last words were of you."

As he was about to tell her what Aragorn had said, Arwen stopped him. "I think I heard him..." she said, falling silent before continuing pensively, "I thought I heard him call me, but I was not sure that it was real."

"My lady... Arwen, you heard that, yet you were unaware when he died?" Halbarad shook his head in disbelief. He went on as Arwen turned away, "I am sorry, Arwen. I should not..."

She spun round to look at him again, eyes afire with anger. "No, indeed! But tell me, Halbarad, how is it that Estel lies dead, yet you stand before me living?"

Halbarad flinched. In his mind he saw again the Nazgûl's attack, and the desperate moment when Aragorn stumbled, and he knew he would not reach him in time. This is an evil door, and my death lies beyond it. Had that been the meaning of his foresight?

Somehow he met Arwen's gaze, and held it for as long as he could bear it. Think you I would not have taken that wound for him if I could have, if there had been a chance? He nearly spoke out loud as his own anger stirred, yet in the end he merely sighed as he looked down and said, "I was not fast enough." He walked towards the window. Anger had no place here.

It seemed a long time before Arwen stepped up beside him and placed a hand on his arm in apology. "I should not have said that. I did not mean..." Her voice trailed off as he turned away.

Arwen continued softly, not meeting his gaze when he looked at her again. "Perhaps... I should have known. I could only feel that he was wounded, and in pain, and even that I could not perceive with certainty. Now that you tell me that the Enemy has regained his Ring, I understand why my sight has been so flawed."

After a long silence, Arwen stepped back from the window and turned towards him, expression unreadable. Perhaps an Elf could interpret the look on her face. Halbarad did not wish to try. "Thank you for coming to tell me, and for... for being with him at the end." Apart from the small catch, her voice betrayed nothing.

"I... Arwen..." He faltered. "I should go speak to your father now. Arwen, I will not ask if you will be well, but if there is anything..."

She shook her head in dismissal as she accompanied him to the door. Outside, it took Halbarad several deep breaths before he felt able to walk to his room. Even so, he noticed curious and concerned looks from several Elves he passed along the way.

Back in his room, he sat down to attempt to brace himself for the encounter with Elrond, but quickly got up again. If he stayed in here, he would only continue to mull over Arwen's words.

The door to Elrond's study was closed. As Halbarad knocked, the door was opened by Glorfindel, who made ready to leave, but was called back by Elrond.

The first thing Halbarad noticed as he entered was that Elrond's desk, which was usually almost empty, was covered in maps. First leaning over the desk to move some of the markers indicating Ranger companies to their correct positions on the maps, he waited for Elrond to speak.

The Lord of Imladris remained silent for a long time, giving both Halbarad and Glorfindel a stern look. "It would have been better if you had let me tell Arwen."

Noting the small shrug from Glorfindel, Halbarad met Elrond's gaze and held it. "No, Aragorn asked me to do this for him."

"How is she?" Elrond asked, to Halbarad's relief not pursuing the point further.

"You should probably go to her later, but she wants to be alone at the moment."

Elrond turned away and took a deep breath before he looked at Halbarad again. "Halbarad, tell me of my son."

Halbarad bowed his head, collecting his thoughts. "After the Grey Company caught up with Aragorn in Rohan, we followed your counsel and took the Paths of the Dead to try to reach Gondor in time, and arrived at Minas Tirith with a contingent of Gondorian troops. As we tried to break the Enemy's siege, Aragorn came up against one of the Nazgûl and was wounded. We made it into the city, and took Aragorn to the Houses of Healing where Elladan and Elrohir tended him. He died the next day."

"His wound?" Elrond asked. "How was he wounded?"

"Morgul knife. Gut wound," Halbarad replied bluntly, the sharp pain of grief renewed making his answer harsher than he had intended. "It would likely have killed him even without the Morgul spell." He closed his eyes as his memories took him back to Aragorn's side, unable to do anything but watch him linger in pain. There had been nothing he could do against the Enemy's continuing attacks, though he had known that in that battle Aragorn stood to lose not just his life, but his very soul.

"It was definitely a Morgul wound?" Elrond continued, drawing him from his thoughts.

"Yes, but Elrohir said he escaped the shards of the knife and the spell, as well as Sauron's other attacks."

"Sauron's other attacks?" Elrond leant forward anxiously.

"He was attacking Aragorn through the shards in some way, Elrohir said," Halbarad said, "Elladan and Elrohir stopped him somehow. Aragorn has not been taken by the Enemy, that we are certain of."

While Elrond remained silent, staring at the maps on his desk, Glorfindel asked, "Halbarad, his grave? Where..."

"There is none," Halbarad replied.

"What do you mean?"

"A pyre was set in the square in front of the House of the Kings."

Now Elrond looked up again. "A pyre." His expression was blank as he repeated Halbarad's words.

"There was no time to open a tomb. The city was about to fall. The Gate was already breached." As he glanced at Glorfindel, Halbarad saw him nod sharply to indicate his understanding of their desperate situation. "With the Morgul spell... nor would we let his body fall into the hands of our enemies."

Elrond flinched and turned away, but said nothing.

"At the last, the Steward of Gondor chose to acknowledge Aragorn's claim, and placed the crown of Gondor on the pyre with him, proclaiming the oath of Gondor's Stewards fulfilled." Halbarad did not try to keep his disgust with Denethor out of his voice, and Elrond gave him a questioning look.

"The man is petty, stubborn, arrogant, calculating, unpredictable." Halbarad gave Elrond an overview of the Council Denethor had called, and how the Steward had there rejected the validity of Aragorn's claim, only to then apparently change his mind, or to see some advantage in acknowledging it after all.

"Would you say Gondor is served well by Denethor? And can we trust him as an ally?" Elrond asked.

"I would prefer to deal with the Prince of Dol Amroth," Halbarad replied, "but yes, he serves Gondor well. As to how far we can rely on him? He will not turn to the Enemy, but his fief is Gondor, not the whole of the West."

Before Halbarad could finish, Elrond spoke again, "I would also know all that you can tell me about what has befallen the members of the Fellowship, beginning with Frodo. Do you know where he was when he was captured by the Enemy?"

Halbarad replied, "Not exactly. He was last seen in Ithilien, where he and Sam ran into Men of Gondor. Frodo escaped by putting on the Ring. Sam was killed when he tried to get away from them."

"The other two hobbits?" Elrond asked.

"They are well. Merry is in Rohan, as an esquire to their new Queen, and Pippin is in Gondor and has sworn fealty to the Steward," Halbarad said. "Of Boromir, I only know what Aragorn told me, that he fell near Amon Hen," he went on. "Legolas and Gimli are on their way back to their own homelands, travelling with Elladan and Elrohir as far as Lothlórien."

At this, Elrond held his gaze. "Did my sons say when they would return here?"

"No, but I would expect as soon as they can."

"I see. And Gandalf, what of him? I already know of what befell him in Moria."

Halbarad remained silent to gather his thoughts before he responded. "Gandalf was acting strangely in Minas Tirith. First, after Denethor's Council, he tried to convince me to let him use the Orthanc palantír, despite knowing that the Stone is unsafe while Sauron holds the Ring. And worst of all, even though he knew that the One Ring is in the Enemy's possession, he persisted in using his own Ring."

"His Ring? What do you know of that?" Elrond interrupted sharply.

"I know of the Three," Halbarad replied.

Under other circumstances, he would have been deeply amused by Elrond's expression of baffled shock at the fact that he knew of one of the best kept secrets of the Age. As it was, he merely went on with his account. "One thing Gandalf did to aid us was to slay the Ringwraith who had wounded Aragorn, but then later, when he came to the Houses of Healing he tried to persuade Legolas, Gimli and Pippin to leave with him immediately. He refused to say why or where he intended to go, nor would he give a reason for why he would abandon Aragorn, rather than stay at his side until the end. He would not even look at him, and his manner was cold, indifferent."

Even the memory was enough to raise his anger at the wizard's actions again, and it was all Halbarad could do to not stand up to pace in frustration, while Elrond and Glorfindel remained deep in thought for some time.

"It would be dire if Gandalf has indeed been overwhelmed through his Ring," Elrond eventually broke the silence.

"But why would he continue to use it if he knew the Enemy had regained the One?" Glorfindel asked.

"He might have thought that his strength was sufficient," Elrond mused. "I hope Galadriel has been more circumspect."

Halbarad carefully kept his expression blank. He had not known about Galadriel, though had he had to guess, he would have named her first.

"Was there any sign where Gandalf was headed when he left?" Elrond asked.

"Nothing beyond that he passed through Ethring in Gondor. He was either going west, or making for the Paths of the Dead and the North," Halbarad answered.

Elrond continued, changing the subject. "Halbarad, I understand that you are now Chieftain?" Halbarad nodded in confirmation. "You mentioned the Orthanc palantír. What is to be done with it? Are you the rightful user?"

"Yes," Halbarad replied, then raised his hand to stop Elrond interrupting him, "But I do know not to use it, save in dire need. Aragorn warned me against that, as he had barely been able to wrest it from Sauron's control himself."

Not that he had needed the warning, Halbarad thought. He had stood by Aragorn in that struggle, and had seen how much it had taken from his kinsman to break the Enemy's hold over the Stone. He knew he did not have the strength for such a confrontation, certainly not now that Sauron held his Ring again.

"Aragorn used it?" Elrond asked. "When?"

"At the Hornburg, before the Paths of the Dead, to draw Sauron's Eye away from the approach of the Ringbearer." He shook his head, trying to dismiss the memory of facing Sauron even indirectly. Elrond gave him a sharp look, but did not interrupt, and he went on, "Then, a second time in Gondor to see whether we would reach Minas Tirith in time."

"You speak as if the memory is evil," Elrond said, giving him another searching look.

"Yes," Halbarad replied, "I stood by Aragorn as he looked in the Stone the first time, and though I did not look myself, I knew what he saw and felt. The second time, Aragorn looked alone and in secret. That is when he found out that Sauron had regained the One Ring."

He briefly met Elrond's sorrow-filled gaze, then looked away. When he looked at him again, the Lord of Imladris had regained his composure.

"What are your plans with the Stone?" Elrond asked.

"It would be best to have it remain here for safekeeping. Aragorn advised that it should only be used in the direst of need."

Elrond replied, "I am willing to guard it against that day. Did you discuss what is to be done with the heirlooms?"

"Andúril is mine, as is the Elendilmir. The Sceptre is to remain in your keeping, as there are none with the right to claim it." There was no need to mention Barahir's ring; they both knew where that had been bestowed.

From the startled looks both Elrond and Glorfindel gave him at the mention of the Sceptre, Halbarad realised that Daeron had not told Glorfindel all that he could have.

"But you are close enough in blood that you..." Elrond began.

"Any claim of mine would be disputed, and we can ill afford conflict among the Dúnedain, not with what is coming." Aragorn could have named him Isildur's Heir as well as Chieftain, Halbarad knew, even if his claim was weakened by his mother's birth. There was no one else within the same degree of kinship, and under different circumstances Aragorn might well have named him as his heir in full.

Elrond looked as if he was about to object, but Halbarad shook his head as he went on, holding Elrond's gaze, "It is better this way. I have no desire to be Heir, and I agree with Aragorn's decision that the line of the Kings ends with him. Let him have been the last Heir of Isildur."

It must be bitter for the Lord of Imladris to see all his years of work on behalf of his brother's descendants come to naught, and Halbarad could only wonder what went through Elrond's mind. Finally, Elrond nodded, and Halbarad went on. "Scrolls were made detailing Aragorn's will for both North and South. I would leave one set of copies to be kept here," he said. "Now, as to the future, agreement was reached with Gondor that, should they need it, the North will offer what help we can. This would be mainly grain and iron ore, and possibly taking in refugees."

"I see," Elrond said. "And did you think to ask before committing Rivendell's resources?"

"That was Aragorn's proposal," Halbarad said curtly. "Elladan spoke for Rivendell." He stood up to point at one of the maps on the desk. "Apart from what is owed for past alliances, for our own sake too we cannot let Gondor fall too soon. Also, we agreed on an alliance in Rohan. It will be the task of the North to keep Dunland in check. What is most important, however, is that Rohan has sent envoys to Lothlórien, and will send messengers here also, as will Gondor."

"Rohan is sending envoys to Lothlórien?" Elrond asked. "That is surprising."

"It is, but it is also good news indeed," Halbarad responded, "And they should both profit from it. I am still concerned about Isengard. Saruman is not a danger at the moment, but he may become so again, and control over Isengard is vital for the defence of the Isen."

"Very little can be done as long as he remains within that fortress," Elrond said. "You should also not forget that Isengard still belongs to Gondor, and to do anything without consulting with the Steward might not be wise." Halbarad nodded in slightly irritated agreement as Elrond continued. "Have you thought yet about what you will do first when you return to Caras Dirnen?"

"Do what needs doing in taking up the Chieftainship, and see to the brigands around Bree," Halbarad answered. It would be hard to make further plans until those two things were behind him.

"Do you expect much trouble from the Council?" Elrond asked.

"I hope not, but it is difficult to say how they will react." Halbarad said no more. Opposition about the way Aragorn had dealt with his succession was likely to be minor compared to how the Council would react to the revelation of how they had been kept in the dark over the One Ring.

All three were silent for some time now until Halbarad broke the silence again. "Master Elrond, there is one matter on which I would like your counsel. I can see no other way than to tell the Council of the Angle of the One Ring, but I would hear your thoughts on this."

Elrond only spoke after some consideration. "If you can keep the news from spreading too widely, that may be the best approach. There no longer is a need for secrecy, but I do fear too many would lose heart."

"Yet to keep silent now, and have it revealed at a time not of my choosing would be worse. It will be bad enough when the Council hears that Aragorn kept this from them for so long, even if they may understand the necessity."

Elrond nodded in agreement. "That is true as well. Then I would say to tell them if you must, but keep the knowledge limited to no more than a few if you can."

Now Glorfindel spoke. "You must not wait too long to take action on the situation around Bree."

"I have to wait for the reports from the Rangers there, but I would like your opinion, as well as on the Ettenmoors and the mountain passes," Halbarad answered

Elrond stood up. "Then, if there is nothing further that needs to be discussed now, I will go see Arwen," he said as he headed for the door. "Tell me later what you come up with against the brigands," he added to Glorfindel.

"I should get at least Borlas if we are going to discuss this now," Halbarad said, as Glorfindel returned his attention to the maps.

"We should leave it until after dinner," Glorfindel said, a suggestion Halbarad realised was more than timely, as it had been a tiring day and he had not eaten since the morning. He nodded in weary gratitude as they left Elrond's study and quickly went to find Borlas and Gethron.

Their evening meal was a sombre affair. Word had spread, and the few Elves that came to the hall ate quickly and left again without speaking. Halbarad was relieved when Glorfindel rejoined them, and they spent the rest of the evening going over maps and considering possible strategies. Even if much of what they came up with might need revising later, he welcomed the distraction.

Later that night, Halbarad went into the gardens for a walk, still preoccupied with planning for the attack on the brigands. He sat down briefly, trying to clear his mind, and was about to get up and go inside again, when he realised he was being watched. He looked up to see Elrond approach and sit down next to him.

"Master Elrond," he greeted the other, and waited, observing Elrond in turn. The Lord of Imladris looked weary, almost old, if that were possible. In an impulse, Halbarad asked, "The Fellowship... Why? Why did you send them off like that?"

Elrond met Halbarad's gaze, but hesitated before he spoke. From his reply it was clear he understood that Halbarad was not looking for a summing up of the reasons for the Council's decision. "I saw no other hope." Elrond bowed his head, then met his gaze again as he went on, "I do not believe even now that we could have made any other choice than the one we made."

Halbarad said nothing.

Elrond sighed. "Halbarad, he was as dear to me as my own sons, and I too grieve for him."

Halbarad still said nothing, but he forced himself to nod in acceptance of Elrond's words. Despite the mistakes the Council, and Elrond himself, might have made – and in truth, he could not say that he would have decided differently – this he knew was true.

Chapter Text

April 15, 3019

Pippin sighed as he sat staring out over the water, letting his feet dangle from the edge of the quay. He was pleased he had been able to come out here today, though he had been thinking a lot all morning, and not all of his thoughts were pleasant. He was lonely; he was the only hobbit within hundreds of miles and he missed his friends. He could not bear to think of Frodo, so he let his thoughts turn to Merry in Rohan instead, and wondered, as he had done at least once a day for the last few weeks, what the other was doing at that moment. He hoped they could continue sending letters to each other, if messengers were going to travel between Edoras and Pelargir regularly. He had asked the Steward if he could, and Denethor had given his permission.

The Steward had been in a bad mood almost continually since they had arrived here, and Pippin was relieved that, although Denethor's esquire had not survived the fall of Minas Tirith, he had only rarely been called upon to serve his lord directly. The hobbit tried to imagine the Great Smials destroyed and Tuckborough invaded by Orcs. He could understand Denethor's bad temper; the Steward had after all just lost his city and his home. Even so, he was still glad that he was mostly left with the others of the Guard. The men of the Tower Guard were friendly enough, and some, like Beregond, and even the captain, Belzagar, were quickly becoming friends, but they were not hobbits, and he missed his own kind. It had been the captain who was responsible for this day's holiday; and the captain had also helped him to find a hobbit-sized fishing rod, borrowing it from one of his cousins who lived here in Pelargir.

After Pippin had told the men of the Guard that it took a good fisherman to make a decent catch even if there were plenty of fish about, and that he never went home with an empty net at home, the captain had challenged him to provide his watch's meal that evening. So far the hobbit had caught six good-sized fish, though of a kind he had not seen before, and thrown back at least a dozen smaller ones, not a bad catch for a morning's work, but not yet enough to feed ten men and a hobbit. He needed several more still, if only for the sight of the captain of the Tower Guard cleaning the catch and cooking their meal, for that had been the other's forfeit. Another reason not to lose this wager was that he did not look forward to cleaning his entire watch's boots for a week, which was the forfeit he had been set, as they all found it unfair that, because he did not wear boots, he always escaped that particular duty. Also, those fish looked really tasty, and he was hungry.

He was suddenly alert again when he spotted a slight ripple in the water near the bait; barely daring to breathe, he waited for a twitch in the rod to confirm that he had caught another one. Yes! Carefully, he reeled in the fish until he could take it off the hook and put it in the bucket next to him with the others he had caught so far.

As he turned his head, he noticed that he was not as alone as he had thought. A group of cats had gathered to watch his every move. Given how thin they were and that they stayed well out of reach, they had to be strays; the farm cats at home would certainly have attempted to steal a fish from the bucket by now.

First, he tried to ignore them, but he just knew they were still watching him even when he had turned his back on them again. As he carefully brought in another fish, he decided he might as well share his catch; fish were obviously plentiful here, and he was certain enough that he would catch enough to feed the Guards to risk giving away one.

The cats were still sitting where they had before, but as Pippin threw his latest catch towards them, one darted forwards and began dragging the fish away as soon as it hit the quay. The other cats followed it, and soon Pippin was alone again.

One more fish, and then it would be time to take a break and tuck into the lunch he had brought with him. He carefully put another worm on the hook and cast the line out, quickly losing himself in thought again as he stared at the water and the bobbing bait.

Maybe I should be glad just to be alive after all that happened. He shuddered to remember the escape from Minas Tirith. He had found the path almost worse than Moria, and wondered how Gandalf had managed it with Shadowfax. It had been almost impossible on foot; he could not imagine how the great horse could have done it. He wondered where Gandalf was now, and if he would ever see him again. And of course Minas Tirith reminded him of Strider. He put the fishing rod aside to wipe the tears from his eyes, and stared out over the river until he felt a bit less sad.

Pippin was shaken from his thoughts by the sound of footsteps approaching, and looked up just as young Bergil sat down next to him, letting his feet dangle as well. "How is it going?" the boy asked.

"I have about half of what I need," Pippin replied.

"Let me see," Bergil asked eagerly, then grinned as he saw the fish Pippin had caught. "Oh, those taste wonderful. We sometimes had them dried or smoked back home, but never fresh from the river. I think they prefer saltier water, like it is here. Do you think I can come eat with the company tonight?"

Pippin tried looking indignant. "What? And then I would have to catch yet another fish especially for you?"

The other looked at him hesitantly, obviously not sure whether he had been serious or not, until Pippin relented and smiled, adding, "Of course I would not mind, but you will still have to ask your father, and the captain. And your fish does not count for the wager, if I end up one short. Do not forget to tell your mother, or I fear you will be in trouble."

Bergil smiled, and asked, "Did you hear that Captain Faramir will be going across the river soon, and see what he can find out about the Enemy in Ithilien?"

"Yes, I did," Pippin replied, then added, suddenly serious, "But you should not be repeating such things, whether or not they are true. You never know who might be listening, and there could be spies about."

The boy first scoffed at the idea, but then turned thoughtful and looked at Pippin, "You are right. I am sorry. I should be more careful." After a short silence he smiled again and said, "I wonder who could be a spy? What about that fisherman over there? Or that old woman selling pasties? I do not believe she has sold any all morning. She hardly ever does."

Pippin sighed as he replied, "I do not think you should..."

"Oh, I know," Bergil replied laughing, "But it is fun to watch people, and I promise I will be more careful, too. Now I must go back home before Mother misses me."

Pippin followed Bergil with his eyes as the lad quickly ran along the quayside and back into the city. So this was what being a big brother was like, he thought and had to suppress a smile of his own. He could almost hear the snorts of disbelief from each of his sisters at the very idea. That thought quickly turned his mood serious again, and he hoped the message he had sent home with Halbarad would get there soon. At least everybody would know that he was fine, and that they did not have to worry about him. Well, not too much, he corrected himself a bit ruefully.

He was happy that Bergil and most of the other boys who had helped the healers had made it out of the City. They would have found the path as difficult as he had, but he knew the healers would have helped them, just as the other Guards had helped him. He had met some of Bergil's friends back in Minas Tirith, but he did not know the three boys who had not made it.

Then he thought again of the news Bergil had brought. He had already known about it, since he had been there when Denethor had given those orders to Faramir. The Steward had spent a long time poring over maps with his son. The Captain would most likely be gone for some time trying to discover what the Enemy would do next.

Pippin suddenly noticed that the bait had been snatched from his hook, and he had been so distracted that he only realised now that he had missed a fish. He shook his head. This really would not do. He knew that there were more important things than losing a wager, but him sitting here thinking was not doing any good against Sauron either. Besides, even if the Enemy was about to attack, he would rather face that with the memory of a good meal than with the smell of boot polish on his hands.

With most of the afternoon still left, Pippin reckoned that he needed at least five more fish, or six if Bergil was to join the watch for their meal. He attached another worm to his hook, and after casting out his line, settled down again, watching the bait bobbing on the water.

When he had first seen how wide the river was here, he had thought that it was the Sea already, but his fellow Guards had quickly corrected him. Beregond had shown him a map, and explained that Pelargir had been on the coast when it was first built. Pippin had been amazed that the town was so old, older even than Minas Tirith, and was now curious about everything that must have happened here over the years.

After a while the hobbit looked to where the black-sailed Corsair ships were moored. He knew the sailmakers were hard at work to have new, white sails made or adapted. Umbar was another place he wanted to know more about. Maybe he would have a chance to hear some stories, if he could find anyone who had the time to tell them.

The afternoon was as successful as the morning had been, and after reeling in yet another large fish, Pippin was certain he had enough. Just as he was about to get up and take his catch back towards the Tower Guard's mess, he saw the Captain come down the ramp that led down to the quay from the street above. The hobbit tried to keep his satisfaction with his catch off his face, but he could not help grinning when he saw the Captain's surprised expression as Belzagar saw how well he had done.

Once they were back in their quarters, Pippin showed off his catch to the men of the watch. While the hobbit first sat down with the other off-duty Guards, the Captain headed for the kitchen with the fish. The men expressed their displeasure at having to polish their own boots for the next week and tried to convince the hobbit that he really should start wearing boots too. Protesting that hobbits did not need to wear shoes or boots, Pippin picked up two mugs of ale from the table, and quickly made his escape to follow the Captain to the kitchen.

When he walked in, Belzagar, wearing the cook's much too large apron over his livery, was already busy cleaning the fish, and a large skillet had been set to heat on the stove. Pippin noted with approval the fresh herbs at hand on the chopping block. It certainly looked as if the Captain did know what he was doing. The hobbit had wondered about that. It would have been too much if he had won the wager only to find out the Captain could not cook.

Pippin put one mug of ale down on the table and took a swig from the other as he sat down. The Captain looked up from his work to greet the hobbit, then returned his attention to the fish, occasionally stopping to stir the big pot of vegetables that hung over a fire. Then, as he finished cleaning the fish, he picked up his own mug, and with a nod of grateful appreciation drained it.

"Did you have a pleasant day, Master Hobbit?" the Captain asked.

"Yes," Pippin replied, "Thank you, Captain. And I am looking forward to the evening meal, too."

"Your people are very fond of food, I understand," the Captain said.

"Indeed, and plenty of it," Pippin confirmed.

"Can you cook?"

"Yes, but I do not do so often," he said, then added at Belzagar's inquiring look, "I have three sisters."

"Older sisters?"

"Yes," Pippin said, and the Captain shook his head in mock-sympathy, as he stood up again and turned back to the fish. Not even on their journey here had he done much cooking, the hobbit thought, then hid a wince as he recalled that most of that had been taken care of by Sam.

"Where did you learn to cook, Captain?"

"Back home, before I became a Guard. I was the eldest of four, and our mother was a weaver, so we had to help around the house while she worked. Father was a sailor, and was hardly ever at home."

Pippin nodded, surprised that the Captain was suddenly so talkative. "Where are you from, sir? From Minas Tirith? And have you been a Guard all your life?" Belatedly he thought that Minas Tirith might be a painful subject, but the Captain replied without hesitation.

"No, I am from a village near Dol Amroth, but I first served as a Ranger in Ithilien, and then as a Guard of the Tower."

"Did you not want to be a sailor, like your father?"

"No," the Captain shook his head, "I like fish well enough, but the sea never agreed with me." He fell silent then as he checked the heat in the skillet, and started placing the first few fish in it.

As the fish started to sizzle, Pippin's stomach growled in anticipation. Startled by the low chuckle that came from the doorway, Pippin turned his head to see who was standing there, and found himself looking at Faramir, who was trying to hang on to a serious expression.

"Captain Belzagar," the Steward's son spoke, "I was looking for you. The men of the Third Company said I might find you here, but they failed to inform me of the rather elegant apron you added to your livery. I trust this is not permanent?"

"No, my lord," Belzagar replied, looking slightly embarrassed, but still keeping some of his attention on the fish. "I heard that you are going back into Ithilien soon?"

"Yes, and that is why I am here now. Tomorrow morning at the third hour, there is a meeting of all captains in the keep. Bring your lieutenant as well."

"Yes, my lord," Belzagar said, as Faramir turned to leave again. He remained quiet for some time after the Steward's son had left, looking pensive, then shrugged. "It could have been worse."

"Sir?" Pippin asked, confused.

"It could have been the Steward himself." The Captain picked up a fork to check if the fish were done, then nodded to himself and took the skillet off the fire. "Go tell the men their dinner is ready. They will know who has mess duty."

Dinner itself was a silent affair, as even young Bergil kept quiet, concentrating on the fish, which was indeed very good, Pippin thought. Perhaps he should have caught a few more. Afterwards, the Captain allowed a second mug of ale to be served to all, as their watch was off duty for the rest of the day. Bergil asked his father if he might have a half-mug, watered down, but Beregond told him it was time for him to go home. Pippin gathered that Gondorian customs were different from the Shire, and it would most likely be another year or two before the boy would be allowed to drink ale, or stay out long past sundown.

As the men attended to mending and cleaning their gear that evening, the conversation quickly turned to what lay ahead. All had heard that Faramir would return to Ithilien to spy on the Enemy's troops, and speculation was rife about what he would find there.

Another rumour, one that Beregond had heard, was that spies who had been sent back to Minas Tirith had returned with the news that the City was now held by the Mouth of Sauron.

"Who is he?" Pippin asked. "Is he another Ringwraith? I have never heard that name before."

The Captain replied before Beregond could speak, "No, he is not a Wraith, though I do not believe he is entirely a natural man either. If he is the same man, rather than a descendant or successor of the one named so in the histories, he is a Black Númenorean who already served the Dark One three thousand and more years ago. Yet it is said that he is a living man, and such can only be by dark sorceries. He is also rumoured to be high in the Dark One's favour."

Pippin shivered at the idea, but his curiosity drove him to ask, "Black Númenorean? What are they?"

Belzagar sighed. "You know of Númenor?"

"The island where the Dúnedain come from, that sank?" Pippin nodded. Strider had talked of the Dúnedain often enough that he knew who they were and where they had come from.

"Before the fall of Númenor, most of its people had turned to the worship of Morgoth, and the ones that settled in Umbar descend from them. They are called Black. Only here in Gondor and in the north, where Arnor was, did the Faithful, those descendants of Númenor who did not follow the Dark Lord, settle. Those are our ancestors," Belzagar quickly explained.

"Then the Faithful are the same as the Dúnedain?" Pippin asked. He believed he understood now.

"Simply put, yes," the Captain confirmed, as their conversation was interrupted by Beregond and Egnor, who wanted to know who the Captain thought would succeed Lord Boromir as Captain-General. Beregond thought Faramir, but Egnor and several others argued in favour of Imrahil.

The Captain refused to be drawn into the discussion, pointing out that no doubt the Steward had already made his choice, and was unlikely to consult with them.

Pippin realised that he had not even thought of Boromir since they had left Minas Tirith, and he had been the first of the Fellowship to die. Well, except for Gandalf, but it did not really count if you died and could just come back, Pippin thought somewhat irreverently, even if he had grieved when he thought Gandalf was dead. Maybe too much had happened since then, but Boromir had been his friend, and had died trying to save him and Merry from Saruman's Orcs, and Pippin now felt guilty that he had, if not forgotten about him, put him so much to the back of his mind.

"Pippin, are you all right?" he was now asked by Beregond, and the hobbit realised that he had been so lost in thought that he had not heard what the other had said before.

"Yes, I was just thinking about Boromir," he replied.

"Of course, you were there when he fell, were you not?" Beregond said, a sad look on his face now.

Pippin nodded, "Yes, he..." but before he could continue, the bells for the changing of the guard rang, and the Captain called for those who had early duty the next morning to go to their beds. Remembering that he would be attending the Steward the next day, and would have to be awake and on duty well before dawn, Pippin too went to bed, regretting a sad end to a good day.

Chapter Text

April 15 – 24, 3019

"What if we are needed here?" Legolas said. "Should we leave?"

"Should we leave?" Gimli repeated. "Yesterday, you could scarcely wait to hear what the scouts had to tell," he grumbled. "And now you say we should not rush onward, that we may be needed here. How long do you intend to wait?" Something beyond their part in Lothlórien's defence bothered Legolas, and it would not be easy to pry it from him, though Gimli had his suspicions. Even so, Legolas' reluctance to leave came close to souring Gimli's mood.

As Elladan and Elrohir joined them, Gimli had some hope again that Legolas might be persuaded once they added their efforts to talk sense into the Elf to his own. At first he only seemed to become more stubborn in the face of reason.

"You must go soon." Elrohir was the first to speak, giving Legolas a stern look. "Your path is safe at least as far as the Old Forest Road; there is no reason to wait."

Elladan immediately followed his brother's words with his own admonition. "We have no idea when the passes will be open. Do not wait on our behalf," he started, then held up his hand to forestall any protest. "The sooner you go, the sooner Erebor and Thranduil's realm will know the extent of our danger."

Legolas started to protest, but Elladan cut him short. "Your road is clear, and Lothlórien is not under attack. No better time will come."

Gimli met Legolas' glance. "Elladan is right, and you know it as well as I do."

To Gimli's surprise, Legolas gave in, though with a marked lack of enthusiasm. "Very well. If that is what you wish, we will return home."

For the rest of the day, Legolas was silent, leaving Gimli to his own thoughts. It was hard to think of aught other than home; how long would it be before he saw Erebor again? It was many months since he had set out with his father to hear Elrond's counsel on the Enemy's demands of King Dáin. Who could have thought when they set out that they would see the Enemy with his Ring back in his possession and all lands in worse danger than they had been for an Age?

Finally, as it grew dark, Gimli had enough of Legolas' glowering silences and tense pacing. "Stop that," he snapped. "Whatever is on your mind, speak of it; do not let it fester."

"It is nothing," Legolas replied glumly.

"Nothing? Nothing has had you sulking the whole day?" Gimli responded.

Predictably, Legolas' first reaction was a sharp, "I do not sulk." He paced the three steps back and forth that there was room for on their flet a few more times before he sat down and sighed. "We should go home. I know that," he said at last. "But do you not see the catch I am in, Gimli? I was only sent to Rivendell to bring the news of Gollum's escape. I should have returned to my father's halls before winter, to take up my place in the defence of our realm again. I was sent to report failure, and I return bringing news of even worse disaster. And so I find myself both reluctant and eager to go home, and the closer we get to leaving, the more reluctance wins out."

Legolas stood up and went to the edge of the flet, looking into the night for a long time. Finally, he turned and sat down once more, looking even more troubled than before. "And in the south, as we came near Pelargir, I heard the crying of the gulls on the wind, and though I have not beheld the Sea, it calls to me. Yet the road I must take leads me ever further away from it."

Gimli had found the gulls' cries no more appealing than the sound of nails dragged across a writing slate; he was surprised that the mere suggestion of the Sea had so affected Legolas. Even so, his own mood was darker than he had thought and he spoke before he could stop himself. "The Sea? Should you not mourn the loss of our friends rather than wallow in regret over not seeing the Sea?"

As soon as he said it, Gimli wished he could unsay his words. "I am sorry. That was uncalled for," he added gruffly, then sighed as Legolas turned his back on him.

Decision taken, it still took a day to prepare – and for Legolas to accept Gimli's apology –, but at last they were ready to leave Lothlórien. Celeborn and Galadriel, with Elladan and Elrohir in tow, came with them to the northern edge of the wood, where their horses were kept waiting for them. After the horse they had ridden from Gondor had nearly faltered in the final run to reach Lórien, Legolas had accepted the offer of a second horse, and Gimli agreed, though not with much enthusiasm. He hoped the Elves had found a suitable animal for him.

Standing at the edge of the forest with the Lord and Lady, Gimli could not help recalling the Fellowship's departure from Lórien, not all that long ago. All had been anxious about their road, but at least they still had some hope then, even if the first sign of the coming disaster could already be seen in Gandalf's seeming death in Moria.

Gimli shook his head. Boromir, Aragorn, Sam; all dead. It was bad enough leaving Merry and Pippin in the south, and even worse, Frodo might yet be alive – that they could do nothing for him still cut like a knife. A flash of anger went through him as he thought of Gandalf's departure from Minas Tirith. Had the wizard proposed that they attempt to rescue Frodo, even if such a venture was certain to be doomed, they would all have followed him without hesitation, but to abandon Aragorn without reason?

As for the future, Gimli needed no Elvish foresight to see it. Sauron would keep sending his armies against them until all lands were his and those who opposed him in the grave or driven to the edge of the Sea, to yield or die there.

"I cannot see what lies ahead for either of you," Galadriel addressed them, holding Gimli's gaze as if she had seen his thoughts, "But may such blessing as can still be found be on your roads."

Celeborn first spoke softly with Legolas, then turned to Gimli. "Master Dwarf, I can only say that I regret your leaving, as I never thought I would say to any of Dwarven kind. May your path speed you home, and may your home stand long against the Dark."

Gimli bowed at Celeborn's words, then clasped the Elflord's hand in a firm grip. To his credit, Celeborn did not flinch at the strength of Gimli's hand, but returned his grip without hesitation and with equal strength. As their eyes met, both smiled ruefully, acknowledging their position somewhere between truce and liking.

Then Gimli faced Galadriel. The Lady's beauty still pierced his heart, but it was now tinged with sorrow. "Lady," he started, hiding his grief at their parting in another deep bow. "Once, you praised my skill with words, yet now I find myself bereft of speech."

"Lock-bearer," she replied, with a brief, sad smile. "When before we parted, I refrained from foretelling, saying only that ahead of the Fellowship lay on the one hand darkness, and on the other naught but hope. We now stand fully in darkness, and if there is hope left, it is hidden so deep that I do not see it. I, too, am left only with silence. Perhaps we will yet meet again, but if so, I cannot see where or how. Fare thee well, Elf-friend."

Legolas did not watch their hosts disappear back into the forest, but Gimli stood there until long after they had gone, knowing this was likely the last time that he would see the Lady Galadriel. Finally, he turned away.

"Well, we had best go," Gimli said gruffly and mounted his horse. It seemed calm enough, and was of a size that it was not too uncomfortable. Even so, he doubted he would be at ease on any animal other than the sturdy, placid ponies preferred by his own people. They rode in silence until they reached the river close to the end of the day.

"We must have turned too far east," said Gimli as he looked across the river. "That darkness over Mirkwood can only be the air of Dol Guldur."

Legolas disagreed. "No, unless my reckoning is off, we are where we should be, and we have come north as well as east. Did Lórien's scouts not say that the influence of Dol Guldur stretched much further than before?"

"Perhaps," Gimli conceded, shaking his head, "Though I think..."

"Whichever it is, I am certain we do not want to sleep under the shadow of Dol Guldur," Legolas cut him short. That was definitely true, and Gimli followed the Elf to a spot several miles from the river to make their camp.

In the morning, Legolas insisted again that they stay out of sight from the river. "I do not know how close a watch the Enemy keeps upon the riverbanks, but news has a way of travelling fast within Mirkwood, and I would rather not find a Nazgûl waiting for us at the Old Ford."

Despite that reminder of their danger, the next few days passed without incident. The lands through which they rode slowly sloped down, and mournful willows bordering reed-grown pools replaced the stands of taller trees there had been closer to Lórien.

"There should be a place slightly further west, some five miles beyond the Gladden Fields where the river can be forded easily with horses," Legolas said, "And after that, no more than three days until we reach the Forest Road, even if our path may be more dangerous from here on."

"The Gladden Fields?" Gimli asked. "Is that not where Isildur...?"

"Yes," Legolas answered.

"To think that the Ring lay there unfound for so many years," Gimli said, "And then for Gollum to chance upon it..."

"And it is a chance we are still paying for," Legolas interrupted him glumly.

That cut short their conversation, but later that night the Elf suddenly said, "I wonder what happened to Gollum."

"Gollum? Why?" responded Gimli.

"We know Sam's fate," Legolas replied, lowering his head, "And Frodo too, but from what the Gondorian captain, Boromir's brother, told me, his men had seen a third, whom he thought might have been travelling with them. By his description it can only have been Gollum."

"If that is the last he was seen, we are not likely to find out, and it hardly matters now," Gimli said with a shrug. He could not bring himself to be concerned about Gollum's fate. Yet Elves could be soft-hearted about the strangest things, and Legolas had been involved in guarding Gollum while he was held captive.

"No, but I have thought about him even so. I would not be surprised if he was drawn towards Mordor once Sauron held the Ring. Even if he has not been seized, I do not think he would last long," Legolas went on. "Though he is, or was, strong and tough beyond his size, it must have affected him when the Enemy reclaimed the Ring."

"Then what would befall Bilbo?" Gimli asked. "He also had the Ring for a long time."

Legolas shook his head. "I do not know. But your mention of him reminds me; I have given some thought to our road beyond the Old Ford. If we cannot take the Forest Road, there is the other path."

"Of course..." Gimli shook his head. He should have thought of that. How could he have forgotten about the path Thorin and his father and their party had used?

They soon left the Gladden behind, and on the afternoon of the fourth day after crossing the river, they reached the road that led from the Misty Mountains to the Old Ford. Legolas stopped his horse, allowing the animal to graze while he looked east, his expression dark.

"Let us hope the Beornings still hold the Ford," Legolas said after some time.

"They are bound to be. Had the Ford been lost, we would have been greeted by an Orc army marching west along the Road." Even so, Gimli hoped they would see some sign of the Beornings soon. While not always the most welcoming, the Men who held the Ford were at least honest, and a good source of news. And if Legolas and he could replenish their supplies, it would save them having to stop to hunt later on in their journey.

Legolas looked at the sky before replying. "We will not make it to the river before dark; if we rest here, we can go on in the morning."

"The Beornings at least keep this side of the river," Legolas said the next morning as they set off. "One is watching us, a few hundred yards along."

Gimli looked, but saw no one. However, the Elf was proven right when a man stepped into the road to hail them.

"What brings you here, strangers?" the man asked, eyeing them with suspicion. He bore only a sword, undrawn, and Gimli wondered how many archers were awaiting his signal to deal with intruders. "The Ford is closed to travellers. Only those who are known to us may pass." Then, before either Gimli or Legolas could reply, he looked closer, and continued, "Prince Legolas? I am Grimgár, son of Holgár, cousin to our lord Grimbeorn, and I command this guard post. What brings you here? I had not heard that you were expected, though your visit is timely."

"I am returning home from travelling abroad," Legolas replied.

"Then luck is with you, for before last week you would have found the other bank of the river held by Orcs," said the Beorning.

"Orcs?" Gimli asked, alarmed, "But you hold the ford again now?"

"Before I answer that, I must know your name and purpose, Master Dwarf," Grimgár responded.

"Gimli son of Glóin of Erebor at your service," Gimli said quickly. "My destiny is the Lonely Mountain, but I will first accompany my friend here to his home."

Grimgár raised an eyebrow at a Dwarf naming an Elf 'friend,' but said nothing about it, merely replying, with a nod of his head, "At your service and your family's. Your father's name is known to us, and you are free to cross the Ford on your journey home. To answer your question, though the retaking was a hard battle, yes, we do hold the crossing."

"That is welcome news," Gimli replied, "But how do the Beornings fare otherwise?"

"Not too well." Grimgár looked troubled as he turned to Legolas again. "We sent messengers to your father's court, to ask for aid, but there has been no reply."

"Then give me the message that was sent, and I will attempt to deliver it for you," Legolas said.

"That would be most welcome," Grimgár said. "Come with me to our camp so that we may talk further." With both Legolas and Gimli accepting the invitation gladly, the Beorning turned to give a sharp whistle. Soon another man appeared, and their host spoke with him briefly before leading his two guests down a narrow path.

They soon reached a palisaded camp, and after placing their horses in an empty pen, Grimgár took them to a tent opposite the entrance of the palisade's circle.

"What news do you bring from the south?" Grimgár asked as they sat down on low chairs in front of the tent. "We know that Dol Guldur is stronger than it was even before the year the dragon was killed; some fear the Necromancer himself has returned there. Our kin in the southern forest are abandoning their villages, fleeing east or to our lands if they can."

Gimli grimaced at that, while Legolas briefly spoke of the fall of Minas Tirith. If the Woodmen, who had held out so long in the south of Mirkwood, were abandoning their homes, the hand of Dol Guldur must have grown heavy indeed. But how could it be otherwise? Sauron had not had his Ring for three thousand years. Only the Elves knew his true strength.

"And my father's realm?" Legolas said. "You already said there has been no reply to the messages you sent."

Grimgár shook his head. "The Elves still hold out, but we know little more than that."

"What news of Erebor and Dale?" Gimli asked.

"Alas, I do not know either," Grimgár said. "It is close to a month since we had messengers from the east; the last we heard was that some of the Woodmen had reached Dale only barely ahead of a besieging army out of Dol Guldur."

"The Road?" Gimli hoped there was still some way for them to go home.

The Beorning shook his head. "Only Orcs, and rumour of worse, move freely on it. You will not reach the other side of the Forest by that route."

"And if we go north?" Legolas now asked.

"The old Forest Path?" Grimgár asked in return, and continued at Legolas' nod. "Orcs from Gundabad are pressing south on both sides of Anduin, but not as many on the eastern side. There are some bands wandering about between Forest and River, but since you are only two... If you stay close to the Forest, you can slip through unseen to reach the Forest Gate." He paused, hesitating, then continued. "Perhaps you will not have a choice, and you do of course know the Forest better than I do, but I would warn you not to go in before then. Even the Orcs will not do so, though we drive them to the very edge; they stand and fight rather than run if we chase them down."

They thanked Grimgár for his advice, and after letting them add to their provisions from the camp's supplies, Grimgár briefly spoke with Legolas alone. He then led them back to the main road before disappearing again.

"Would that Radagast still dwelt at Rhosgobel," Legolas said as they rode towards the river.

Gimli shrugged. "Even if we were to find him, his concern is with beast and bird only."

"Yet he is a wizard," Legolas said, "And he might be able to tell us more about what we will face in Mirkwood."

"Perhaps," Gimli admitted grudgingly. Now that he thought about it, Radagast might even be able to shed some light on Gandalf's actions. He did not say it though, instead asking, "What about Grimgár's warning, that even Orcs will not now go in there?"

"What do you make of it?" Legolas asked in return.

"I know not," Gimli replied. "The Beornings are not known for idle fancies, but the Forest Path is our only way home, unless we go around Mirkwood, and that would take us months out of our way, and into lands with perils of their own."

"Indeed," Legolas replied, "If we go north, we will have a good chance to avoid the Orcs, and once we are on the Forest Path, it will not take long to reach my father's realm."

"If we can get through," Gimli said.

Legolas cast a quick glance east before he spoke. "As you said, all roads are uncertain, and we already know the more direct road east is impassable. And it is likely only the western edge of the forest that is dangerous. The closer we get to Elven lands, the safer it should be."

"North it is, then." Gimli sighed; he could only hope Legolas was right. "Unless you know of yet other paths...?"

"No." Legolas shook his head. "But lighten your mood; once we have crossed the Enchanted River, I can find my way home even if we have to leave the path and cut across the forest. Before that, any other route would be worse than the Forest Path." He fell silent, looking glum himself now.

"Not so gloomy," Gimli reminded him. "Two, three weeks at most and then we will be home."

"And another week for your riding," Legolas replied with a quick smile. "Come, or we will not make the Ford before nightfall."

"We will not do that even at the breakneck speed you seem to prefer," Gimli muttered, but he followed without further complaint.

Chapter Text

April 16 – 17, 3019

Nearly there. Home before dark. As he reached the last bend in the road before Caras Dirnen, Halbarad stopped to let Borlas and Gethron catch up, and for his first sight of the town.

All appeared normal until Halbarad blinked against the light of the sun low on the horizon. Blackened ruins, thin trails of smoke still curling slowly skyward. No... Please. No. He stared, frozen by shock. Even so, he must have tightened his hold on the reins, for he was jolted by his horse tossing its head and pulling at the reins in protest. As he loosened his grip, he could only think Dineth! Might she, their sons, have escaped? Are there any survivors?

Then, as he blinked again, the view changed once more, and he was simply looking at the long, dark shadows cast by the setting sun. An illusion...

No, foresight. But to what purpose? Prophecy? He already knew it was unlikely to end otherwise for the Dúnedain. Or was it a warning? Was there then aught he could do to stop this from happening, or might forewarning at least let some survive?

By now Borlas and Gethron had caught up, and Halbarad tried to hide how badly he had been shaken. Even so, Borlas gave him a searching look, though his second said nothing.

Gethron was not so reserved. "Are you well, Captain? You look as pale as if you have seen a ghost."

"Yes," Halbarad replied. "I am well." He could not speak of what he had seen, not when he was so uncertain of what it meant or even whether he could still trust his foresight.

While Gethron merely nodded in acceptance of his answer, Borlas' look was sceptical, but all his second said was, "Then we must be on our way. It is still twenty miles to Celonhad."

Halbarad waited until the two were gone from view before he nudged his horse to walk on. Whichever it had been, warning or prophecy, he needed to regain his composure and think on what he had seen. If... when Caras Dirnen came under attack, what could be done to defend it?

After the end of the North Kingdom, Aranarth had done his best with what he had on hand, but he had not built his town to withstand the full strength of Sauron's armies. And even had Aranarth had the full might and skill in building of Númenor at his disposal, mere walls would not do more than slow down the Enemy. Even Minas Tirith, which had been built to withstand that strength, had fallen, and not after a long siege, but simply by breaching the gate. No, it might be a long time before the Enemy could lay siege here, but the end, when it came, would be swift and bitter.

Riding past the first few houses, Halbarad tried to look at everything as if he saw it for the first time. He wondered how much of the town Aranarth would recognise. The Keep was still much as it had been in his ancestor's day, but the original wooden palisade around the town, though still called that, had long since been replaced by a wall of stone. The town itself had grown beyond that wall, and more people dwelt outside the walls than inside. Still, compared to what he had seen in Gondor, the capital of the Dúnedain was, like its occupants, but shabby and poor. No grand public buildings, proud statues or cheerful fountains adorned Caras Dirnen, yet in the North too, the Dúnedain had endured, and unlike Gondor, they had kept Elendil's line unbroken. Until now.

At least the Grey Company had already brought word of Aragorn's fall, for he could not have faced bringing that news yet again, especially here. Every time he had spoken those words, Aragorn is dead, his heart broke anew, but now he would have to set aside his own grief and deal with the people of Caras Dirnen. His people...

Passing under the gaze of the townspeople who had come to the Eastgate to watch, Halbarad felt the weight of their looks – scrutinising their new Chieftain; judging, weighing, doubting – pressing on him. It would be easier to face an Orc host than his people, given how he had become Chieftain. Then he remembered what Elladan had told him; Aragorn would not have named him Chieftain if his kinsman had not thought he was up to the task. Even so, all he felt now was doubt, and he tried to shake off the fear that he would fail Aragorn's trust in him.

Halbarad took a deep breath. Enough! No more shying at shadow and illusion. All he could do was his best, and for Aragorn that had been enough. Yet Aragorn had also known, just as well as he did, how little chance they had in this war.

Inside the walls, there were enough people by the side of the road watching his arrival to make him feel even more self-conscious, and he wished he had taken one of the paths outside the Palisade to get home. He hesitated as he came past the road that led up to the Keep. Should he go there first? There might be messages he needed to know about, and he could put the horse in the Keep stables now, rather than in the morning. No, he was weary and if he went to the Keep, he would be there all evening. If Bregor had anything urgent for him, the seneschal would not hesitate to send for him at home, nor did Halbarad want to let Dineth wait.

"Halbarad! Lord Halbarad!" someone called out as he rode past.

"Gorlim," he replied curtly, letting his horse walk on.

"My lord, I need a word..."

"Not now. Come to the Keep tomorrow if you must." Whatever it was, it would hardly be important, not from Gorlim. Aragorn had always given short shrift to the man's incessant complaints and demands, and Halbarad was not about to change that.

Finally, Halbarad reached the Westgate. Though it was not far from there, it still seemed too long until he reached the path to his house. After the horror in his vision, the sight of Dineth waiting for him in the doorway nearly took his breath away from sheer relief. He was home, and for one moment, there was only Dineth; no War, no Ring, no foresight. She watched in silence as he dismounted and went round the corner to lead his horse to the lean-to that served as occasional stabling space. He quickly took care of the animal, and then walked back towards the door.

Dineth had gone inside, but as soon as he stepped across the threshold, she was waiting for his embrace, clinging tightly in return. "Will you be home long?"

"A few days at most."

"Halmir already told me there is trouble near Bree," Dineth hesitated, and then went ahead in a rush. "I thought... oh, Haleg, when the Grey Company rode in without you, I thought you were dead. Did you have to go to Rivendell first?"

Halbarad looked down. He had not thought of what she would think when his men rode in without him. "I promised Aragorn I would."

"Arwen?"

"And Elrond."

She nodded, but said nothing.

"Where are the boys?" he asked after some time.

"Halmir is over at Mairen's with Lossiel, and Haldan has gone hunting. You may need to talk to him, he is upset about..." She fell silent, looking at him closely.

"About Aragorn? I will see if there is anything I can say."

Dineth raised her hand to draw her fingers across his cheek along the edge of his beard. "And you? How are you...?”

He sighed and leant his head into her hand. "Better than at first." Facing Arwen had nearly undone him again, and his vision had shaken him badly, yet it was true.

They stood together silently a little longer, until Dineth spoke again. "Go take off your mail and empty your pack and I will get you a bite to eat. You look too weary to stand on your feet."

She did not break off their embrace, and Halbarad found he was loath to do so too, though he was indeed weary. He let his hands slide slightly down her back; just one kiss and then he would follow her suggestion. Food and rest were both more than welcome.

As Dineth raised her head for their lips to meet, the door opened and Haldan burst in. "Mother, is father back yet? There is a strange horse outs... oh... Father! You are back! Is that Andúril?" Haldan immediately reached for the sword, which was on the table with the rest of Halbarad's gear.

"Haldan!" Halbarad snapped. "I taught you better than to touch another man's sword without his permission," he continued sternly as his son quickly withdrew his hand.

"I am sorry. I did not think." After a short silence, Haldan continued, "Father, will you show me Andúril?" and when Halbarad said nothing, "Please?"

Halbarad relented and drew Andúril far enough to display the device of stars and Moon and Sun in full. Haldan looked at it for a long time, his initial expression of awe quickly turning to grief. As Halbarad put his arm around Haldan's shoulders and pulled him close, he was surprised that Haldan not only let him, but even forgot his awkward seventeen-year-old pride enough to return the embrace and lean his head on his father's shoulder. After a short while, Haldan looked at him with a wan smile, which Halbarad returned.

"Did you have any luck hunting?"

"Snared a rabbit."

"Better than nothing. Did you remember to dress it?"

"Of course, and I collected what greens I could find as well," Haldan replied.

"Well done. Go give your mother a hand with cooking it." Dineth had used the rabbit as an excuse to let him speak to Haldan, and Halbarad could hear her rummaging about in the kitchen.

While Haldan went to the kitchen to assist Dineth, Halbarad gathered his gear and went into the bedroom. It was high time to sort his pack and take off his mail; he had barely spent time out of it since they had ridden south, and he suddenly felt the weight of every single ring.

After they had eaten, though both Dineth and Haldan had much they wanted to ask, Halbarad found he was so weary that he excused himself before long, not even waiting for Halmir to come home. That night he woke up once, alarmed by the weight on his arm that kept him trapped, until he realised he was in his own bed, and that Dineth was sleeping pressed closely against him. He must have been wearier than he had thought, as he had not even woken up when she came to bed. While he considered whether to free his arm and risk waking her, and whether she would mind if he did, he already drifted off again.

In the morning, as Halbarad went outside to get firewood, Halmir followed him, and then stood fidgeting until Halbarad asked him what was on his mind. "Father, I spoke with Lossiel last night, and we want to announce our betrothal soon, to wed in two months’ time."

"Two months? Why such a rush?" Halbarad raised an eyebrow as he looked at his son, attempting a teasing tone to hide his concern, and repressing a shudder at the thought of his grandfather who had fallen to an Orc blade before he had even known that his betrothed was with child. Halmir met his gaze without blushing, looking almost indignant even.

Not a 'Ranger's betrothal' then, Halbarad thought in relief. While a child born from a betrothal had much the same inheritance rights as one born within marriage, it would make a difference when that child was born to the Chieftain's heir. It would draw too much attention to his own similar descent, nor should there be doubt over the legitimacy of his heir's heir, even if Halbarad doubted Sauron's victory would leave much to inherit.

"Father, I am not dumb; I know there will be war. And Lossë's mother has already given us her blessing..." Halmir waited.

"And you have mine as well. You will have to speak to your mother yourself," Halbarad replied as he clasped Halmir's hand in congratulation. It was no great surprise, and despite everything else, he was more than pleased at the news. The two had been courting for close to two years by now, and Lossiel was a Ranger's daughter and aware of the long separations that came with marrying a Ranger.

To his relief Halbarad attracted much less attention on his way to the Keep than he had the day before. After taking the horse to the stables, he walked on to the inner bailey. He had barely entered the courtyard when Bregor, the Keep's seneschal, found him.

"Welcome, my lord. Is there anything you need?"

Halbarad took a deep breath before he replied. Uneasy as he was at the idea, as Chieftain he should use Aragorn's office. "For now, only the key to the Chieftain's office, and could you send a man to help carry some things in about an hour?"

"Very well, my lord. I will see to it," Bregor replied.

As he headed up the stairs, Halbarad wondered how long it would be before being addressed as 'my lord' did not make him want to look over his shoulder for Aragorn. 'Captain' was not nearly as hard; he had held captaincies long enough that being called that did not feel out of place.

Halbarad first went through his own reports and messages, laying aside the ones that required an answer. There were not nearly as many messages as he had feared, although he also did not find the hoped-for news from Bree or Fornost. By the time he had read everything and made a few notes for anything that required an answer, the man he had asked Bregor to send up arrived, bringing the key to Aragorn's office with him. Many of Halbarad's old duties would now fall to Borlas, so there were only a few crates of papers and books to move, and they were done quickly.

The Chieftain's office... Halbarad grimaced as he sat down at Aragorn's desk. The last time he had been in here had been the previous year, just before Aragorn had left for Bree. Bree... Before he considered what to do about Bree, he should make a start at sorting Aragorn's papers. Luckily, over the years they had used this room often enough for Ranger business that he knew already what was in here. For now, that left Aragorn's personal papers, and after a slight hesitation he unlocked the drawer that held them. Most was private correspondence, either to be returned to the people involved or to be destroyed, and he sorted the letters accordingly.

Along with the letters, there were several bundles of paper that had been tied together. The first one held details of the lands held directly by Aragorn, and Halbarad put it back in the drawer; he would look at it later. He tried to recall who now minded Aragorn's lands. Upon Gilraen's return to the Angle she had declared that, as her son had as yet no wife, it fell to her to manage his holdings within the Angle and the tenant farms on them. After her death, there had been a reeve, but Halbarad could not remember who held that office. No doubt Bregor would know.

The next bundle held the letters and notes he had written himself when Aragorn had been in Gondor as Thorongil, all carefully worded to not betray either Aragorn's identity or their origin, but enough to keep him at least somewhat informed of what went on in the North. With a sad smile, Halbarad folded them again and returned them to the drawer, touched that Aragorn had kept them.

There was only one bundle left and Halbarad recognised the paper as Rivendell-made. Arwen's letters. He unfolded one just enough to recognise her handwriting, then wrapped the letters again. He had delivered more than a few of these himself, and he would return them to her the next time he visited Rivendell – if she were still alive then, he thought in sorrow as he returned the bundle to the drawer and relocked it.

But would Arwen even wish to see him? Halbarad had tried to tell himself she only spoke from grief when she questioned that he had not fallen beside Aragorn. Yet the reproach cut too close to his own doubts to put it aside easily. Could he have done more? Kept control of his horse; run faster?

No, no matter what Arwen might think, he had done all within his power. It had not been enough, but he could have done naught more. Nor did Arwen have much of a right to rebuke others, when she had not even felt that Aragorn had died. Her perception might well have been clouded by the Enemy's regaining the One Ring, or even by that accursed Morgul wound disturbing their bond, but still... she had not known.

He sighed and shook his head. He should not judge her for words spoken in grief, or for something that was beyond his ken. Aragorn had spoken to him about his bond with Arwen, trying to explain, and though Halbarad thought he had some grasp of what it could and could not do, he was no loremaster.

Halbarad stood up and walked over to the map table, more to allow him to pace while he thought than from any need to closely study the map of the area around Bree. As yet he did not even know for certain where the brigands who had broken through at Tharbad had gone, and until he did, all his plans were tentative.

That there was no news from either Tharbad or Bree meant he would have to leave Caras Dirnen even sooner than he had thought. Messengers could be delayed, but what if one had been waylaid by the brigands? Then there was Daeron's messenger to Fornost. It had been too soon to expect him back at Tharbad, but the Grey Company should perhaps have encountered him along the Greenway. Halbarad paced the length of the room in frustration. He hoped he had not made a mistake by not dealing with the brigands before coming home. He still had to see to Aragorn's house, and no doubt other things would come up that now escaped him, but all would have to wait until after Bree. What could not wait was sending messages to the members of the Council to formally announce his accession to the Chieftainship. He would have to write the letters today, and let the messengers ride out in the morning.

He returned to the desk, first starting to lean against the side out of long habit, then as he caught himself doing so, Halbarad moved to the chair, just as there was a commotion outside, and the door opened. Bregor stepped in with an apologetic gesture, but was immediately pushed aside by the one behind him.

"Lord Mallor," Halbarad said, not attempting to hide his irritation.

"You are quick to make yourself comfortable in here," the lord of Celonhad replied as he looked around the room appraisingly.

Mallor smirked at his glare, as Halbarad cursed at himself for reacting in exactly the way the other intended. He would do well to not let Mallor get to him any further. Folding his arms across his chest, Halbarad waited for Mallor to continue. He should not be surprised to see him here already; it was only twenty miles to Celonhad, and Borlas would have mentioned his return to Caras Dirnen. Given how impulsive Mallor could be, it was perhaps more surprising that he had not been here sooner.

"First, I should of course say that I commiserate with your loss," Mallor said, continuing before Halbarad had time to respond, "The position you find yourself in now must be a shock to you. Undoubtedly you intend to call a Council within the next few days? It will be no trouble to take care of sending for all Councillors for you."

"That will not be necessary. I will not convene the Council until after I return from Fornost and Bree."

"Bree? You think you can just come in here, toss around your orders and head off into the Wild again? The Council tolerated it from Aragorn, but you will not..."

"Enough!" Halbarad cut him short. "From the reports I saw, it would seem that nothing in the Angle requires my immediate attention. I would assume that is correct?" Mallor said nothing in response, and Halbarad continued, "And as for 'will not,' you are forgetting yourself. The Council has no authority over matters of defence, and I will handle what needs to be done as I see fit." He held Mallor's gaze until the other looked away. "Now, is there anything else you came to see me about, Councillor?"

"No, there is not," Mallor replied, leaving a long silence before a rather grudging, "My lord."

Halbarad closed the door behind Mallor, resisting the urge to slam it, and walked over to the window, to stare out into the noon light over Caras Dirnen. He hoped he had not been too heavy-handed. Mallor was the worst of the Council, with little interest in anything other than what would benefit himself. Unfortunately, Mallor was also a mostly male-line descendant of Aranarth, and while he was not as near the royal line as Halbarad, if he intended a challenge he might find some support. Halbarad did not like leaving the members of the Council to simmer for weeks, especially while they had yet to renew their oaths of fealty, but it could not be helped. The situation around Bree was too important to leave unattended any longer.

Who to include in the Bree raid? He would take none from the Grey Company, they had more than earned their rest; nor from the eastern companies, as they could not be spared from their own area. He should be able to find the numbers he wanted from the western companies, but he was glad also of the archers Glorfindel had agreed to send to Fornost. He was drawn out of his thoughts by a knock on the door.

"Captain?" He recognised Hunthor's voice.

"Come in," he called. "Hunthor, what is it?"

"Captain, have you decided yet who will go to Bree?"

"Not yet." Nor am I likely to if there are more interruptions, he added in thought.

"I want to go. I volunteer."

"Thank you for the offer, but you do not need to give up your leave."

"Why not? I want to go. Or are you keeping me away from Bree because I have kin there?"

"You have been posted to the Bree-land in the past, have you not?"

"Yes sir, but the captain would not even let me visit my kin then."

"And if he had, what would you have said? 'Hello, do you remember your great-aunt Rowan who ran off with a Ranger eighty-five years ago? I am her grandson.' Hunthor, I underst..."

"How can you understand? You belong here! You are Dúnadan!"

"So are you," Halbarad said resolutely. "Nor did I single you out; none of the Grey Company will be taking part. You have all more than earned your leave."

Hunthor remained silent for a long time. "Oh. I did not know, Captain."

Halbarad shook his head pensively once Hunthor had left. He had not known Rowan Appledore, but he did know Hunthor's father, her son. Though Thalion was obviously not wholly of Dúnedain descent, shorter and stockier than most, and with the brown eyes of Bree, he did not age fast and so far appeared to be long-lived. Hunthor was taller than Thalion, but had always been sensitive about his relative lack of height. Halbarad had never heard him speak like this, though; if anything, he had been too aware of his Dúnedain blood. The young man's recent touchiness, as well as the underlying dissatisfaction it revealed, was worrying.

He had hesitated before including Hunthor in the Grey Company three years ago. Though he had been recommended by both Aragorn and his captain, Halbarad had also considered that Hunthor had not done well in his initial posting to Bree. The young man had found it impossible to swallow his pride and accept that to the Bree-landers the Dúnedain blood he held so high meant nothing, and that being a Ranger meant only that he was a vagabond, distrusted or feared, at best tolerated. No Ranger liked it, but it was the reality of their duty, and they learned to live with it; even so, it was especially hard on one who knew he had kin in the village.

Yet, despite his initial doubts, Halbarad had not regretted accepting Hunthor into the Company. Hunthor was not suited for a captaincy, that had been obvious from the beginning, but he was a good fighter and an excellent scout, and got on well with his comrades. What worried Halbarad now was that Hunthor, despite all that, could think that he did not belong among the Dúnedain. That Halbarad could do little about, though perhaps he should see if Halmir had any insights to offer, since his son and Hunthor were fairly close in friendship.

Bregor peeked in to announce that Master Gorlim was downstairs, demanding to see him. "I could say you are busy, if you like," he suggested.

"Thank you, but I did tell him I would see him today," Halbarad replied. He should let Gorlim have his say this once, even if it was impossible to take the man seriously. "Oh, and Bregor, I need to talk to you. See me after Gorlim leaves, perhaps?"

It was hard to keep his attention on Gorlim's complaint, which, as far as Halbarad could make out, had to do with Gorlim's neighbours letting their drainpipe run out into his wife's herb garden, ruining her plants. He idly wondered why Gorlim's parents had chosen such an ill-fated name for their son. It was hardly the man's fault, but in one so generally unlikable such a detail became one more, if admittedly rather petty, point of annoyance.

While his thoughts kept wanting to stray to Bree and to the problem of Hunthor, Halbarad made himself listen, until he finally cut in to interrupt the other's flow of words. "Master Gorlim, why do you bring this to me? Surely the mayor or the town elders could have dealt with it?"

"I have been to the mayor," Gorlim stated sourly. "She said I have no claim and that everyone has had trouble with drainage with the bad weather."

"In that case I do not see why you are pursuing this further." As he spoke, Halbarad inwardly sighed for giving Gorlim an opening to go on.

Not one to miss a chance, Gorlim took a deep breath, no doubt preparing to explain the details of his case even more minutely, when there was a knock on the door and Bregor looked in with a worried look on his face. "My lord, I apologise for disturbing you, but something very important has come up. Could I have your attention?"

Halbarad hid a sigh of relief that Bregor had caught his hint to interrupt if it took too long to have Gorlim out the door again. He had always got along well with the canny ex-Ranger, who saw more with his one remaining eye than many others with two, and he did in fact have some things to discuss with him.

"Of course, Bregor," he replied, then turned to Gorlim again. "As you can see, other matters demand my time. I suggest you accept the mayor's verdict."

Gorlim gave an indignant snort, but wisely said nothing as he left.

"My lord?" Bregor stood waiting patiently.

"Bregor, sit down." Halbarad waited while the seneschal did so. "How long have we known each other?"

"Close to fifty years, my lord, including the time I served as your lieutenant in the Bree company."

"Then could you bring yourself to occasionally use my name rather than my title?" Title had its place, but Bregor's uncharacteristic formality would become annoying soon if he persisted in it.

"Yes, my l... Halbarad," Bregor replied, looking relieved himself.

"How has the news of Aragorn's fall been received?"

Bregor looked away for some time before he answered, "Grief and shock in about equal parts. I think many cannot yet quite believe it, even if it is three days since we heard. I find it hard myself." He shook his head in disbelief before continuing, "It is good that you are here now. The people need to see that someone they trust is in charge. But there will be many questions and concerns for you to deal with."

"I expected as much. That makes it even worse that I must leave for Fornost tomorrow."

"Fornost? There is trouble there?"

"Brigands around Bree and the Shire."

Bregor nodded. "I see. Not something you can let go."

"In the meantime, when I return I want a list of all places where the Palisade can be scaled." The town wall was in good repair, but over the years people had built close to it and trees grew near it. Walls might not be enough to stop the Enemy, but it should not be made easy for him either.

Bregor gave him a sharp look at that instruction. "You expect an attack?"

"Not for a long time. Be circumspect, the last thing we need is rumours of imminent attack from a survey of the walls. If there is anything that needs Ranger attention before I get back, send for Borlas."

"I will," Bregor replied, then asked, "Is Borlas to remain your lieutenant, then?"

Halbarad nodded. "Still unconfirmed, but yes."

"Solid man. Good choice," Bregor said.

"Can you send out messengers tomorrow morning for the members of the Council?"

"Of course. Is there anything else at the moment?"

"No, or wait... send someone over to tell my wife I have to leave on the morrow. I will bring you the letters for the Councillors when I am done here."

There were no further interruptions after Bregor left, and Halbarad quickly wrote the letters before heading down to the stables to choose a horse. On the whole, the day had gone fairly well, though Aragorn's absence had been almost tangible, and he was still unsure whether he had handled Mallor correctly; but there the real test would not come until the Council met.

Dineth was sitting at the small desk in their sitting-room when he came in. She only briefly looked up before returning her attention to the papers in front of her and writing down some numbers on a slate.

"Accounts?" Halbarad asked as she stood up and embraced him.

Dineth rubbed at a smear of ink on her chin as she answered. "Yes. The rents on your farms are due next month."

Halbarad nodded. The farms had been settled on his grandmother by Argonui upon his mother's birth, and had passed to him through her. He had always been glad of the bit of income they provided, and was just as glad to leave the accounting to Dineth. He shook his head in annoyance as he remembered that he should have asked Bregor who managed Aragorn's holdings.

"What is it?" Dineth asked, then went on after he explained. "No need to ask Bregor. Master Enerdhil, down in Ringlanthir. Why, have you found anything untoward?" she asked, a small smile on her lips. She knew well how much he disliked paperwork.

"No, but I should at least look for it."

"Perhaps I should go over his accounts," she offered. "Then, based on that, you can decide whether or not to keep him on. Now, if you do not mind, I want to finish the accounts. I will give you a hand with your pack after."

Halbarad nodded and went to the bedroom to start on his pack. As he folded his cloak and placed it on a chair for the morning, he glanced at the plain cloak pin he now used. It had been an impulse to let his star go with Aragorn; not that he regretted it, but not all Rangers would accept it if he went starless. Even at the pyre, among the men of the Grey Company, his gesture had caused a few raised eyebrows. Later that night, as they made ready to leave Minas Tirith, he had found Aragorn's own star brooch, carefully stowed in his kinsman's pack. Apart from the heirlooms, it had been the only one of Aragorn's possessions he had taken with him.

He shook his head and turned to open the chest he had put the star in. As he was about to place it with his cloak, he hesitated and put it in his pack instead. He would not wear it, not yet, but he would feel better for having it with him.

A short time later, as Dineth brought him a few dried apples from the cellar, she asked if he had some idea how long he would be gone.

"No telling how long it will take," he replied. "A few weeks, at least."

"Haleg?" The tension in Dineth's voice made him look up from the socks he had put aside to mend before putting them in his pack. "How bad is this? It is even worse than losing Aragorn, is it not?"

Looking at her anxious expression, Halbarad wished he did not have to leave again so soon. "Yes," he admitted, as he held her close.

"Tell me."

"With Minas Tirith taken by the Enemy, it will be only a matter of time before he turns his attention to the North." It would be just as bad to leave her to fret and guess as to tell her the truth. Still, he should not yet tell her of the Ring, not when it might be weeks before he could speak to the Council. Even Halmir and Borlas, who had witnessed Aragorn's will, did not know. While Halbarad trusted Dineth to be careful, it would not be fair to her to tell her something so dire without her being able to speak to anyone of it.

"How long?"

"I hope not yet this year, or even the next. Gondor will resist long, as will Rohan."

"Unless he comes straight for us, and leaves Gondor for later," Dineth said, drawing even closer.

"Not yet. Rohan still protects the Gap, and the mountain passes do not allow a quick assault in numbers." He hoped he was right.

"Then," Dineth said, "If that is so, perhaps two years, and then what? Siege? Flight?"

He sighed. "I do not know."

Chapter Text

April 20 – May 11, 3019

The tedium of South Ithilien's empty landscape lent itself well to contemplation, Faramir found. This far south, the land resembled the dry lands of Harondor rather than the wild garden that was the north of Ithilien. It was the third day since the patrol had left Pelargir and crossed the river, and so far he had seen neither enemy troops nor evidence of recent troop movements.

While he was relieved that they had not yet found sign of an imminent attack, it also raised his suspicion. Did the Enemy have no troops available to press his advantage? Their own losses had been bad, but the Enemy had also lost many before Minas Tirith. Or could Sauron, now that he had his Ring again, crush their resistance at any time and was he merely toying with them? Faramir did not doubt he would find out soon enough.

Faramir let his thoughts stray back to the last days of Minas Tirith, and the unhoped-for arrival of the troops from the south led by Elendil's Heir. What kind of King would he have been, had he lived? Would he have inspired love or fear in his people?

Looking back further to the dream that had come to him the previous year, Faramir knew now that it had foretold the coming of the King, and he wondered whether events would have run differently if he, rather than Boromir, had gone to Imladris to seek what lay behind the words spoken in it. More importantly, what would happen now? For over a thousand years Gondor had waited, hoped, for the King to return, and now...

When Imrahil told him that the man who claimed the title of Elendil's Heir was no other than the almost legendary Thorongil, Faramir did not know what to think. As children, he and Boromir had both been fascinated by the stories about the previous Captain-General that soldiers were sometimes willing to tell them. Faramir recalled with acute embarrassment the time he had asked his father about Thorongil. At nine, he ought to have been perceptive enough to know it was a mistake, but he had still let Boromir goad him into it.

He also thought of how Boromir had once boasted to him that he remembered Thorongil, but Faramir had never quite believed his brother's claim. Boromir had been no more than a toddler when Thorongil so abruptly left Gondor, and all he had to offer was a vague recollection of a tall, dark-haired man who had come to talk to their father and argued with him. Even to his seven-year-old self the tale had lacked conviction and detail, but Boromir had been offended when his little brother sceptically pointed out that he had just described almost every grown man in the Citadel; the only defence Boromir could put up was that only a few men would dare to argue with their father, so it had to have been Thorongil.

Faramir had found some time to talk with the Elf and the Dwarf who had travelled from Imladris with his brother, and they had told him much more than Mithrandir had about Boromir, including close observations of his brother's slow fall to the temptation of the One Ring. Later, he had also spoken long with the Halfling who was now sworn to his father's service. Alas that Boromir had yielded to that evil influence, though he had at least in the end redeemed himself.

No wonder though that the Ringbearer had panicked and fled when he and his men stumbled upon him in Ithilien. Faramir sighed. Had there been any choice, the Ringbearer's companion would not have been slain, but taken to Minas Tirith to be questioned. It seemed such a small thing among everything else that had happened, but he truly regretted having given the order to kill the Halfling when he attempted escape.

Upon learning that Thorongil, Aragorn, had been Elendil's Heir through Isildur, Faramir at last understood his father's long unwillingness to discuss him. What he still did not understand fully was what had happened at the last Council in Minas Tirith, in combination with Denethor's behaviour at the pyre.

How long had the Steward known? And Mithrandir, what had been his goal? The wizard must have known who Thorongil was, even back then, yet he had said nothing. Had Ecthelion known, or suspected, and had that been why he so favoured the stranger? But why had Denethor first denied the claim, only to acknowledge it at the last, and then acknowledged not only that Aragorn was Isildur's Heir, but that his claim in Gondor had been valid as well? Faramir sighed. There were too many questions that he wanted answered, but those answers would not be found by brooding over the same points for days.

Faramir could not give credit to the whispers that he knew circulated among the minor lords, suggesting that the Steward had been driven mad by grief over the loss of his city. He did not understand his father's actions, but he was sure that Denethor was rational.

Returning his attention to the present, Faramir signalled a halt. They were no more than a few hours from the Crossings of Poros, and it was close enough to noon that they might as well stop now for a rest.

"Mablung, send scouts ahead as far as the river," Faramir instructed his lieutenant. "And set guards so that all others may rest." After the last low hill ahead, the terrain was nearly completely open until the river and the scant cover provided by the mound of Haudh in Gwanûr. If they were able to continue beyond the river, this would be their last safe camp for a while.

As the camp grew quiet, Faramir lay back in the dry winter grass, allowing himself a few minutes of rest as well. It truly was silent here; except for the soft snores of some of the men, there was scarcely any sound to be heard.

"Captain. Wake up."

"I am awake, Damrod," he murmured, then realised that he must have dozed off after all, and opened his eyes.

"Captain. Herion and Balan are back," Damrod announced.

Faramir quickly stood up, and followed Damrod back up the hill. They met the two scouts just below the top of the hill. "What news?" Damrod asked them.

"The Crossings are in the hands of the Enemy," Herion replied. "We were not seen, but there is no getting across."

"Could you make out who are stationed there?" Faramir asked. He had hoped otherwise, but it was hardly surprising that the river crossing was well defended. Even if the Enemy was holding back for whatever reason, he would not willingly give away a major position.

"Men of Khand. But I did not recognise the tribal signs on their banners," Balan replied.

"Khand? Not Harad?" Faramir raised an eyebrow in surprise.

"No," Herion replied slowly. "Odd, that, now that you mention it, Captain."

Odd indeed, Faramir thought. He would have expected the Southrons and their Umbarite masters to be in the forefront against Gondor, even with the loss of the main Corsair fleet. "How many do you estimate there are?"

"We counted about thirty near the river, but their main camp lies further back," said Herion. "I expect around three hundred in all."

Faramir nodded. Two companies was a likely number and more than enough to hold the crossing. "Was there anything out of the ordinary to be seen?" he asked Balan, who merely shook his head in denial as they walked back to the camp.

Later, while the scouts were sitting aside arguing quietly about the details of their sketch of the situation at the crossing, Faramir wondered whether it would be worth having a look himself, but decided against it. With the road south blocked, their path lay north. He wondered how far they could go before encountering enemy troops there as well.

"Mablung!" he called his second, then continued when the other had come nearer, "For how many days do we have supplies?"

"Two weeks, more if we take time to hunt," Mablung replied.

That was enough to take the patrol north. "Mablung, send a runner back to Pelargir to report what we have found here, and tell the men to be ready to march north in an hour."

After instructing the man who would return to Pelargir, Faramir led the rest of the patrol north, at first cautiously, but later at some speed when he was certain that they could no longer be seen from the river crossings. The land they journeyed through was flat and bare until the third day when the landscape became noticeably greener and hillier.

Another day and a half saw them close to Emyn Arnen, and there was still no sign of enemy troops. Faramir was starting to wonder whether they were rushing into a trap when one of the patrol's scouts returned.

"Ambush ahead," Herion called out when he was near enough to be heard.

Faramir ran up to the front of their line. "Details?"

"Orcs. We slew most, and Damrod has gone after the others to keep them from raising the alarm."

"Lead us there, quickly," Faramir commanded, and after readying their weapons, the patrol followed Herion, until he slowed down and raised a hand to stop them. He turned aside, leading them up a slope until they reached a low ridge overlooking the road.

"This is where they were waiting for us," Herion said, "The perfect place for an ambush, or it would have been, if they had been a bit more patient."

"Luckily for us, that is their usual failing," Mablung observed drily, and Faramir could only agree with him.

A soft birdcall signalled Damrod's return. "The last one nearly got away," he reported to Faramir, "But I got him before he could warn his fellows. There will be more Orcs from here on, though. The woods ahead bear the scars of their presence."

"Then we would do well to abandon the road," Faramir said. "There are too many opportunities for ambush."

Though the land did indeed bear the signs of the passage of Orcs, and they were close enough to hear them several times, their progress was steady and unseen. Faramir wondered what pleasure the Enemy's servants took from the wanton destruction that nearly always marked their trails. Orcs could move with stealth if they had to, that he had learned long ago, but only if their captains enforced their brand of discipline even more harshly than they normally did.

They were within an hour's reach of the Osgiliath road now, and that night as the Rangers set up their camp, Faramir took Mablung apart. "After we reach the road tomorrow, if it is clear, I want to take two men with me and see what can be learned nearer the Morgul Vale. You can then lead the others to the Cross-roads." Faramir half expected his lieutenant to protest at the suggestion, but Mablung remained silent, so he continued, "I will take Anborn and Damrod, unless you would suggest others."

Mablung nodded his agreement, and then asked, "How long do you expect to be gone?"

"No more than a day. If we are not at the Cross-roads by the evening of the second day, return to Pelargir."

"The third day," Mablung said.

"If we are not back by the second evening, I doubt that we will return at all, and it is more important that the Steward learn of what news we gather here than that any rescue attempt be made."

"True enough, Captain," Mablung acknowledged, though he looked more than a bit unhappy at the idea, "But with all respect, were we to give up even an hour too soon if you are missing, the Steward would send us straight back out here to make certain there was indeed no hope."

Apart from a stern look, which Mablung chose to ignore, Faramir let it go. Mablung understood the importance of any information on the Enemy's movements well enough. Besides, if it came to it, he would not be in a position to enforce the order, so there was little point in pursuing the point.

The next morning, the three Rangers set off well before dawn, in the hope that they would be back that day. The three proceeded in silence, easily falling into the routine of countless patrols in these lands. Anborn had drawn his sword and moved slightly ahead, while Damrod and Faramir followed, both with bow in hand and a half-nocked arrow ready. Faramir could already see the road in the east as it climbed towards the mountains beyond the Cross-roads.

Far in the distance they now heard what could only be an Orc troop on the march. Anborn had stopped, and was waiting for Damrod and Faramir to join him. At first, Faramir could not yet make out where the Orcs were, but then he saw the glint of sunlight on metal from the road towards the mountains. They were coming from Minas Morgul or beyond, and most likely going to Osgiliath or Minas Tirith.

"Captain, we should head closer to the road, so that we can see them," Damrod suggested, and they quickly turned more to the north. It was not long before they reached the road, and found a place that gave both cover and a good overview. Faramir did not expect or intend a confrontation, but the unexpected could always happen, so he had Damrod take up position on the other side of the road. It was not much of an ambush, but it would be better than nothing.

Even with the time it had taken to get to this spot, it would be at least another hour before the Orcs would come by. As they settled down to wait, Faramir could still hear their noise, but after some time he realised it was receding into the distance, rather than coming closer.

"They are going north," Anborn, who had also noticed, said, as Damrod returned from the other side of the road.

"To the Cross-roads then," Faramir said. It was quiet again, but he dared not risk the road, so they headed back into the cover of the trees.

After some time, he could see the tall trees that marked the meeting of the roads ahead. Signalling the other two to be careful following him, Faramir slowly crawled the last distance to the edge of the height that surrounded the Cross-roads.

At first all seemed in order, but then Faramir looked to where the statue that had stood in this place for so long should be, and all he could see was a great pile of rubble. Damrod, who had come up beside him, drew in a hiss of breath at the sight, and Anborn softly muttered a curse. Though he was as shocked as the other two, Faramir found he was not surprised; the statue had suffered much mistreatment over the years, and while the Rangers invariably tried to repair the worst of the damage, it had always been a losing battle.

"So, it is gone," Damrod now said. "Is it known who it was for, Captain?"

"No," Faramir replied, "There may still be an old scroll or book in Minas Tirith that could tell us, but all I have ever found is that it must have been here for some hundreds of years already at the time of the Kinstrife." At such moments, Faramir could not help but feel regret for all the knowledge that had been lost in the mists of time, even in Gondor. Of course, knowing in whose honour this statue had been placed here was insignificant in itself, but it was one of so many things they no longer knew, including much that would have been of use as well as merely interesting.

"That is a shame," Anborn commented distractedly, as he stood up to have a better look. He did not move for some time, then asked softly, "Do you hear it too, Captain?"

Faramir listened closely. Yes, he did hear something.

"Another company on the march, I think," said Damrod, "But still far off."

"Then we should cross the road now; we still have further to go," Faramir said as he too stood up. He looked around carefully, then quickly slid down the embankment and ran across the road and up the embankment on the other side. He raised his arm to signal he had made it across without problems and that the next man could follow. He could only just make out Anborn at the top of the bank as Damrod ran across. Anborn was slower to follow, as he had to make sure that all traces of their passage were erased.

Faramir decided it would be best to wait here to see where the company they could now clearly hear approaching was headed. They would not have long to wait either; judging from the calls and shouts he could now distinguish, the Orcs were marching at speed.

Soon the first lines came into view, and Faramir was surprised to see Uruks, rather than any of the smaller Orc breeds. He waited to see whether they would head for Osgiliath or turn north, as the company they had heard before had done. His question was answered almost immediately as the Orcs headed north.

"Why would they be going north?" Anborn asked.

"Rohan, of course," replied Damrod.

Faramir was not certain that was so. If they were, it would be quicker to cross the river at Osgiliath and go through Anórien, unless... No, the Enemy would not allow rivalries between his lieutenants to frustrate his effort. But where were they going then? Further north? Either way, he would have to let them go without discovering more. He could not spare the time to pursue these companies to find out where they were headed.

By now the noise of the passing Orcs had faded into the distance. Faramir cast an impatient glance at his men as they carefully made their way further east along the edge of the road; they would have to move faster if they wanted to reach the Morgul Vale and return in daylight. At first the road ran level, but it was not long before it started to climb towards the edge of that dark valley.

Soon they heard another company approaching from the valley and they had to wait, watching from what little cover there was until the Orcs had passed. If they could go on just a bit further, they would be able to see into the vale up to where Minas Morgul lay amidst the mountains. Faramir was about to get up when a horn blared shrilly from the valley. That had to be a signal of some kind. Had they been seen? Damrod threw him a worried glance as they waited to see what would happen. There was no point in moving; there was little cover to be found other than where they were now.

After some time, just as Faramir began to consider going on after all, they heard what had to be yet another company on the march. Most likely they had not been spotted then. Faramir still felt strangely uneasy, fear creeping up on him as the sound of the enemy troops came nearer. He could hear horses now, too, and as the company came into view, he understood his fear. A Nazgûl led this troop.

Faramir pressed as low to the ground as he could, but kept looking as the dark shape of the Ringwraith rode past. He recalled the previous time he had been this near one, when they lost the bridge at Osgiliath the year before. At least this time the Wraith is just passing by, he told himself as he tried to resist the paralysing feeling of dread that came over him. He could only hope they were not seen, for they would be helpless against the Nazgûl.

Slowly, as the Nazgûl rode into the distance, Faramir felt his fear recede to the point that he was able to move again. There were still enemy troops passing by below; he counted at least five more companies in addition to those they had already seen, and not just Orcs this time, but Men as well, from deep in Rhûn by the look of their banners.

Faramir looked at his companions. Anborn lay face down, shivering uncontrollably, only coming to himself when Faramir sat down next to him and softly put a hand on his shoulder. Damrod was pale and clearly badly shaken, but had kept some control over his fear.

They could not linger here long. If they moved now, they might still rejoin the others before nightfall, and after their near-encounter with the Nazgûl, Faramir was certain that they should not spend a night this close to Minas Morgul.

Leaving Damrod and Anborn behind to recover enough that they would be able to go back when he returned, Faramir went ahead on his own. He too was still shaken from the close brush with the Wraith, but one of them had to attempt to reach the Morgul Vale, and the others were worse off than he was. Almost too soon he reached the entrance to that accursed valley and found a viewing spot. Rows and rows of tents and campfires stretched to the back of the Vale. There had to be close to five thousand camped there, Men and Orcs both. He could only hope these armies were not meant for Pelargir.

He rapidly made his way back to the other two, telling them what he had seen, and they hurriedly retraced their steps towards the Cross-roads. Faramir hoped the rest of the patrol had withstood the fear of the Nazgûl, but thought he would have heard if there had been a confrontation. Then, as they crossed a clearing that came just before the last stretch of the road before the Cross-roads, suddenly there were arrows flying and shouts from behind them.

Without thinking about it, Faramir dove for cover as an arrow struck a tree next to him, then looked around. Anborn was next to him, looking back, his bow already drawn. Damrod had stumbled as he reached cover; no, there was an arrow in his back. Faramir carefully made his way across to where the Ranger lay, only to find that he was already dead. Cursing under his breath that they had let themselves be caught unawares, Faramir paused beside Damrod to close his eyes, and then called to Anborn that they must continue quickly. At least one of them had to make it back. The news had to get to Pelargir.

They were about a mile away from where the others should be, and still on the wrong side of the Cross-roads. Even though they were familiar with the terrain around here, it was too far to run, and they could not risk betraying the position of the rest of the patrol. Also, it was already getting dark, and while that was to their advantage as long as there were no Orcs, waiting too long would allow their opponents to bring in reinforcements. They would have to be both quick and circumspect.

As they slipped away and made their way to the Cross-roads, Faramir listened carefully for pursuit. He could hear their pursuers now, but they appeared to be in some disarray. Yet even if they made it back to the others unchallenged, it was the end of the mission, as it would be too dangerous to stay in the area now. Faramir would have cursed their bad luck, but he knew that it could have been still worse. He shivered. At least they had not been spotted by the Ringwraith.

It took them about an hour to reach the Cross-roads, and the sounds of pursuit were getting closer. Faramir reckoned the Moon would rise soon.

"Do you think the others are there, Captain?" Anborn asked, as they stood looking across the road.

"Most likely, yes, and we cannot wait, or our pursuers will catch up," he replied. "We must cross the road now, and we will have to risk a signal as well, so they know it is us."

Anborn whistled sharply to signal their approach, and they quickly ran across the road, not waiting for a reply. Faramir looked back as they scrambled up the hill on the other side, and saw the first of their enemies descend on the other side of the road. At first the clearing at the top seemed empty, but then a low whistle indicated that they had found the rest of the patrol. A dark shape moved forward just as the Moon broke through the clouds.

"Mablung."

"Captain."

"We must be away from here, now," Faramir said urgently, noting Mablung's glance at the two of them, then across the road, and the sudden understanding.

At that point the first of their pursuers came up the hillside, only to stumble back down again with an arrow in his throat. An Easterling, Faramir saw, as he drew his sword to engage the next enemy, the other Rangers of the patrol now coming back as well, some joining him to fight those who had made it up, others preventing more of their enemies from getting to them.

Despite the darkness, the fight was ferocious, and it was not long before they had slain all their enemies. They had lost two more men themselves, and as for Damrod, the likelihood of imminent pursuit meant that there was no time to give them any sort of burial.

Quickly Faramir gathered the remaining Rangers, telling them what he had seen, and giving instructions that the information had to get to Pelargir no matter what. They walked all night, profiting from the nearly full moon to put distance between themselves and any pursuit.

Along the way, Faramir heard from Mablung that the others had stayed at the Cross-roads, and that all the companies they had seen near Minas Morgul had turned north. Only Mablung and one of the men who had died had seen the Nazgûl from nearby, though all had felt the fear spread by the Wraith.

Around midmorning they rested briefly, as they seemed to be free of pursuit at least for the moment. Faramir joined Anborn and Mablung who were discussing how to proceed. Mablung favoured the Road and the possibility of more speed, while Anborn argued for the hills and stealth. Reluctantly, Faramir agreed with Anborn. He would not spend longer in Ithilien than was necessary, but he would not abandon stealth either.

As the patrol made its way back south, Faramir wondered what the things they had seen meant. Where are those Orcs going, if not to Rohan?

Chapter Text

April 20 – 21, 3019

It was a grey morning, though the slight haze over the plain would burn away before long. Éowyn sighed inwardly as she watched the sun rise. What she wanted most was to ride out with Windfola and escape from everything for a few hours, but there would not be time today. Nor would there be much opportunity for riding in the next few days, as it could not be long before her messengers returned from Gondor. She would have to settle for this brief walk, and maybe some sparring later in the day, even if she had to think of Éomer each time she picked up a practice sword. He at least had not held back so much when they fought together. She closed her eyes briefly to fight back tears of grief for her brother. She should not show herself vulnerable, not out here where she did not know who was watching; that lesson she had learned well in the time that the Worm had held the reins of Théoden's court.

Éowyn awaited the return of the messengers with some anxiety. It had been three weeks since the last news, and she needed to know how Gondor stood and what should be done about Anórien, but also the return of the messengers signalled the moment to call her councillors together; much of the ordering of the Mark remained to be decided. While many had already sworn to her, there still were oaths to be renewed, and lords' heirs to be confirmed in their new positions; some of those who had died on the Pelennor had left no clear heir, or their sons had fallen with them, and successors would have to be decided on.

Elfhelm had returned to Edoras from the Eastfold several days ago. While there had been no major attack and no signs of one to come soon, there were smaller skirmishes, and he had wanted to see the situation for himself. He had been too late to speak with the Elves who had come back with Erkenbrand, but the two men had spent much time in discussion, and Éowyn was aware of their concern over the east of Rohan.

It did not surprise Éowyn to find Merry Brandybuck outside as well. He was sitting staring out at the plain, clearly deep in thought. She should take some time to talk with her esquire; he might be lonely at times, but from what she had seen and heard, he was also settling in well. "What are you thinking of, Master Holbytla?"

He looked up, startled at her approach. As Éowyn sat down on the flagstones next to him, she asked, "Are you not lonely here in the Mark?" Merry hesitated and she smiled as she added, "If I released you from your oath, would you go back to your Shire? I will not be offended if you say 'yes'; I know you miss your friends and your home." Even if she was glad of his presence, she would not keep him in Rohan against his will.

Merry blinked, clearly taken by surprise by her question, and replied after some thought, "I do not know. Most likely not. Not yet anyway." She gave him a surprised look and he continued, "I would wait at least until Pippin can come back from Gondor; it would not feel right otherwise. When he does return, he will come through here, and the hobbits in the Fellowship should go home together." He winced as he said it and went on softly, as if meant only for himself, "Even if it will not be all of us..."

"But you are a lord's heir," she said, curious about what moved him. "Do you not think your father has need of you in these dark times?"

He thought for some time again, then said, "Perhaps, but my father is hale and our land not yet under attack. Should he have need of me, word can be sent through the Rangers or the Elves. And I am only one hobbit. I could not make that much difference. I doubt I will be called home unless something happens to my father. Otherwise, my family understands that I will return when the time is right."

Éowyn raised an eyebrow at that and waited. The hobbit looked away before he continued. "Ah... I was in rather a hurry last year, and I only told them I was going away with Frodo in a letter after I was already gone."

Of course, she thought, and nodded. "I understand, but should you change your mind, come to me and I will see that you get home." She certainly understood his position, though at least her small friend had not abandoned his sworn duty to follow his cousin.

Merry smiled in acceptance of her offer, but did not say anything.

Soon the hobbit went back inside, but Éowyn remained outside a while longer. Thinking of Gondor made her consider other alliances also, and she thought back to the day that she had first allied Rohan with the North. The Northern Chieftain had spoken harshly to her then, but looking back she had to admit he had been right in his judgement. Riding to Gondor and abandoning her charge in doing so had been wrong, perhaps even dishonourable, and an abandonment of her duty, not just to her lord, but also to the people who had relied on her. She had taken care that one who was capable was left in charge, but that had not been enough. It was a mistake she was paying for now in lost trust. And yet, without her, maybe none would have returned from Minas Tirith. Were the three thousand Riders who had come home to fight again the price of honour?

Of course, for some the alliance with Lothlórien had cast further doubts on her judgement, and it did not help that she could not speak of the reason for looking for such allies. Only Elfhelm and Erkenbrand knew of the Enemy's Ring. She had taken a risk by sending Erkenbrand without the approval – or even knowledge – of the full Council. It was probably only because it was supported by Elfhelm, and because one as widely respected as the Lord of the Westfold had ridden to Dwimordene that the alliance had been accepted at all. Erkenbrand's report of the destruction the Orcs had caused in the Elvish lands, and of their numbers, had also done much to forestall further objections. All knew that in high summer the grasslands of the Mark would be as vulnerable to fire as was the Golden Wood. Not even Swithulf had objected openly.

She ought also to send an envoy into Eriador before long. There was still much to discuss with the Dúnedain, as there would be with Rivendell. Though both Dunland and Isengard had been quiet since their defeat at Helm's Deep, it would not do to neglect the western flank of the Mark, even if Éowyn could already imagine her councillors' sour reaction to the confirmation that she would go through with allying Rohan to Rivendell. "More Elves, my lady?"

As she stood up to go inside, Éowyn noticed riders approaching from the direction of Dunharrow. Had her messengers returned? The regular errand-rider from Dunharrow itself had arrived the day before, and it was unlikely that there would be any other traffic from there at this time of morning.

Meduseld's hall was slowly filling up, as others had also seen the riders' approach and confirmation had come that they were indeed the messengers from Gondor. Taking her place on the dais, Éowyn noted that of her advisors only Elfhelm, Erkenbrand and Wigmund were present. There was still some time before the messengers' arrival, and she called Merry over to ask him to find her other councillors and tell them that she would meet with them immediately after she had heard the news from Gondor.

At last, the doors of the hall opened, and the doorward announced the messengers. The news would not be too bad then, Éowyn thought, else they would have asked to speak to her alone. Then again, with Minas Tirith already lost, how much more ill news could there be until the Enemy started pushing further into Gondor? The Eastfold and Anórien were fairly quiet, there was no news of large attacks or troop movements from the Wold and beyond, but surely the Enemy had to be fighting somewhere?

Aesc, the messengers' leader, spoke once he reached the foot of the dais, "My lady, I bring news out of Gondor. The Lord Steward sends his well-wishes for your reign. He also wishes to convey his sorrow over Rohan's losses in this war, especially the death of your uncle and your brother, and expresses his appreciation of Rohan's unfailing loyalty in Gondor's time of need."

Éowyn inclined her head briefly, keeping her expression neutral. The message was polite enough, but no more than courtesy required between allies.

"And how stands Gondor?" she asked.

"The Steward has moved his seat to Pelargir, but the Enemy has not yet moved beyond Minas Tirith. I also have a letter with more details."

Éowyn held out her hand impatiently. She already knew about Pelargir, and there was no change in the Enemy's position near Minas Tirith from what she had heard before either. As she took a thin bundle of papers from Aesc, she spotted one letter in a different hand and she took it out for a closer look. As she read the address, she smiled.

"Master Brandybuck, I believe this one is for you," she said, handing the letter to the eagerly waiting hobbit. "Is anyone else awaiting a letter from Gondor? If so, it may be in here as well," she addressed those in the hall, making a show of looking. Merry blushed at the laughter directed at him, but he seemed pleased enough with the letter.

Slightly later, in her audience chamber, Éowyn broke the seal on the Steward's letter and quickly read it. There were some details her First Marshal ought to know, so she handed Elfhelm the letter, and waited while he too read it. When he was done he returned it to her, looking pensive.

While she waited for her councillors to arrive, Éowyn considered everything that would have to be discussed. It was going to be a long day, if indeed they managed to conclude their business before nightfall.

The last to arrive was Déorlaf, complaining loudly about his old bones and being woken too early. As he sat down, Éowyn addressed the Council, starting with Denethor's letter. It would have been easier to let them read it for themselves, but not all councillors were lettered or understood Westron.

"Much remains to be done in the ordering of the Mark, but as the return of the messengers from Gondor is the main reason for calling you together today, I will start by telling you what the Steward of Gondor has written. He confirms that Gondor stands strong yet, though many were lost when Minas Tirith fell. With the loss of Minas Tirith, Gondor is no longer able to defend Anórien, as it has been cut off from the rest of Gondor. The Steward therefore requests that the Mark further honour its alliance of old, by keeping these lands safe as if they were our own."

"Have we not done enough for Gondor?" Eadwig asked bitterly. "It is time we looked to our own interest, rather than have the best of our men die on a foreign battlefield for no purpose."

Éowyn was ready to respond if Elfhelm did not, but it was Sighere who replied first, "Defending Anórien is in our own interest."

"Indeed it is," Elfhelm now added, agreeing with the Eastfold man, "I would rather have Anduin than Mering be our first line of defence."

"And how will we cover such a large area? Do we even have the men and the horses to hold Anórien?" Eadwig went on.

"Anórien and the Eastfold should be defended as one, and with the help of the Ents both there and in the Wold and the East Emnet, we have the strength," Elfhelm said. "All that lacks is a Marshal, and who that will be is one of the things that will have to be decided this day."

"Relying on the Ents!" Eadwig replied scornfully. "If that is your strategy, it is the most addled idea I have heard in a long time." He now turned to Éowyn, ignoring Elfhelm's angry look. "I do not trust the Elves, yet an alliance with Dwimordene I can at least understand, but these talking trees? Even if they are indeed real, and not an Elvish illusion, what good can they do? Drop leaves on the Enemy's Orcs as they march past?"

"Have the Ents not done enough to convince you of their worth?" Erkenbrand asked. "Not only would Helm's Deep have been lost to Saruman's men without them, but the whole eastern part of the Mark would have fallen."

"It is still not natural," Eadwig muttered, ignoring the reference to Saruman; not surprising, Éowyn thought; Eadwig, like Swithulf, had been in league with Wormtongue. Éowyn regretted she still had to bide her time; she would have preferred to move against those who had supported the Worm before this Council, but it would have been unwise to do so yet.

No one else said more about the Ents, and Éowyn returned to Denethor's request – as she understood it, it truly was no more than that, for the ancient agreement between Gondor and the Mark had not foreseen the situation they now found themselves in.

"As for Anórien, its inhabitants now in the Mark are free to either remain here or attempt to return to Gondor. Should it be possible to retrieve at least the harvest of the winter grain that was sown last year, the Steward of Gondor judges that it should be used for the benefit of the Mark and the refugees from Anórien."

That at least had the immediate approval of the councillors, though old Déorlaf did ask how they would find enough people to bring in that harvest as well as their own.

"That is of later consideration, but at least the refugees themselves ought to be willing to assist in the work," said Folcwine.

Éowyn forced herself to keep her attention on her councillors' discussion of the settlement of those of Anórien's people willing to remain in the Mark. Before, in the days when Théoden had still taken an interest in the running of the Mark, she had on occasion attended him while he sat with his advisors, and she had thought then that it seemed as if these old men would gladly live on talk alone. She would still rather be outside in this fair weather, but at least now she knew that what went on in such meetings was worth spending time on. Even so, her thoughts wanted to stray to other matters, and she considered the wisdom of having sought alliance outside Gondor. She doubted that Gondor could now offer the Mark any assistance were it needed, for had Gondor had such strength, the Steward would not have abandoned Anórien so easily.

She waited until the discussion died down. "With Anórien settled, we must look to the Riddermark itself. As we all know, our losses in riding to Gondor's aid have been grievous," she briefly inclined her head at Eadwig, in acknowledgement of his son's death, "And not only are there many places to be filled within the éoreds, it is now for us to decide on questions of succession for those who have fallen without an heir."

All spoke their agreement, and she went on, "But first, I would name the Lord of the Westfold for the position of Second Marshal, which he has already in effect filled, and commendably so, since the fall of Théodred at the Isen."

Erkenbrand merely nodded. Éowyn had already spoken to him about it, so it was no surprise that he was willing to accept. No one objected, though Folcwine looked less than pleased. Before speaking of what had been her brother's post, Éowyn had to pause to allow her to continue with a steady voice. "There remains one marshal to be named, but it would seem there is no one suitable for the position of Third Marshal within the eastern éoreds."

At first, no one spoke, but eventually Déorlaf, after exchanging a look with Folcwine, said, "Is there truly no one? What about Éothain?"

"No," Elfhelm replied, "Though he is a good warrior, I would not place him in command of a Muster when he has not even led an éored yet."

"Then what would you do?" Wigmund asked.

Sighere suggested, "Elfhelm would be my preference; he has experience..."

"But still lost three thousand men on the Pelennor," said Eadwig.

"None could have done better there," Éowyn silenced him, letting out her irritation at those who had not ridden to Mundburg themselves, but would judge the battle nonetheless. Even if Eadwig had sent his son, he was not so old that he could not have ridden forth also. "And I agree with Sighere. It will be best if Elfhelm commands the east."

"The First Marshal always takes the Edoras Muster," Folcwine objected.

"Not always. There has been no First Marshal named for many years," Éowyn replied. "I think it best that the First Marshal will take the muster at Aldburg, and I..."

"You cannot mean to command the Edoras Muster yourself!" Wigmund now interrupted, stumbling over his words in his rush to speak, "That is... no woman... you cannot, the council..."

Éowyn refrained from pointing out that in the past more than one éored, though never a whole Muster, had been commanded by a shieldmaiden, nor did she say that she would have considered this as a solution, had it not been for her own lack of experience in command. "If you will let me finish..." she said, waiting until Wigmund offered his apology for interrupting. I do in fact have one in mind: Herulf of Harrowdale."

Elfhelm gave his agreement, as did Erkenbrand after some consideration. Éowyn cast a regretful look at the window where she could see that the day was already well beyond noon. At least there had been little opposition so far.

With the marshals decided, they moved to the list of those who had fallen without a clear heir. Here too, there was not much argument and Éowyn's hope that they might conclude the council this day grew.

"Finally, Harrowdale," Éowyn said, relieved at reaching the end of the list of holdings to be discussed. "Lord Dúnhere too left no heir, and I would name Herulf to succeed him."

"Are there none who are closer kin to Dúnhere?" Swithulf asked.

Éowyn was ready to reply, but Erkenbrand spoke first. "No, and I for one support Herulf."

"I do not," Folcwine stated bluntly. "I have no objection to him commanding the Edoras Muster, but he should not be given Harrowdale. His relation to the late Lord of Dunharrow is too remote, and there are others more deserving of the lordship."

"Such as your sister-son perhaps?" Elfhelm asked, as Éowyn tried hard not to snort in contempt; in the eyes of all but his doting family, Anlaf was a drunken wastrel, and the only thing he was deserving of being a good beating.

"Absolutely not," Erkenbrand now stated, before Folcwine could reply. "I will not see such an important holding given to one who can barely rule himself."

"The lad can be a bit wild," Déorlaf said, attempting to soothe both Erkenbrand and Folcwine. "But holding responsibility has been the making of many a young man."

At that, Wigmund turned to look long at Éowyn and laughed contemptuously. "Indeed, and of many a young woman too, as our lady Queen has shown so well."

In the shocked silence that fell at the councillor's words, at first Éowyn found herself both lost for words at what he had said and flustered at the way his eyes lingered on her body. The reproach itself was hardly new, she had heard it often enough since her return from Gondor; this however was a challenge to her position as much as a condemnation of her actions. She could not let this go by. "How dare you speak thus, old man," she started, surprised at how calm she sounded.

Before she could continue though, to her surprise it was Folcwine who spoke. "Wigmund, for shame. Have some restraint." Then turning to her, he smoothly went on, "I must apologise, my lady; it has been a long and tiring day, and I am sure Lord Wigmund spoke more uncouthly than he intended."

Seeing the look that Swithulf and Wigmund exchanged, and knowing the length of experience Wigmund had as a councillor, Éowyn doubted this very much. Old Wigmund might be, but he was no dotard. The insult had been intended.

Jarring her from her thoughts, Folcwine continued to speak, softly, almost unctuously. "My lady, it is true that you have made mistakes. That is only understandable, you are young yet, and inexperienced. You took on a responsibility for which you were not ready, and must have felt overwhelmed by it. What could be more understandable than that one such as you, with a shieldmaiden's courage, sought the only escape you could see and rode to battle, giving little thought to those you abandoned. No, my lady, I beg you, let me finish," he said as she tried to interrupt him. "We are not your enemies, we only wish to help you in these difficult times. Rely on those who have more experience, my lady. Let your Council guide you and regain the trust of your people."

"And what would your guidance be in this, Lord Folcwine?" Éowyn asked coldly, wondering what he was leading up to. She noticed that of her councillors only Erkenbrand and Elfhelm did not appear to know where he was heading.

It was Swithulf who responded. "You are the last legitimate descendant of the House of Eorl, my lady, and your brother named you Queen before his death. For that reason many are yet loyal to you, despite their doubts. Yet you are a woman also, and no woman has ever ruled the Mark. After the death of Helm Hammerhand it was not his sister who took the throne, but her son."

Éowyn said nothing, only looked at Swithulf. If she spoke now, she would not be able to stay calm, and she would see where this would go. She did not have the support of all her people, she knew that; yet most did stand behind her, and to claim otherwise was disingenuous at best. What did her councillors intend?

Swithulf was clearly uncomfortable under her gaze, yet after a quick look at the others, he went on. "My lady, you must be wedded. There must be another heir for the House of Eorl. And in view of your youth and inexperience we believe that it is best that you let yourself be guided in this by the counsel of those who are better able than you to consider the effects of your choice."

That was it then, Éowyn thought, her anger rising, this was how they thought to control her, how they intended to rule. Obviously, the proposal did not meet with the approval of all. Wigmund, Eadwig and Folcwine were clearly in full agreement, while Sighere and Déorlaf looked more than a bit uneasy. Erkenbrand and Elfhelm were looking at her, waiting for her reaction, and though they had nodded in agreement that there must be an heir, they were clearly not pleased with the direction this was taking. She gestured at them to remain silent; she had already let them speak for her too much, and she must not show weakness now.

Though she was outraged to the point that she did not know whether to scream or storm out, Éowyn was surprised to find herself replying calmly. "I see, my lords. And have you yet decided among yourselves who will pander for me? Or will you share the stud fee?"

None would meet her gaze at first, until Déorlaf spoke, albeit hesitantly. "My lady, surely you see the need that you wed?"

Worst of it was that she did see that necessity. Yet the way they went about it... She would not be pushed by them, and she would not be bound by their choice for her. Too much of her life had been a cage, her actions bound by duty, by what was expected of her. She took a deep breath before speaking, feeling as if it was her own hand that now closed and locked the door of her cage. "Yes. I do see the need, but I will not bow to your demand that you may choose my consort." That last freedom they would not take from her.

"Will not you at least concede then that your choice must be..." Swithulf began.

"That my choice must be what?" she snapped as he hesitated.

"Within the Mark," he continued.

That was reasonable enough, she thought. She was hardly going to ask the Steward of Gondor for his son's hand in her next despatch to their ally. "Very well, that is acceptable," she agreed.

Folcwine looked as if he still wanted to say more, but as all others now spoke to agree with her, he wisely remained silent.

After the end of the meeting, Éowyn remained standing in the now empty room for some time, gazing out into the darkening evening. Could she have handled this differently? They had been right, at least on the need for an heir, but even so...

In the morning, as soon as it was light she went to the stable. She had barely slept, and she needed to be outside. Perhaps the dawn air would clear her mind. There was certainly enough to think about.

Éowyn would rather have ridden alone, but her guards were unobtrusive, and she accepted the necessity of their presence. Windfola was even more eager to be outside than she was and after a run to get rid of the worst of his enthusiasm, they ambled about aimlessly for some hours, allowing her to think about the previous day.

It was an unpleasant deal that she had been forced to accept from the lords of the Council, yet Éowyn also knew that her own actions were at least partly to blame for their lack of trust in her. And they were even right that the survival of the House of Eorl was more important than her personal wishes, even if the demand felt as much as a punishment for her dereliction of duty as that it felt like necessity. Nor had she been made to break off a betrothal, or had many choices outside the Mark.

She felt her face flush in embarrassment at the memory of her brief and all too brazen pursuit of Aragorn; even had that been more than infatuation on her part, she knew he had been far too high for her. There might have been some in Gondor who would have been suitable, or perhaps among what remained of the Riders' northern kin near Mirkwood, but most likely she would have wed within the Mark anyway.

That was not what bothered her about this demand from the Council. The women of the Mark were free to make their own choice in marriage, but she had also known that, while she would not be made to wed one she found abhorrent, it was expected that she would choose a husband appropriate to her station, if not someone whom it was politically expedient to tie to the House of Eorl. At least, she had known that until the Worm's rise to prominence in Théoden's court. As well as her uncle's decline and the political manoeuvrings that had endangered both Théodred and her brother, there had been Wormtongue's gaze always dwelling on her, its meaning clear enough. And it still stung that Théoden had not done more to protect her; he must have seen what was happening, certainly at the start when his mind had still been clear. But that was done with now, she could not let herself be ruled by these old fears. Even if he still invaded her nightmares, the Worm no longer had power over her, and she should spare him not a single thought.

Now that she was Queen, not merely the King's sister-daughter, it was even more important that she marry to her House's advantage. She understood that well enough; if only it did not make her feel like a prize mare to be bred to a suitable stallion from the right bloodline. She bit her lip to stifle an almost hysterical giggle. If she took that particular comparison further, it would at least take the spineless geldings in her Council who had suggested the idea off the list; not that she would take any of the ones who had argued that they had the right to choose her consort. Even if she could admit the necessity of the demand that she wed, she would not reward them for the outrage of trying to take the freedom of choice from her.

Alas, too many of the younger lords of the Mark had fallen on the Pelennor, and there were few for her to consider. Perhaps Herulf, now that he had as good as been named as Lord of Dunharrow, or one of the other new lords? Or Elfhelm? He at least was a friend and loyal to her House. Even if she felt no particular love for him beyond the affection of friendship, she also felt no revulsion at the thought of having to lie with him, and she trusted he would not seek to advance his own ambitions at her expense. It was after all a small step from Queen's consort to King, especially once she bore an heir to the throne.

There were far worse men than Elfhelm, and she shuddered again at the thought of some of those, including themselves, that her councillors would consider suitable consorts for her. None were as repulsive as the Worm's leers and suggestive looks had been, though that old lecher Wigmund came close. He already had not been able to keep his eyes to himself while the Council was in session. Luckily, he was old enough that she doubted he could do more than look. Elfhelm. In truth, there are few better left in the Mark...

But enough of that. She was already far across the plain, and Windfola could do with another run. She should give him his head on the way back. Going towards home it would not matter if she outran her guards; though they had good horses, there were few except the mearas who could match Windfola for speed. Éowyn waited until her men were near again and called out her intention to them.

Windfola was prancing impatiently, eager to go, and as soon as she shifted her weight in the saddle and loosened the reins, he was off. The horse's long strides rapidly taking her back to Edoras, Éowyn let everything except the wind in her hair, Windfola's strength and speed, and the joy of riding fall from her mind. This was living, and for the duration of the ride at least, nothing else mattered.

Near the hill, Windfola slowed down of his own accord, and Éowyn waved a cheerful greeting to the gate guards at the bottom of the hill as she entered the town. Windfola was as eager now for his stable as he had been for the run earlier. While he walked up the hill towards Meduseld and the King's stables, Éowyn wondered idly whether she should have the stable renamed.

After she had settled Windfola and brushed him down, Éowyn was so deep in thought as she left the building that she did not notice there was someone coming in, and she nearly bumped into him.

"Lord Elfhelm. My apologies. I was not paying attention."

"No need to apologise, my lady. I should have looked better myself."

No time like the present, and I have made up my mind. I may as well do this before my courage fails me. Éowyn raised her hand to stop Elfhelm as he wanted to walk on. "My lord, will you marry me?"

Chapter Text

April 23 – May 4, 3019

The view from Weathertop was clear, and for as far as Halbarad could see the road was empty, as it had been on his way here. He had found Orc tracks leading north across the road the previous day, and while he was glad not to see more of them, he had expected some sign of the archers Rivendell had promised to send to Fornost. He shrugged as he made his way to a more sheltered spot further down. Perhaps the Elves would catch up with him the next day, but in truth, he would not mind if they did not just yet. Coming home had settled him somewhat, yet he welcomed the solitude of the Wild, even if his thoughts turned to Aragorn as much as to what he would find at Fornost and how to deal with the ruffians.

Halbarad laughed humourlessly as he realised that the place he had chosen to sleep must be the same dell that Aragorn and the hobbits had used the night they were attacked by the Ringwraiths. Perhaps I should find another spot. But the place itself did not feel evil, and he remained where he was. To his surprise he slept well, his rest disturbed by nothing more ominous than some pebbles digging into his ribs.

In the morning, there was still no sign of Elves or anyone else to be seen from Weathertop. At least it was good weather for travelling, and it was not long before Halbarad was on his way, heading north on the path that ran along the Weatherhills. He intended to turn west towards the Greenway only when he was far enough north to avoid both Bree and the Midgewater Marshes.

The day passed quietly, and as the sun was sinking towards the horizon, Halbarad started to look for a good place to stop for the night. He waited at the edge of a line of trees when he saw someone approaching in the distance; a Ranger, riding in haste. As the other noticed him and slowed down, he called out. "Greetings, Ranger. What news of the road?"

"Capt... my lord," the other said as he dismounted. "I am glad to find you here."

"Captain will do, Orleg," Halbarad replied, as he too got off his horse.

"Captain," Orleg responded, with a quick bow of his head. "The road is quiet from here to Fornost."

"Where are you headed?"

"Caras Dirnen, sir, carrying messages. The captains at Fornost are concerned that they have not yet had any answer to their message."

Halbarad doubted that 'concerned' was an accurate description of the captains' mood, but that displeasure went both ways. "There has been no news from Fornost since March."

"But a rider was sent weeks ago." Orleg looked worried. "At least that explains..." He fell silent as he reached for his pack.

"Tell me. Keep the written reports for Borlas in the Angle."

Orleg nodded, and after a short pause replied, "Bree is under siege. The ruffians that were already troubling the Bree-land before you went south were joined by about the same number of Dunlendings, some at least half Orc by the look of them."

Halbarad grimaced at the news; it was as bad as he had feared, though it did confirm where the group that Daeron had failed to stop at Tharbad had gone. "What else?"

"The ruffians are dug in around Bree and raid along the Greenway up to about ten miles north of the village. The farmers who still hold out will now shoot at any stranger they see. Some of our men were wounded that way. The ruffians destroy as much as they take. Farms have been raided and burned down."

"Losses?"

"Our own? Sixteen dead and some badly wounded. There have been deaths among the Bree-landers too, but I do not know how many. The ruffians lost several tens, but there must still be close to two hundred and fifty left."

"Have there been messengers from Tharbad?"

"Two," Orleg replied. "One to warn us about the ruffians, and the other brought the news of the Chieftain's death." He paused, then added, "Sir? I ought to go on. What of the road to Caras Dirnen?"

"Clear," Halbarad replied, "Except for one Orc trail I saw nothing. Keep an eye out for a company of Elves coming this way, and warn them to avoid Bree. Tell Borlas to be ready to send another company to Fornost." Halbarad did not like having to ask for more men; the eastern companies were always hard-pressed, but they could not afford to lose Bree or the Shire, and he would need the extra strength if the situation was not resolved quickly.

"I will do so, Captain," Orleg said as he mounted his horse again.

Halbarad looked after the Ranger pensively as he rode away. He would do well to get to Fornost sooner rather than later, and with a sigh he too set off again. It was a bright evening and would be a clear night, and the path familiar enough that he could have walked it eyes closed.

It was two days more before he glimpsed the Greenway, winding away into the distance below him. Halbarad urged his horse forward; one of the Rangers guarding this stretch of the Road had no doubt seen him already, and he would be stopped soon.

Ah, there... He spotted movement in the undergrowth, and almost immediately a sentry stepped on to the road some distance away, signalling him to halt and dismount, with a second man approaching from the other side of the road.

"Who goes there?" the second Ranger called out, then before he could reply, "Oh, it is you, Captain." After a quick exchange of news Halbarad rode on; he should still make it to Fornost before the end of the day.

Night had fallen by the time Halbarad led his horse past the gatehouse of the ancient fort. There was little to indicate that castle and town were not abandoned until one stepped into the ruined keep's courtyard, and no intruder would make it this far unchallenged. Not that many outsiders would try to come here; few remembered what these ruins had once been, and even those that did, considered them haunted: Deadmen's Dike, a name of ill omen and a place where honest men had no business.

The Ranger who came up to take Halbarad's horse also directed him to the meeting hall, saying that the captains were already waiting for him. That did not bode well for their mood, Halbarad thought as he walked downstairs to what had once been a storage area. The original meeting hall had been in a part of the upper structure that had collapsed several hundred years ago.

The men in the dimly-lit room were gathered around the central table, bent over the maps that lay spread out on it, but all turned to face Halbarad as he entered.

"Captain. You took your time getting here," the Fornost captain, Marach, started angrily. "I sent to Caras Dirnen for help weeks back."

"You sent for help?" Halbarad held his gaze until Marach looked down. "There is no report from here in Caras Dirnen beyond the middle of March. Surely, for something so important, you sent more than one man?"

"No, just the one," Marach admitted, adding, "But an experienced message-rider."

As Halbarad did not reply – Marach knew as well as he did that the message should have been sent with at least two men – Marach went on, still sounding angry. "What else could I do? We were short of men already. I could not spare more messengers. All we knew here was what we heard from Tharbad; we had only just heard of the Chieftain's death, we had to deal with the Bree ruffians, and then when we sent to Caras Dirnen there was no answer..." With his anger deflated, he fell silent, then sighed. "But it seems the fault for that is mine. I am more than glad you are here now, Captain."

Halbarad walked over to look at the maps, nodding a terse greeting at the other Rangers. "I ran into Orleg near the Weatherhills and have already heard much from him, but give me the full situation now."

Marach quickly pointed out on the map where both Rangers and ruffians were, with the others occasionally interrupting to provide details of their own companies.

"Had you attacked here and circled around here, you could have pushed them away from Bree and back south nearer the Barrow-downs," Halbarad commented, marking the places on the map. Obviously, while the Rangers were not losing ground against the ruffians, they were not advancing either. "Have you done nothing more than hold position?"

"With all respect, sir," Baran, the lieutenant of the Barrowdowns company, replied, "But we could not attack in force without the Bree-landers finding out what the Rangers are; nor am I certain that would be a wise course."

Elatan now spoke for the first time, addressing Baran first and then turning to Halbarad. "We discussed that before. We are doing all we can without coming into the open, and the situation has not yet turned bad enough to do so without the Ca... without you here."

Halbarad gave him a sharp look as he started to reply, but then stopped again. He could not fault them for holding back. In their place, he too would have waited until the choice was between immediate, open action or having the Shire or Bree fall, before acting and revealing the purpose of the Rangers without his lord's awareness. Had Marach acted on his own, the Council would have said treason, no matter the circumstances; treason to reveal any of the secrets of the Dúnedain to outsiders: the purpose of the Rangers, the existence of Isildur's Heir, the location of the Angle. Even now, with Halbarad here to condone this course of action, the Council, and the people, were likely to take a dim view of it, though at least the Angle was yet hidden.

It was not even solely to protect Isildur's heirs or the safety of the Angle that the Rangers' work had so long been kept secret; they were few enough that it had always been the best way to perform their task. Not many people looked beyond the first impression of vagabonds, shiftless wanderers who seemed to make a living by hiring out as merchants' guards or doing odd jobs around farms, and it let them roam the whole of Eriador without questions being asked.

"We cannot afford to lose Bree or the Greenway, even if it means breaking the secrecy of the Dúnedain," Halbarad said. He liked it as little as the others did, but he saw no other option. "How many men can you find in addition to the ones already there?"

"Maybe another fifty or so," Marach replied after some thought.

"I can move the rest of my company south from Lake Nenuial," Elatan added.

"My company is already near Bree," Tavor said. "But will we have any backup from the east, Captain?"

"Not immediately," Halbarad replied, "But some archers from Rivendell should arrive soon, and I have asked Borlas to have a company standing by to join us as well if needed."

Tavor looked pleased at the news of the Elves joining them, but asked, "One company? So few?"

"The eastern companies are busy too, and I will not take more from them." Halbarad did not say it, but if it came to it, he could cancel the rest of the Grey Company's leave; he would rather not, but they would have had some rest at least. "Let us look at what messengers and scouts need to be sent out. I intend to march the day after tomorrow."

After the meeting with the captains, Halbarad was about to go to the kitchens to see if there was still some food to be had, when there was a knock on the door of his room. He tried to recall the name of the man who stood there; Nólimon... no, Vardamir, Nólimon's nephew, from Elatan's company.

"Captain?" Vardamir said, then fell silent.

"Yes, Vardamir, what is it?" he asked rather sharply.

The Ranger hesitated, taken aback by his irritated response, then took a deep breath and spoke. "Captain, would you please come with me? Some of the men would like a word or two."

Halbarad was inclined to refuse. "It has been a long day and it is late. Can this not wait?"

"No, sir. It will not take long, but it is important," the other insisted.

"Very well." Halbarad gave in and stepped outside to follow Vardamir, his curiosity piqued.

Vardamir quickly led him to a hall in the upper part of the castle, where about thirty Rangers were gathered already. Seeing their solemn expressions as they turned towards him, Halbarad had an idea now what this was about.

His suspicion was confirmed when Maethor, one of the older men present, stepped forward and spoke. "Captain, we wanted... that is, there are a few things we would like to say." Maethor hesitated. Halbarad indicated that he should go on, and after a deep breath, Maethor continued to speak. "Captain, all of us here have served directly with the Chieftain, and it was horrible when we heard that he had... had fallen. For what it is worth, sir, we share your grief, both for our fellow Ranger and for our lord."

Halbarad had noticed earlier that none had yet mentioned Aragorn to him, though he knew it was not indifference, but rather reticence and respect that restrained speech. For these men to speak meant much, and Halbarad was deeply touched by it. As he tried to collect his thoughts before replying, he saw that Marach and Elatan had quietly entered and joined their men. Maethor continued. "I also want to say, sir, that the Chieftain chose his successor well, both Captain and lord. Most of us have already served under your command, and it will be an honour to continue to do so."

The others nodded their approval at Maethor's words, and Halbarad waited until he had their full attention again before replying. "There is very little I can say to your words, except 'thank you'. Hard times are coming, alas, for the Enemy's war is not yet over, and it means much to know that you are whole-heartedly with me."

The next afternoon, sitting in the sun in a corner of the courtyard and watching the bustle as the garrison made its preparations, Halbarad felt at somewhat of a loss. Marach had everything in hand, and Halbarad had already checked on his horse and repacked his gear twice; there was little point in polishing Andúril again. As he wondered whether he should go inside and take another look at the maps of Bree, a scout rode into the courtyard.

"The Elves are here!" the Ranger had barely announced when they rode in behind him. Halbarad stood up, quickly counting how many there were; thirty, rather than twenty, he saw. Glorfindel had been generous; not surprising, given the importance of the road to the Grey Havens for Rivendell. As the Elves dismounted, Halbarad walked over to greet them.

"I am Hithaeron, in charge of this band," their leader introduced himself. "We were delayed slightly," he went on apologetically, "We found a troop of Orcs near the Road, and we had to deal with them before continuing our journey."

"Of course," Halbarad replied. That is one problem solved at least. "But be welcome now that you are here. One of my men will take you to the stables and once your horses are settled, to a hall where you will be served food and drink if you wish. We shall speak further after that."

The following morning, looking at the Rangers standing in the courtyard, Halbarad thought of the thousands upon thousands he had seen thrown against Minas Tirith by the Enemy. The few men he had gathered here were enough to deal with the ruffians, yet this was only a skirmish, not the real battle. Once Sauron's great attack came, all his Rangers and all others who were able to fight, and all the Elves in Rivendell would not be enough. Halbarad firmly pushed that thought out of his mind as he raised his hand to order the Rangers to march. He would deal with each battle as it came, not lie down in defeat before the death blow had been struck.

As the men filed out past him, it struck Halbarad that, strange as it was for the Rangers to openly march to war, and even with only about half of the men mounted and no livery, they made a fine warband. Though garbed similarly in greens and browns and greys, the only thing all wore in common was the rayed star holding their cloaks. Suddenly painfully aware of the plain pin on his own shoulder, Halbarad wondered what the men thought of it. He considered putting on Aragorn's star that even now sat in a pouch on his belt, yet a voice inside him still said No, not yet.

The men from Annúminas and Lake Nenuial caught up with them on the second day of the march, and Halbarad hoped to hear soon from those already in place around Bree. It was too early yet for confirmation from the Tharbad Rangers that they were in position on the Greenway south of Bree, but they and their fellows from Sarn Ford should be ready to do their part once battle was joined.

Halbarad did not expect they would meet their opponents in force even the next day. The ruffians held the road near Bree, but they were wary of venturing out further than the land they controlled, except in swift raids. There was still a danger of encountering their opponents' scouts, but the Elves, who were taking care of most of their own scouting, had not yet spotted any ruffians and reported that the land lay quiet. They were making good speed, though Halbarad had to take care to not let the riders get ahead. He had few enough men that he did not want to split his force.

As they were an hour or so into the third day of their march, a scout returned to the main group at some speed. Though the man signalled that there was no immediate danger, Halbarad's hand had strayed to Andúril almost without thought, and he noted that many of the others also checked their weapons. Good, he thought. They will be sharp for battle when we do find the ruffians.

"Captain, I found tracks about three miles or so ahead," the scout reported.

"How recent?"

"A few days at most."

"Ruffians?"

"Likely, but I only followed the trail for a short distance."

The Rangers had halted while Halbarad talked with the scout, and as Marach came over to find out what was going on, Halbarad turned to him. "I will take a few men to investigate. If you set up camp a mile or so west of here, there is still cover before the land becomes more open; and send some patrols further ahead."

Marach said he knew the place Halbarad had in mind, and that he would see to the patrols. "Will you be gone long, Captain?"

"That depends on what we find."

Marach looked distinctly unhappy at the reply, but said nothing.

Apart from the scout, Urthel, Halbarad chose five more men to accompany him. As it was not far, they went on foot, running the first part of the distance. Once Urthel indicated that they were getting nearer the place where he had found the tracks, they slowed to a more cautious pace, following the scout's lead.

"Does anyone else smell burning?" Amlaith asked suddenly.

"Yes, but very faint," Halbarad said.

"The wind is turning. It is coming from ahead," Urthel added. "This is as far as I followed the trail."

They moved forward even more carefully now, and it was not too long before they were at the edge of a clearing, with a small house built into the hillside behind it, sheds and outbuildings scattered around it.

"Hobbits?" one Ranger asked. "This far from Bree?"

"Yes, they have a few farms around here," Urthel replied.

"Falassion, Urthel, hush," Halbarad said softly, but sharply. "We do not know if the place is empty."

Most of the outbuildings were at least partly burned, but as the house appeared undamaged, there might be survivors.

"Captain, come quickly!" one of the others, who had gone around the clearing slightly further, said urgently.

Edging closer to get a better look, Halbarad cursed under his breath as he saw the two arrow-pierced bodies lying close to the house; children, by the look of them. Vardamir was about to get up and break cover, but Halbarad held him back. "Take care. It may be a trap."

Vardamir halted reluctantly. "Shall I go round further to see if the area is clear?" Halbarad nodded and waved him off.

After the Rangers had made sure there were no ruffians in the vicinity, though Vardamir did find a trail heading away from the farm, they warily entered the clearing. Even if the only living thing to be seen outside was a lone chicken scratching about in the dirt, Halbarad tried to hold on to the hope that there might still be someone alive in the house.

Falassion now gestured for Halbarad to come over to one of the sheds. "I have found another of the hobbits," he said softly as Halbarad joined him. A small body was lying in the doorway.

Looking past the hobbit into the shed, Halbarad spotted another, larger unmoving shape in the dim interior, and stepped inside to look closer. With the blade from a broken scythe sticking from his chest, there was no doubt that the raider was dead.

"Dunlending," Falassion who had followed him, observed. "At least the little ones got one of the scum," he added with some satisfaction.

Reluctantly, Halbarad turned towards the house. "We should look inside as well," he said, as the others joined him.

The Rangers moved across the farm's inner yard to the house, and Halbarad went over to where the children were lying. As he had feared, they were dead; two boys, no older than about ten or twelve as far as he could tell. Heavy-hearted, he got up and led his men into the house.

Once inside, they split up to search quicker. Halbarad headed towards the kitchen with Urthel, moving in an awkward half-crouch to accommodate the low ceiling. Just as he discovered another dead ruffian in the kitchen, Amlaith, his face pale as death, came through from where Halbarad thought the sitting-room would be. "We found the family, Captain, all dead; gutted or their throats cut," he announced. As he spoke, he already turned around to the sink, and barely made it before he started retching.

It was close to nightfall by the time they were done burying the hobbits. Though he would have preferred leaving the ruffians to rot where they lay, Halbarad had ordered a pit dug for them as well. Leaving them as carrion was likely to attract wolves or bears, and this place was too near Bree to risk that.

Halbarad considered going back to the Rangers' camp, but he was certain that they were less than a day behind the remaining four or five ruffians; they should at least try to find their first camp before sending a patrol after them. His men agreed, and so he led a grim-faced patrol further along the trail the raiders had left behind. The ruffians were not light-footed, and their passage was easy to follow by the pale light of the Moon. They were also heading away from the Bree-land. Had they known the Rangers were approaching and had they tried to take what they must have thought would be easy pickings from the hobbits before fleeing?

Suddenly Halbarad could see the faint flicker of flames through the trees, at the same time that Urthel raised his hand.

"Campfire," the scout whispered. "I will try to get closer, and see if they have a sentry."

The others waited quietly for Urthel's return, though it was some time before he came back. "Four men, no one on guard," he said softly. "We can take them easily."

Afterwards, Halbarad thought that it had barely been a fight. Three of their opponents died before they even woke up, and though the fourth had stirred at the sound of the attack, Halbarad killed him before he could reach for a weapon.

He had considered taking a prisoner for questioning about the ruffians' position and numbers, but he doubted that they would have heard the truth before their own scouts found out the same information.

The sun had already risen by the time they returned to the Rangers' camp, and Halbarad joined Marach, the Elven captain and the seconds of the other companies with them to look at what their scouts and patrols had reported. Above all, it was clear the ruffians had fallen back at the approach of the Rangers. The other patrols had also found recently attacked farms; the Elves had been nearest to Bree, and Hithaeron reported that the ruffians' main position seemed to be close to the West-gate of the village, with smaller fortifications blocking the other gates. He confirmed that there were many half-Orcs among the ruffians. Another patrol, led by Elatan, had gone into the Chetwood to find out the situation around Archet. Elatan had also sent out men to the Rangers already in position around the Bree-land.

"We must not wait much longer," Marach said. "The longer we wait, the worse it will be for the villagers."

At least now that Marach knew he had his Captain's backing, he was quick to action, Halbarad thought. "We will advance tomorrow," he confirmed.

The next morning, Halbarad studied the makeshift fortifications the ruffians had put up. A frontal assault would be unwise, but while the barriers protected the ruffians, they also kept them in one place; and as Hithaeron pointed out with a rather feral smile on his face, they had reckoned without the reach of Elvish bows.

To Halbarad's relief, there had finally been a messenger from Daeron. The Tharbad company and the Sarn Ford men had been delayed by having to root out a small group of ruffians who had tried to set up an ambush near the Andrath. Daeron thought they would reach Bree that evening or early the next day.

Some thirty or so ruffians were holed up in the woods near Archet, and Halbarad sent half a company of Rangers, along with a few of the Elves, to safeguard the village and to stop the ruffians there from further raids.

The houses of Bree looked unharmed, though there was damage to dike and hedge near the gates. There were villagers up on the dike, keeping a close eye on both ruffians and Rangers.

"What do you have in mind now?" Elatan asked. "Attack?"

"Not yet. They are still too many, and as long as they hold their barriers, it would cost us to break through. We pick off as many as we can, and starve them out." With only what the ruffians had taken from the farms around Bree in their camp, it should not take long. More importantly, it was unlikely they had enough water to last them more than a day or two.

Over the next few days, the Rangers and the Elves made certain the ruffians could not stray far from their camp. Though they did try to break out several times, Halbarad suspected the attempts were mostly to test the strength of the Rangers' cordon. Yet he could not rule out that some ruffians had slipped away through the trees to join the ones near the other villages, or to escape completely.

In the grey pre-dawn light of the third day of the siege, Halbarad was pacing restlessly. Something had woken him up, but he could not work out what it was. All he knew was that he should go and take a look at the ruffians' camp. But first... he wondered as his hand brushed against the pouch that held Aragorn's star. Yes, it is time.

As he looked at the brooch gleaming palely in the dim light, Halbarad remembered the day Aragorn had received it from Dírhael. It had also been the day he himself had received his own star, the youngest to do so for many years, and the first to take it from Aragorn's hand. Aragorn's star had belonged to Arathorn before him, but not to Arador, whose star had been lost with him in the Wild.

Halbarad briefly let his hand linger as he pinned the star on his shoulder. There, I look like a proper Ranger again, he thought with a grim smile, even if the days that that is all I am are gone. The feeling that had woken him up was still there, though: I really ought to go look at the ruffians' barricades.

The Rangers' camp was still mostly quiet as he walked down to where the sentry nearest the village was standing, but the first men were starting to wake up and one or two were already up and about. Maethor acknowledged Halbarad with a nod when he joined him at the sentry post; then his gaze passed over the star, and he gave him a searching look.

Halbarad looked towards where the ruffians were; at first their camp seemed quiet too, as it should be at this hour of the morning, but then he saw that men were moving about inside. Maethor also noticed. "Captain? Shall I raise the alarm?" he asked.

"No, not yet. I do not think they intend to break out. They are all watching Bree."

"An attack on the village?"

"Yes," Halbarad said. That had to be the ruffians' intention, but when? While tradition favoured early morning for surprise attacks, it did not look as if they were about to attack immediately. A plan was starting to form in his mind. If the ruffians held off a while longer... "Keep an eye on them. I will rouse the camp, and send some more men over here. If they stir beyond their barricade, sound the alarm immediately."

Throughout the morning, Rangers moved into positions closer to the ruffians' camp. From their opponents' lack of reaction, Halbarad was certain the ruffians were so intent on their own plan that they had no attention to spare for the danger at their back.

In the afternoon, the ruffians began to leave cover and head closer to the West-gate. Halbarad signalled the Rangers to move in closer also, and settled back again to wait until most of the ruffians were in the open. He had a good overview from the spot he had chosen, near the gate and within sight of many of his men. It could not be long now.

Wait... what is that? He could not see what was going on, but there suddenly was a commotion inside the village gate. At the same time, shouts went up from the ruffians, and they rushed towards the gate.

"Now!" Halbarad shouted as he raised Andúril high, the light reflecting off the blade with a sudden flash, and leapt forward from where he had lain in hiding.

The ruffians swiftly found themselves caught between the Rangers and Bree's defences. Some tried to scale the dike around the village, but the first few fell to the Elves and the archers among the Rangers, with the rest kept at bay by the defenders of the village.

Though the ruffians fought boldly, it was not long before Halbarad knew the battle was going his way. Not that it was done; their opponents now attempted to regroup after the first confusion, but as long as the Rangers held steady and kept the ruffians back, the battle was theirs. By the end of the afternoon, there were only a few small groups of ruffians still offering resistance, though they proved fierce opponents.

This one is certainly dangerous, Halbarad thought as he observed his latest adversary. Unlike many of the ruffians he did not wield his sword as if it were a cudgel, but appeared to know how to use a blade. Halbarad had already had to parry several strikes, rather than ending the fight in one, perhaps two exchanges. He did have the measure of his opponent, and waited for the other to make his next move. Now! There it was. The ruffian stepped forward, feinting first left, then right, finally committing to the left as Halbarad moved aside to bring him off-balance, letting what was intended as a killing blow slide harmlessly off Andúril. The ruffian recovered quicker than Halbarad expected, and caught him with a glancing hit on his leg, just before Halbarad finished his own move with a swing that cut deep into his opponent's throat.

Halbarad stepped away from the sudden spray of blood as the ruffian went down and looked around to see how the fight was going. Only a few of their enemies were still standing and it was not long until the last of these were also slain.

At last, Halbarad thought. He quickly wiped the worst of the day's gore off Andúril before sheathing it. As he did so, he noticed that the cut on his leg was still bleeding. He had thought it no more than a nick when it happened, but with the rush of battle fading, he was acutely aware of it, as well as of the various smaller cuts and bruises he had collected in the course of the afternoon. The wound did not appear to be deep, but it would require some attention, and he had best see to that first. On his way to the queue for the healers, he directed Elatan and Marach to make a start on tearing down the ruffians' fortifications.

"What have you done to yourself this time?" the healer asked as he sat down.

"Ciriondil..." Halbarad started with an exasperated sigh.

"Was the blade poisoned?" Ciriondil went on, examining and cleaning the wound as he spoke.

"I hardly stopped to ask," Halbarad replied, biting back a curse as the other used the distraction of their conversation to jab a needle into his leg for the first stitch; he had forgotten about that trick of Ciriondil's. "But I doubt it; this was a regular Dunlending, not one of the half-Orcs."

"Looks clean enough," Ciriondil agreed as he continued working. "See me again tomorrow morning, and take it easy for a few days. No riding, no fighting."

Yes, mother, Halbarad thought, but wisely said nothing. Ciriondil knew his business, and while he could be relied on not to return men to duty too soon, he did not coddle them unnecessarily either.

Once the healer was done with him, Halbarad called over Marach and turned towards Bree. Hithaeron also came with them.

"Hail the gate!" Marach called out as they neared the village. The three kept a respectful distance until someone climbed up to the roof of the gate lodge and indicated that they could come closer. Halbarad could see several hobbits among the villagers close to the gate holding bows trained on them as they came nearer.

Soon the gate opened and a group of about twenty men of Bree – some armed with swords or spears, but most wielding pitchforks and scythes; and was that Butterbur clutching a hatchet? – approached cautiously.

"Is this wise?" Hithaeron whispered at the sight of the armed villagers coming towards them.

The Elf was as tense as the villagers, Halbarad realised; likely enough that among Men he had only ever had dealings with Rangers, and was now feeling out of his depth. "Just remain calm," he replied just as softly, hoping he was right in his reassurances. "They are wary of us, but it will not come to violence."

There was some discussion among the Bree-landers who had ventured out, but finally the mayor took another few steps forward, with Butterbur and two others alongside.

"Greetings, Master Rushlight," Halbarad spoke to the mayor, who still appeared wary and somewhat hesitant about how to approach them. "The ruffians have been defeated. Bree shall be safe again."

"And will your lot be taking the place of those other bandits in front of our gate to 'protect' that safety?" Cadman Crackwillow, the village's smith, started with a sneer before the mayor had a chance to speak.

Before Halbarad could respond, the smith was hushed by his companions. Well, Crackwillow was a hothead, and he had never made a secret of his opinion of Rangers, though he had not objected to taking their coin for his work either. Perhaps he should have brought Hunthor along, Halbarad thought. It would certainly have shaken the smith to know he had kin among those he so despised.

The mayor seemed to have found the courage to speak – probably because none of the Rangers had struck down the smith for his words, Halbarad thought – and said, "We are of course grateful for your help in getting rid of these villains, and will be glad to repay you for your effort."

"We do not require reward for our work," Halbarad replied sharply.

"Then it appears we may have been wrong about you," the mayor went on smoothly, not hiding his relief that no recompense was demanded, though the smith still looked sceptical. Next, the mayor asked, with a broad gesture at the Rangers behind Halbarad, "Is this what you Rangers have always done?"

Halbarad nodded slowly, suddenly reluctant to speak. The secret of the Rangers' task had been kept for a thousand years, though from how quickly the mayor had reached the right conclusion he wondered if it had ever been wholly a secret. But it was done, and he could only hope his judgement that it had been necessary was right.

Now Halbarad noticed Butterbur looking at him more closely. "Hey, did you not come into the Pony with that Strider at times?" the innkeeper asked. "We have not seen him around for a while, not since he went off with that group of Shire hobbits last year. Odd business that, and just before the troubles started, too. I wonder what happened to any of them."

"Strider is dead," Halbarad interrupted gruffly.

"Sorry to hear it. He was a decent enough sort for a Ranger. Always had a good tale if he was feeling talkative. Not that he could not be more than a bit... ah... intimidating... at... at times," Butterbur said, his rush of words turning to a stammer under Halbarad's gaze.

And the tales he would tell in Bree were not even the half of it, Halbarad thought. Still, there were worse ways to be remembered, and Aragorn's willingness to entertain the common room with a tale or two had got them into the Pony more than once when the landlord would probably have preferred to refuse entry to such ragged vagabonds as they. Halbarad could scarcely put all blame for its scorn and suspicion on Bree, when the Rangers had themselves sought secrecy and disguise.

Late that evening, shivering as he quickly washed with water from a nearby brook, Halbarad thought that he ought to have demanded a hot bath as his reward from the villagers. Even so, it was a relief to get rid of the grime from the battle.

Earlier, Halbarad had joined Ciriondil and the other healer on their round of the camp to see the men; they had lost ten, and several of the wounded might not make it, the scout Urthel among them. He shook his head at that. It was not just losing good men, but this whole situation had already come close to costing the Rangers a full company. Nor were they done with the ruffians, as they would still need to hunt down the ones that had run.

The Rangers' camp was restless throughout the night, with the ruffians who had got away making several attempts to get at their supplies and horses. Around midnight there was a disturbance and noise from the village too, but that at least did not seem to be an attack; the Rangers who went over to investigate were told by the villagers on guard at the gate that it did not concern them.

The next morning, several patrols rode out to look for the ruffians that were still on the loose, and while Halbarad would have preferred to join them in their hunt, Ciriondil had repeated his ban on riding. And while his leg was painful this morning, he could get about without too much of a limp, but Halbarad had to admit some rest would not go amiss. Hopefully, he would not have to stay here too long. Marach and the other captains should be capable to deal with the aftermath, and the sooner he returned to Caras Dirnen and met with the Council, the better.

At least he had no captives to deal with. A few of their opponents had attempted to yield, but they had been slain by their own fellows before they could throw down their weapons. In a way, it was probably for the best. Having seen the carnage on the farms that had been attacked, Halbarad doubted he would have spared any of the ruffians, even had they surrendered.

These Dunlendings – especially with the half-Orcs among them – had hardly been hillfolk driven to raiding by a failed harvest or disease in their herds. Saruman may have misled them into following him at first, but they had continued on this path on their own. Halbarad wondered how many of the ones they fought here had already been granted mercy once by the Rohirrim after the attack on the Westfold and the Hornburg.

And that thought led to yet another thing that worried Halbarad. There was still much he would need to find out about Saruman's dealings in the North. He had heard from Aragorn there was pipeweed from the Shire in Isengard. How and where had that been brought across the river? Not at Tharbad, or the Rangers would have known about it. Was it merely coincidence that the wizard's followers had headed here, or had they known they would find either allies or easy pickings? Wizards, Halbarad cursed in thought. Could any of them be trusted? He was still unwilling to consider Gandalf too deeply, but Saruman too had seemed an ally for years.

Halbarad was distracted from his thoughts by Maethor approaching with some Bree-landers, who had come to help the Rangers in digging a pit to bury the dead ruffians. The Rangers who had fallen had already been laid to rest near the crossing of the Greenway and the East Road. One of the villagers said that the mayor wanted to speak with him and Halbarad replied he would come to the village later in the morning. First, he should speak to Daeron about clearing the remains of the bridge at Tharbad.

Daeron proved easy to find, and he was already waiting for Halbarad. "I have been thinking on what you said," he started. "Tharbad will be one of the first places under attack when the Enemy comes north."

Halbarad nodded. "That is my thought also. Tharbad and the mountain passes."

"Tharbad cannot hold long as it is now."

That judgement Halbarad could only agree with, but he waited to hear what Daeron had in mind.

"I would ask for more men if I thought that would help to hold the river crossing." Daeron smiled grimly as he went on. "No, I know you do not have enough men at hand. I have another idea. I do not know if it is doable or not, but if we can clear the ruins of the bridge from the water..." He stopped as he saw Halbarad's approving nod. "You had this in mind already?"

"Yes, and I am glad to find you in accord. After the Council, I will see to starting the work as soon as possible." It would not stop the Enemy crossing Greyflood, but it should slow him down if he had to build boats or a temporary bridge to get his armies across the river.

After speaking with Daeron, Halbarad sought Tavor and Marach to accompany him for the meeting with the Bree-landers. They were met at the gate by the mayor and the smith. Neither of the men of Bree said much as they walked through the village, and the Rangers followed in silence as well. Though the streets were empty, Halbarad spotted more than a few people watching warily from inside their houses.

They crossed the village's main square towards the road that led to the Pony. Halbarad glanced at the great oak tree that stood there, then looked closer. Was that... ? Yes, there were two bodies dangling from one of its branches. As the other Rangers stopped to look, the Bree-landers halted as well.

The smith spat on the ground before he spoke. "Ferny and Goatleaf. We caught them trying to open the gate to the ruffians. Turns out the filthy traitors were helping them all along. Got the truth out of them last night and gave them what they had coming." Crackwillow looked grimly pleased.

The hangings must have been the disturbance the Rangers had heard in the village during the night. Halbarad would have liked to question these two himself, but he understood the villagers' desire for swift justice.

"Helping them?" Marach asked. "In what way?"

"Telling them where the most prosperous farms were," the mayor replied. "Also when and where the village watch were going to be out trying to protect people."

"Taking their share of the spoils," the smith added grimly. "They got off easy for all they did."

As they reached the Prancing Pony, the mayor indicated that the Rangers should wait at the arch leading into the courtyard, while he himself led the smith to a spot a small distance away, just out of hearing. There appeared to be some disagreement between the two, with Crackwillow shaking his head in denial several times as the mayor spoke to him. Finally, the smith cast a glowering look at the Rangers before walking off to leave the mayor standing on his own.

The mayor looked as if he was about to say something upon rejoining the three Rangers, but settled for a shrug as he led them into the inn. Inside, he took Halbarad and his companions to one of the private rooms off the Common Room, where the group was joined by two hobbits, Porto Brockhouse, the mayor of Staddle, and Will Sandheaver, a farmer, also from Staddle. Butterbur sat down with them as well, closing the door before he did.

Glancing at the Bree-landers, Halbarad wondered if more than soothing them could come of this meeting. Even if they no longer faced the smith's surly mood, Butterbur's seemingly permanent look of stunned disbelief, and the mayor of Staddle who twitched and ducked his head every time he thought one of the Rangers was looking at him, made it clear the villagers were still wary of them. But perhaps no more was required now; he could not expect centuries of distrust among the villagers to disappear overnight.

Master Rushlight spoke first. "I would like to thank you and your men again for getting rid of those ruffians. The Bree-land would surely have been lost without your help."

The mayor of Staddle spoke as well, turning to Tavor, whom he seemed to find the least intimidating of the three Rangers. "But why do you do what you do, if, as you said, it is not for reward?"

Halbarad noted the nods of agreement from the other Bree-landers as the hobbit spoke. It surprised him that the question had not been asked before. He held back, curious what Tavor would say, taking the opportunity to surreptitiously rub at the cut on his leg.

"It is our duty," Tavor said, after casting a quick glance at Halbarad to see if he should reply or whether Halbarad preferred to do so himself.

"Duty? Like the King's Men used to do?" Master Brockhouse asked, eyes wide with wonder.

"That is what we are," Tavor replied laconically, to the hobbit's even greater amazement.

"Then there is still a King?" the hobbit went on.

Halbarad could not help flinching at the question. He noticed that, while the other Bree-landers were watching the exchange between Tavor and the hobbit, Butterbur had his eyes on him; the innkeeper looked away as soon as he saw that Halbarad was aware of his scrutiny.

"No," Tavor answered tersely, his tone forestalling further questions.

The Bree-landers mulled on this for a short while, until the second hobbit spoke, addressing the two mayors as much as the Rangers. "And what happens now? This talk of duty is admirable, but how do we know you will keep to your task, and that we will be able to work our land in peace?"

"That would be my question too," Master Rushlight said, turning to Halbarad. "Are we truly free of these ruffians?"

"Some are still at large," Halbarad replied, "But we will maintain our watch, and try to keep them from your lands." That much at least he could promise; how Bree would fare once the Enemy attacked was something he was glad he did not have to consider now. One battle at a time, he reminded himself.

The mayor looked troubled. "And that is all you intend for Bree? In all honesty, though you do have our deepest gratitude for your aid, all we want is to live our lives in peace, free from the fear of those ruffians, and free from interference by outsiders."

"I assure you again, Master Rushlight," Halbarad replied, trying to keep his irritation out of his voice, "We have no interest in the running of Bree, and will not interfere with you." Was there anything that would convince the villagers that the Rangers had no designs on the Bree-land? Perhaps he should have asked for reward; it seemed that the villagers would have understood that better than the truth. But no, the time for subterfuge was past. Meanwhile, he still had to deal with the mayor. In the first flush of victory, the man had been willing to accept his reassurances, but now he seemed to have turned as mistrustful as the smith.

To Halbarad's surprise it was not Master Rushlight who spoke next, but Butterbur who turned to address the mayor. "Robin, I expected it from Cadman, but you are being even more of an ass than he was. These Rangers have helped us out of a tight situation when they did not have to; some of them even died, and the least you could do is to show some proper gratitude, not act as if you do not trust them not to turn around and rob us themselves."

The mayor appeared taken aback at Butterbur's words, and though he gave a snort that matched his sceptical expression, his next words to Halbarad were conciliatory. "I can only admit that we have been wrong in the way we looked at you, and offer you my apologies, Master Halbarad. I know Bree has not always treated the Rangers very well, but we did not know that you were... well, had we known, we would have been more welcoming. I can promise you that there will be an end to your people being turned away from the village."

"I am glad to hear that, Master Rushlight," Halbarad replied. Welcome as the mayor's words were, Bree's prejudices would be slow to disappear, no matter what was said here. Harry Goatleaf had only been one in a long succession of gatekeepers who had not been welcoming to Rangers. It was as surprising as it was welcome to find Butterbur defending the Rangers.

Halbarad wondered how long-winded the mayor was going to be. With his wounded leg starting to pain him from sitting still for so long, he wanted to get up and pace and he had to be careful not to fidget. At least he was not the only one who was less than patient, he thought as he saw Will Sandheaver suppressing a yawn. The hobbit farmer caught his eye and looked away with an embarrassed grin.

As if Master Sandheaver's yawn had been a signal, Butterbur stood up and left the room. Halbarad could hear him speak softly to someone outside, but too low to be overheard. For one moment, his suspicion was aroused, and he tensed as he looked around the room. Marach and Tavor clearly had similar thoughts for, though neither moved except to watch Butterbur leave, Halbarad knew both were ready should they be attacked.

Butterbur was back almost immediately. "We will certainly need a reliable gatekeeper," he said. "Who would have believed Harry was betraying us all the while? Everyone knew he must have some funny business going on, him and Bill, buying up pipeweed and other things and selling them on to who knows where. We could all see that they were both doing better than they should have been, but betraying their own folk all that time?" The innkeeper shook his head as the other Bree-landers voiced their agreement, and with nothing untoward happening, Halbarad forced himself to relax again.

"Speaking of pipeweed," Will Sandheaver said, "We will be lucky not to lose this year's harvest, unless the weather stays dry. Many of the plants have already come down with the rot, and they are barely above the ground."

Tavor looked openly worried at that news, and Halbarad tried to remember how long it had been since he had last been able to sit down for a smoke. Oh, of course, the Hornburg on the way south; that was where he had run out of pipeweed. All the same, he was not too concerned with pipeweed – it was a luxury and they could do without if they had to, but if other crops failed, not only would there be hunger in the North, it would also mean that he would not be able to send anything to Gondor should they need it.

'Who will come to trade for pipeweed, even if it does grow?" Butterbur complained, disturbing Halbarad's line of thought. "There has hardly been any traffic through Bree this spring, and if that does not improve, it will be a lean year, even if the harvest turns out good. My business is already slow, and not even the Dwarves are travelling." He watched Halbarad expectantly.

"I can hardly conjure up Dwarves or other travellers," Halbarad replied, sharper than he had intended. He could scarcely say now that it was likely there would be traffic going south as soon as Gondor... There was no reassurance in that, and any benefit Bree would have from such trade would be short-lived. Before he could say aught else, there was a knock on the door, and all three Rangers tensed, ready to draw sword or knife.

Butterbur stood up to open the door. Two of the Prancing Pony's serving men entered to set out a somewhat belated midday meal. Halbarad could only smile at the exclamations of delight from both hobbits; still, the meal was indeed welcome, as was the mug of ale served with it. One other thing is certain as well, he admitted ruefully to himself; it is not just the Bree-landers who are more distrustful than they perhaps ought to be.

Chapter Text

May 1, 3019

Elrond picked up a book from Aragorn's desk, then put it down again as he heard footsteps approach and stop. Arwen. He too had hesitated before he could bring himself to enter his son's chambers, but Elrond could only guess at what it cost his daughter to step across the threshold.

To his relief she did not hesitate to meet his embrace when she did come in, and he held her for several heartbeats before she stepped away and went into the bedchamber. His asking her for help sorting out Aragorn's possessions was just an excuse to bring them together so they might talk. Though Arwen had agreed to meet him here today, she was still reluctant to speak; and in all honesty, so was he.

Before today he had faltered every time before he could say anything. Elrond felt a stab of resentment that even in death Aragorn stood between him and his daughter, but he put it aside as he recognised it. Aragorn had truly been as a third son to him, and he would not let himself be ruled by such pettiness. Yet he could not allow himself to be merely a grieving father. He had to consider his living children as well as the one lost to him. Elladan and Elrohir would not sail while there was still a battle to be fought, but Arwen... her at least, while the road to the Havens was still open, he could protect from the bitter conflict that was coming.

Elrond turned back to the desk, and with a sigh picked up another book. There should be, if not comfort, at least distraction in these pages, and he leafed through the history of Arnor that he found himself holding. Yet his thoughts were on their situation rather than on the book in his hands.

It had been mere chance that he did not have Vilya on his hand when Sauron took the One, and he hesitated to think how close he had been to being laid bare to the Enemy. He no longer could use Vilya to protect Rivendell from Sauron's gaze, yet not all the defences of the Valley depended on his Ring; they were still not fully revealed. Even so, after the Ringwraiths had chased the Ringbearer almost to his doorstep, the Enemy had to know that he was one of the Keepers of the Three. Elrond wondered how Galadriel had fared; though Nenya's disposition was likely known to the Enemy, she might have had some warning from her Mirror. Alas that Gandalf's wisdom, or his luck, had failed him, and alas also for what might still come of that failure. Elrond wished yet again that his sons would return soon; not only would they have news from Lothlórien, they should also be able to tell him more about Gandalf than Halbarad had.

There still was time before the Enemy could assail the North; yet while that delay gave them some chance to prepare, Elrond saw little hope for even a stand-off, let alone victory. The Enemy was not invincible – his defeat against the Last Alliance had come while the One Ring was in his possession – but they had not even a tithe of the numbers they had then, and thus no way to take the fight to Sauron. Wherever they stood, the end would be the same; and already some were calling to leave, to set sail and abandon Rivendell, and Middle-earth.

Elrond wished he could deny the draw of that path – to see Celebrían again, not see all his life's work shattered, not see the last of Elros' blood in the North destroyed; but to abandon the battle before the end and turn his back on those who could not flee West? He shook his head. He would not stop any Elves who wished to go from leaving, but his own decision must be delayed until his sons returned from Lothlórien; nor could he escape the feeling that his road West led through Mandos' Halls.

With a grimace, he made another attempt at finding distraction in the book he held. He found himself re-reading the same passage several times without comprehension, and he was about to put the book down when Arwen returned from the other chamber. Halting his movement, Elrond watched her surreptitiously as she too studied Aragorn's books. She took down several from the shelf next to the desk, stacking them, then picked up and opened the top one; Elrond recognised the copy of Aranarth's diary that Elladan had once in jest called the Chieftains' notebook; and indeed all Chieftains had added to what Aranarth had written. Arahael and Aranuir had started it, and it had quickly become a tradition.

"Halbarad might like this," Arwen said suddenly.

Halbarad? Oh, of course, Aragorn's notes. When Elrond did not respond, Arwen repeated her words, and he at last answered. "Yes, I think he might. Remember to have another copy made before you send it."

Arwen nodded in agreement, and Elrond finally closed and put down the book he still had in his hands. It was time to speak. It will be mercy to send her away from here, away from…

"Arwen, I can no longer shield Rivendell from the gaze of the Enemy, and I would have you leave while the Havens can still be reached. If you depart on the morrow, there will be a ship waiting to take you West."

"No." She did not say more, nor could he read her gaze.

Elrond continued his plea, "Arwen, please. In the end, Rivendell will fall, and it would ease me to know that you at least are dwelling in safety."

"Safety? Think you that matters to me? I made my choice."

"He is dead."

"And I will follow him. Mine is the choice of Lúthien."

"Arwen, you are not her, and your fate need not be hers." You have another choice.

"No, indeed, nor can it be, for Mandos' heart will not soften a second time, and my Beren will not be returned to me." She took a deep breath and took his hands in hers. A shiver ran down Elrond's back as he looked at her face. "Fear not, Father, I will not leave without bidding thee farewell."

"There is solace to be found in memory, and in the West there may be healing for even this grief. Let him live on in memory everlasting. I beseech you, think about this." He closed his eyes as he realised how empty his words sounded even to himself. Arwen snorted and pulled her hands away. He heard her steps as she crossed the floor, leaving him alone. She will leave you one way or another.

"Memory everlasting? The green hills of Tol Eressëa would be less welcome to me than the ashy waste of Gorgoroth. There is nothing in the West for me, Father, nothing but grief and regret everlasting."

"Arwen..." he attempted to speak again, opening his eyes, but she interrupted him from the window where she now stood looking out.

"Do not seek to dissuade me, Father. It was your Quest and your conditions that sent Estel to his death!"

He flinched at her anger, her words cutting deeply, but his own ire rose as he replied. "Is that what you believe, my daughter? That I sent him to his death? Deliberately? One whom I love as my own, who grew up in my house, who called me father? Knowingly dooming Middle-earth at the same time?"

"Father, no!" For a moment, Arwen stared at him in shock, then rushed towards him. "I did not mean..."

Returning his daughter's embrace and murmuring soft words of comfort almost without thinking, Elrond still could not let go of her words. Surely she but spoke in grief, and yet… He wondered, as he had done too often since learning that the Enemy had regained the One, not about his motivations, but about his actions. Had he done enough over the years to prepare Aragorn for his purpose, or was there yet more he could have done? Had he asked too much of his son? Could anyone have succeeded with the odds of the Quest against him? Though not by design, had he in fact sent Aragorn on a journey that had been doomed to fail from the beginning?

At the time they decided to send off the Ringbearer with only eight companions, all had thought it the best course, and the risk worth taking, even Gandalf. Aragorn too had known that the Quest was a gamble, and a desperate one at that; yet Elrond knew that had the Quest been successful, his son would have counted his life a small price to pay for bringing down Sauron. Could the Council have done aught else, aught that might have given them a better chance?

Elrond recalled what he had told his son so long ago, what foresight had shown him. A great doom awaits you, either to rise above the height of all your fathers since the days of Elendil, or to fall into darkness with all that is left of your kin. Aragorn had seen much the same himself. Bitter were now the dregs of foresight, and Elrond feared that he had not yet reached the bottom of that draught.

They stood for a long time, neither speaking nor moving, until Arwen stepped away and with a wan smile suggested that it might be better if they continued their work another time. Elrond watched as she left, and with a sigh sat down at Aragorn's desk. Was there any argument that could yet persuade Arwen to go West? Or was he wrong to try to make her leave? Should he accept her Choice, even now?

~*~

Oh, Father… Arwen set down the books she had brought with her on a side table, then quickly went back to close the door. She leant against the wall letting out a shuddering breath before she walked back to the table; it was easier to consider the books she had chosen as remembrances than to face her thoughts again.

The first book had been the easiest choice. At times over the last few years Bilbo had spent some effort studying Adûnaic; he would like the book of Númenorean poetry she had set apart for him as a remembrance of his friend. She briefly bowed her head in pity; the old Hobbit mourned not only for Estel, but he was also berating himself in guilt and grief over poor Frodo. She should give this to him soon; it might distract him a little.

Then Aranarth's diary… She opened it on the page with the map of the Angle. There was a list of notes written in the margin in Argonui's tiny, neat hand, followed by one by Estel, ‘Ancient Hobbit holes near Caras Dirnen!' She was certain he would have told Bilbo, and wondered what the Hobbit had said. Perhaps she should ask when she gave him the other book. She would also have to see to having a copy made before she could send this book to Halbarad. In truth, it was a paltry gift, but there was naught that would do Halbarad's friendship – or his steadfast service to his Chieftain – justice.

She truly hoped Halbarad would not take the gift amiss, that he would not think she was attempting to apologise further for her angry words to him. It had taken so long before he had approved wholly of the betrothal, and of her. Estel had told her how glad his kinsman had been for him when he first heard of it, yet when he had learned of her father's conditions... Though Estel had not told her much beyond that, she knew there had been harsh words spoken even between these two. In time, though, Halbarad had become her staunchest ally in the Angle, as well as a dear friend. Putting down the book, she remembered his long-ago gruff avowal to her that, since he was unable to dissuade either her or his love-struck fool kinsman from their course, he had better make sure that Aragorn won his kingdoms. Apart from her brothers, she would have entrusted the standard she had made for Estel to no other.

The standard… the standard that had become Estel's shroud. For all her pride in her skill and the care with which she had woven her blessing into the cloth, that was all that her work, and her love, had come to; ashes on the wind, as fleeting as breath, as fleeting as Mortal life.

Arwen's breath caught as she looked at the copy of the Lay of Leithian that she had made for Estel. More of my work. Slowly, reluctantly, she picked it up and walked to the balcony.

She could not bear to open the book, instead clutching it in her hands as she gazed into the distance. She had spoken with such certainty to reject the West. It was not true that Elvenhome held nothing for her – her mother was there, yet she could not desert Estel even for Celebrían's sake. You are the one who should go West, Father. You will find your heart's desire there. I will not.

All too easily she could see herself, drifting through endless days, living only in her memories, an unfaded ghost amidst the bliss of Elvenhome, remembering to eat only because food was placed in front of her, remembering to speak only because she was spoken to. Already all that remained her was memory.

And though Elvish memory be almost as vivid as the living day, yet it was still no more than an image. Memory would never be the times they had sat together in the Hall of Fire talking, walked along the waterfalls or rode in the valley's forests, few as the opportunities for any of these had been. Memory would never be his voice, the light in his eyes, the way his smile lit up his whole face when their eyes met. Memory could not be him, his hands, his lips, his embrace.

Memory would never be enough, for it was not Estel. She had wanted – still wanted – all of him, body and soul both, as much as he had desired all of her, and she would rather be with him in the Halls of Waiting and beyond than have naught but memory in Elvenhome. Had Estel asked it, she thought, she would have wedded him in defiance of her father's wishes, as was her right. Yet, for given word and for the love he bore his foster-father, he had never asked.

Even so, though they were not truly bonded – how could they be, when they had never lain together? – all the years of their betrothal she had felt him in her mind, always knowing where he was and whether he was well, and he had also felt her presence.

She abruptly turned and went back inside. For all her awareness of Estel, she had not even felt his dea… No, had I been able to admit it to myself, I could have... did know that Estel was dead even before Halbarad confirmed it. Had her unwillingness, her fear to face the truth, denied her love a last comforting touch, no matter how fleeting, as he lay dying? He had cried out to her in pain and despair, and she had not responded, had told herself that it was her imagination, that he was well; he had to be.

Arwen had not tried to find him in thought after that day, even before she had heard of his death. Slowly, expecting to find only cold and emptiness, she now reached for the place where he had been. She almost stumbled as she felt… it was barely more than an echo, so faint was his presence, but he was there. Has he then not yet left the Circles of the World? Was he waiting for her? Estel, Estel! But whether he heard, she could not tell.  

Chapter Text

May 13, 3019

Every morning, Denethor walked to the river, and every morning he told himself he did so not to watch for the return of his son's patrol as the people of Pelargir thought; the walk merely helped to settle his mind before the day's work. In truth, the strain of waiting for the Enemy's next move was starting to tell on him, and this day too would be busy – not that they could do more than talk and plan and wait.

Denethor remained standing on the quay for a while to watch the sun rise. It would be another warm day for the time of year, but at this time of morning it was still pleasantly cool. He missed the cooler clime of Minas Tirith, and he missed watching the first light of the day touch Mindolluin's white flank. Sunrise over Anduin, no matter how fair, was only a poor second to that. How long had it been since he had spent this much time in Pelargir? He frowned; it must have been the year of Thorongil's attack on Umbar.

Umbar... Denethor's frown deepened as he looked at the captured Corsair ships moored nearby. Pelargir was too vulnerable. Why did the Enemy not attempt to push them back further? Even if Umbar was out of the reckoning at the moment, an attack across the river with small boats would be hard to stop.

It still puzzled him that they had not been pursued as they fled Minas Tirith. He could not believe that their escape had gone unnoticed, but there had not been as much as a token attempt at pursuit, and so far the Enemy's troops had not stirred beyond the Pelennor. Did Sauron think the defenders of Minas Tirith beneath his notice now the City itself was his? Though the Steward's pride bristled at that thought, he was at the same time glad of the reprieve. Had the Enemy pushed on immediately, Lossarnach would have been lost for certain, and much of Lebennin as well. Now, with one of Angbor of Lamedon's companies stationed at the Erui, they would at least have warning once Sauron advanced again.

It might well be that the Mouth of Sauron had needed time to establish himself in Minas Tirith and could not spare the troops to come after them. Denethor doubted that the Nazgûl's underlings had meekly accepted another master placed over them, and he regretted that he was in no position to profit from any infighting. Sauron's losses before the City had been severe, even in victory, and Denethor was grimly proud of the accounting Minas Tirith had given of herself. Still, Sauron had time enough, and with his Ring back in his grasp, it mattered little whether he made his next move now or in five years' time. Or fifty, Denethor added darkly. Their enemy could afford to bide his time. Even so, Gondor had the strength to stand in resistance for some time yet.

Scowling, Denethor turned away from the river to return to the castle. Despite the hour, the city was already bustling; to the casual eye, there was little out of the ordinary to be seen, but he knew Pelargir well enough to note the tense, fearful atmosphere underneath the appearance of normality. He was far from the only one who wondered when the Enemy would continue his attack on Gondor.

Walking along the narrow streets of the city, Denethor also noticed the sidelong looks he was given by some. He did not have to guess what those were about; he was well aware of the rumours and whispers that were circulating among the Minas Tirith courtiers and minor lords.

Even if it sorely tested his patience, the Steward would not complain that the Enemy held back, but it did leave the displaced nobles of the City cooped up together at Pelargir with too much time on their hands, time most seemed set on spending in intrigue and speculation. At least for now, he might as well leave them to their pastime. As long as they merely talked, it kept them occupied, and served to reveal to him hidden tensions and dissatisfactions among the lords of the land.

He should still not let the talk go too far, not after it had been suggested that his judgement was no longer to be trusted, that he had lost his mind in his grief over the fall of Minas Tirith. Others, more ominously, argued he must have been slipping much longer. After all, had he not been too late in preparing for attack from the East? Should he not have anticipated last summer's attack on Osgiliath? Had he not sacrificed his eldest son in some unexplained mission to the wild north when Boromir had been sorely needed in Gondor? One thing almost all seemed to agree on, Denethor thought as he entered the castle gate, was that he had either been taken by some madness or had finally entered his dotage when he placed the crown of Gondor on the pyre with the mysterious Northerner who claimed descent from Elendil.

A few of the lords might even wish for open rebellion, but with both Angbor and Imrahil keeping their distance from the dissatisfied nobles, they remained without leader or purpose. Still, even if Angbor – the only one of the southern lords to do so – had marched to aid Minas Tirith as soon as the threat to the southern provinces had been removed, he had done so at the behest of Isildur's Heir; he had also been more than willing to help the Northerners after the fall of the City. Denethor suddenly wondered how much Angbor knew. He doubted the Lord of Lamedon knew of the Ring, but why then was he so eager to strengthen his ties to the North? And then there was Imrahil. He, too, had been quick to befriend the Northerners, and he did know their situation in full.

The Steward could only look at the squabbling and plotting lords with contempt. Did they not see, even if they did not know about the Ring, that the only one to profit if he let them tear apart Gondor would be Sauron? Still, Denethor also knew that he himself had at least partly caused their lack of trust, and he still did not fully understand his own motivation in acknowledging the validity of Aragorn's claim to the Kingship in Gondor in as admittedly dramatic a manner as he had when he placed the crown on the pyre with him. It had not been just expediency; if his sole reason had been self-interest, there would have been no need to go beyond recognising that the other was Isildur's Heir. That would have been enough to give validity to the scroll in which Aragorn ceded Arvedui's claim on Gondor.

In fact, despite his words at the last Council in Minas Tirith, it had been a long time since Denethor had doubted Thorongil's identity, not after the day he caught a glimpse of what could only have been the Ring of Barahir on a chain around his neck. He had suspected – nay, known – for over forty years who Thorongil was, or at least what he was, for his real name had always remained hidden. Not that Denethor had not tried to find out; he had traced him as far as the village of Bree on the old North Road, though he was certain that was not where Thorongil came from. Unfortunately, the few Northerners with any Dúnedain blood his men had been able to find were too wary of outsiders to speak to them of one of their own. He only stopped his investigations when he discovered that his own continued interest in Thorongil was leading the Enemy's agents in the North to also look for him.

There was yet one question he had never come close to answering. Why? Why had Isildur's Heir come to Minas Tirith in the guise of Thorongil and then not gone through with claiming the throne? Had he done so on his return from Umbar, it would have been his. Ecthelion could not have refused him at that time, whether he believed the claim or not. Yet Thorongil had done as he had, choosing to abandon Gondor, to disappear, in his moment of triumph, rather than press his advantage. Why had he abandoned those who would have welcomed him? Also, Denethor mistrusted Mithrandir's hand that had been so visible in it all. Even if Gondor had accepted a King of Isildur's line, what good was the return of the King if that King was himself ruled by the wizard standing behind his throne?

The final confirmation, even if he had not really needed it, had been that he was certain that the son of Elrond spoke the truth at the Council in Minas Tirith. That much he knew, even if both brothers had been otherwise unreadable to him. No, Aragorn might well have been Mithrandir's pawn, but he also was Isildur's – and Elendil's – Heir.

Resolutely, the Steward set aside his musings before they soured his mood even more than they already had. There was no point in any of this; Aragorn had been the last Heir, and there was no use in further speculating about what might have been. It was over and done with.

Entering the corridor that led to his rooms, Denethor nodded a greeting at the Halfling standing outside his door, adding, "You can have my meal sent in now." Despite his mood, he smiled as the Halfling hurried off; though his esquire performed all his duties well, anything involving food, even if not for himself, always made him put in an extra effort.

There was still some time before the first meeting of the day, and he could eat while reading any messages that might have come in. Before he could sit down, though, there was a knock on the door, and another Guard of the Citadel came in.

"My lord, Captain Faramir's patrol has been seen on the other side of the river. They should be here by the afternoon," the guard said.

At last, Denethor thought. "Do you have news yet of what they found?" he asked.

"No my lord, not yet, but they are not rushing, and the Captain is leading them. They are several men short, though."

"Have the Captain report to me as soon as he arrives." Denethor was curious what his son had found. There had been no further news after the message that the Crossings of Poros were held by a Variag garrison and that Faramir would be going north into Ithilien rather than attempting to cross Poros. Once he heard Faramir's report, Denethor could send out messengers to call a council in Pelargir.

As Denethor considered what news there might be from Ithilien, he was interrupted again, now by Peregrin Took.

"Master Indor sends his regrets that he will not be able to meet with you this morning, my lord," the Halfling said, handing him a note.

Denethor unfolded the note and read it. The Harbourmaster had apparently been struck by a fever and requested that their meeting be moved to another day. The Steward quickly penned his agreement, and waiting for the ink to dry, he asked Peregrin to bring him one of the ledgers from the locked chest in the corner of the room. He returned his attention to the other messages on his desk, and started replying to the ones that needed an answer, but he was soon disturbed by a gasp of surprise from his esquire. Annoyed, Denethor looked up.

The Halfling was still half-bent over the chest he had been rummaging in, and was staring in shock at the palantír. "You have one as well?"

As well? the Steward thought as he cursed his lack of care in letting the Halfling open that particular chest. He noticed his esquire avoided looking directly at the Stone and Denethor wondered where Peregrin might have seen a palantír before. Did Mithrandir have one? Which of the Stones would he have been able to get his hands on? One of the Northern ones, most likely. Although as far as he had been able to find out, those had all been lost long ago, and surely, if one had been kept in Rivendell, Aragorn would have had it along with the other surviving heirlooms of Arnor.

He should ask; the Halfling would stay silent rather than lie if he did not want to reveal something, and Denethor had found those silences easily interpretable the few times they had occurred. "You have seen one before?"

Peregrin looked down with a half ashamed, half fearful expression on his face. "Even looked in it, though I should not have."

"How did that happen? Surely you did not look by accident?" Denethor asked sternly. He already knew the Halfling had an insatiable curiosity about everything he encountered, but he needed to know this tale in full.

Peregrin shook his head, still looking down, and softly said, "No." Denethor was about to prompt him to continue, but then the Halfling looked up to meet his gaze and went on. "It was in Rohan, or rather in Isengard. The wizard..."

"Mithrandir?" Denethor interrupted, then checked himself; he ought to control his impatience and let the Halfling do the telling at his own pace.

"No, the other... umm... Saruman. Someone threw it from his tower trying to kill Gandalf. I picked up, but Gandalf took it. Later, I... sort of borrowed it from Gandalf and looked in it. Sauron..." He fell silent, and Denethor saw that he had gone pale, but then he swallowed a few times, and went on once more. "He saw me, and he sent a Ringwraith to come get me, because he thought I had the... the Ring." The Halfling was shivering now, and Denethor waited until he calmed down again.

"What happened then?"

"Gandalf took the Stone away from me, and he gave it to Strider, the Lord Aragorn I mean, to keep it safe, and because it was really his anyway, and not Saruman's. Then Gandalf took me to your city."

Denethor said nothing for some time, considering what he had just learned. So Aragorn had indeed had a palantír, even if not for long. Had he used it? He had certainly possessed both the strength and the right. Was that how he had known of the Enemy retaking the One Ring? What else had he seen? Had he been able to break the Stone from its attunement to the Ithil-stone? Denethor had not used the Anor-stone since before the siege of Minas Tirith. There had been no need; their situation could be seen plainly enough by looking from the walls of the City. And now, he would not chance it, not when he risked an encounter with Sauron; especially not now that the Enemy might have his hands on the Orthanc-stone as well. Or had Mithrandir taken it with him when he left Minas Tirith? Or...

"My lord?" Peregrin's anxious voice interrupted his thoughts. "I would not ever again want to look in those Stones now. I know they are too dangerous."

While the Steward did not doubt the Halfling's sincerity, he still gave him a long sharp look, wanting to make sure that any lingering curiosity was quelled. He was about to dismiss his esquire, but realised he might know what had happened to the palantír. "Do you know what happened to your friend's Seeing Stone?"

"I think his cousin has it, because he is now the Chieftain."

Denethor repressed his frustration at not knowing the details in the scroll Aragorn had made for the North. Not that he expected the palantíri to become of great significance, since even if they attempted using them only for communication between the two realms, their purpose of old, the danger of confronting Sauron would still be too great. "Are you certain of that? Mithrandir does not have it?"

Peregrin resolutely shook his head in denial, though he did not elaborate upon his gesture.

"Enough about the palantír, Master Peregrin. Now bring me those accounts," Denethor reminded the Halfling in a milder tone of voice. Even if he would not speak with the newly appointed Harbourmaster this morning on how Master Indor thought to deal with settling the last of the refugees from further north and repairing the remaining damage from the Corsairs' attack, he still needed to know how Pelargir was coping with handling so many extra people.

"Of course, my lord," his esquire responded after a brief pause. He quickly brought over the ledger, then at a gesture from Denethor stood aside waiting. The Steward first finished the messages he had been working on earlier, and handed his replies to the Halfling to deliver before he turned to the ledger.

Denethor soon found the numbers on the pages in front of him were not enough to keep him occupied. It would be some time yet before Faramir crossed the river, and he would not stoop to pacing to ease his impatience, so after walking over to the window to check the weather, he returned to his desk and with a sigh reapplied himself to his task.

At least most refugees had by now found a place either near Pelargir or elsewhere in the south. Still, too many of the women would not be rejoined by their menfolk, and it remained to be seen how many widows and orphans would require aid to make a living, provided the Enemy gave them enough time for such things to become urgent.

Messengers from Rohan had already confirmed that the inhabitants of Anórien who had fled into Rohan rather than going south, preferred to stay there. Anórien itself... it puzzled the Steward that it had not yet been taken by the Enemy, and he would have to hope that Rohan could defend it for some time. Letting the Rohirrim salvage what they could of the Anórien grain harvest would not cost him, and served to express Gondor's gratitude for Rohan's attempt to succour them. Regrettably, unless this year's harvest elsewhere in Gondor was extremely good, which was unlikely given the reports of damage to fields and farms in the southern fiefs, they would need at least some grain from the North; but Denethor had already resigned himself to that.

At last, there was a knock on the door and the guard on duty came in to announce Faramir. As he doubted his son had taken the time to refresh himself before coming to the castle, Denethor asked the guardsman to have food and wine brought. It was not long until a servant arrived with a tray; Faramir took a goblet of wine, then sat down in the chair Denethor indicated.

"Your report, Captain?" the Steward asked, once Faramir had taken a few sips of the wine.

Faramir quickly related the first part of the patrol up to reaching the Osgiliath Road. As he mentioned seeing the Morgul companies on the march, Denethor looked at him sharply. "Where did they go?" he asked.

"North," Faramir replied. "Beyond that, I do not know. They must have been heading for the Black Gate or even further, into Wilderland."

"Could they have been heading for Rohan?"

"I doubt it; even if the Enemy seeks to attack there from the north, he would go through Anórien also and come at them from two sides."

Denethor agreed; had Rohan been the Enemy's target, he would have heard of an attack by now. Alas that he dare not risk the palantír.

"Was there any sign that the Minas Tirith garrison will be reinforced soon?" the Steward asked.

"Not from what I saw," Faramir replied. "I think it likely that the troops camped in the Morgul Vale were intended for the north also."

Denethor nodded. His spies near Minas Tirith had not reported more troops coming in either. Perhaps... Could I muster enough men to retake Minas Tirith? It was a tempting thought, for he found the loss of his city hard to accept, both strategically and for knowing the heart of Gondor in the Enemy's hands. They might even have surprise working for them, since it was unlikely Sauron expected a counterattack.

Apparently, Faramir's thoughts had been running along similar lines, for his son now said, "My lord, ought we to try to reclaim Minas Tirith? Take the initiative back from the Enemy?"

"Only if we can also take Osgiliath and the crossing of Anduin."

Faramir grimaced as he set down the empty goblet, and got up to walk across the room to the window. He looked out for some time before he turned around to reply. "Then, no. The Enemy will not easily yield Osgiliath, even if we retake Minas Tirith, and there is little point in trying to hang on to the City if we do not also have control of the river crossing."

Shaking his head in frustration at having to let the Enemy keep the initiative, Denethor indicated that Faramir should continue his report on his patrol. He winced at the destruction of the statue at the Cross-roads; it was only a little thing, but it marked the Enemy's intent to have everything fully within his control.

"How much of Ithilien is still open?" Denethor asked now. "Could you reach Henneth Annûn to harry troops from there?"

"No. The Enemy is tightening his grip near the Cross-roads, and likely in North-Ithilien too," Faramir said. "The southern part is still mostly empty."

"And your losses?" the Steward asked his final question.

"Three. Good men all, who will be sorely missed," Faramir replied sadly. "Now if you will excuse me, my lord, I should go to inform their families of their deaths. Shall I join you again later today? I would know what has been happening here and elsewhere, too."

Denethor gave his agreement, then, despite his earlier resolve not to do so, took to pacing while he considered what he had learned from Faramir's report. If the Enemy was consolidating his position in Ithilien and sending troops north, he was clearly not playing his waiting game everywhere...

Chapter Text

May 17 – June 6, 3019

Celeborn watched as Galadriel put a group of her maidens through a sword drill as he sat in the shade of a tall tree on the edge of the practice field. What she could teach them now would hardly turn them into warriors – for that, it was too little, too late – but at least they would not be entirely defenceless against an armed opponent.

Elladan and Elrohir were not due yet for the sparring session they had agreed on, but Celeborn had come early to escape the busy surroundings of Caras Galadhon as people prepared for the next assault on Lothlórien; this might well be the only rest he would get for some time. He could hear his grandsons approaching now, arguing about their road home.

~*~

"We should consider going back through Rohan," Elladan said. "It may be weeks yet before even the Redhorn Pass is open."

Elrohir considered his brother's suggestion. Only in the years of the Long Winter and the Fell Winter had the Misty Mountain passes been this late to open. Those bleak years there had only been a few weeks at the height of summer that the Redhorn Pass had been traversable, and the High Pass had remained closed. It was not that bad yet, but Elladan was right. And they were needed at home as much as they were here. How long until Rivendell faced the Enemy's hordes as Lothlórien did now? Unspoken but always on their minds was that every day further reduced the hope that they might see Arwen again. Even so, they knew the dangers of travel in the Misty Mountains and to make the attempt too early would only bring them to a frozen death on some mountain path.

"Another week, maybe two; if there is no change then, we return south," Elrohir agreed. He did not want to go the long way around, even if most of their journey would be through friendly lands, but if the passes remained snowbound for much longer, there was no other choice. They had lost too much time already.

When Elrohir and Elladan arrived at the field, Celeborn was there already, and they joined him to watch Galadriel as she sparred with her maidens. Elrohir had seen his grandmother use a bow before – and suffered more than one defeat against her in contests – but he had never seen her wield a sword, even in practice, and he watched closely as he and Elladan sat down.

"Long has that sword hung idle on a wall, and long had it been our hope that it could remain thus," Celeborn said to him, "But I fear in the end all will need to take to arms in defence of Lothlórien, and there will be no final escape towards the Sea for us. To see that requires no great foresight." He distractedly plucked at some blades of grass. "I recall the day word of Finrod's death reached Menegroth. Had Gorthaur not already been defeated by Lúthien, I think she would have ridden to Tol-in-Gaurhoth to challenge him." Looking out over the field again and letting his gaze rest on Galadriel, Celeborn sighed. "The protection of Lothlórien weighs heavy on her now that she can no longer rely on the power of Nenya. She has yet the strength, but the effort is slowly wearing her down, and I fear for her. I fear the day that she will break under the demand."

There was nothing to say to that. Elrohir had only to look at Galadriel to know his grandfather was right. After some time, Celeborn stood up. "Come, let us find some practice blades."

While they crossed the field, a runner came up to speak to Celeborn. "My lord, a messenger from Orophin's patrol has arrived and wants to speak to you."

"Is that the patrol that crossed Anduin last week?" Elladan asked.

"Yes," Celeborn replied, "Though I had not expected to hear from them so soon."

The sparring session abandoned before it began, Elrohir followed along with Elladan as Celeborn turned back towards the waiting messenger. As he looked back, he saw Galadriel dismiss her maidens and also head towards the edge of the field.

~*~

"And you are certain these armies were going to Dol Guldur first?" Celeborn asked the messenger.

"As certain as we could be; and they will be there by now," was the reply. "We counted close to eight thousand, Men and Orcs both, and led by another of the Nazgûl."

"Then there are six there now," Galadriel said, as she belatedly sheathed the sword she had carried with her from the practice field. "It cannot be long before the next attack." Eight thousand; that was the largest force the Enemy had brought against them since March. Galadriel met her husband's worried glance. If all six Nazgûl crossed the river... she was not certain she would be able to defend Lothlórien against their entry. At the very least it would sorely test her. Still, even if the Wraiths were stronger than they had been, they were not invincible; the Elves had driven them off before, and Mithrandir had proven that they could still be defeated. Most importantly, he had not used his Ring in that confrontation and that steadied her confidence that her own strength would be sufficient. It also gave her some hope that the wizard might not be entirely lost.

Even so, there was still much to think about in Mithrandir's duel with the Nazgûl; while Khamûl had been the strongest user of magic after the Witch-king, he should still not have been so evenly matched with one of the Istari, not unless Mithrandir had been more weakened by not using Narya than he should have been. From what she had seen in the attacks on Lórien, she wondered how Khamûl could have gained enough strength; while the others were stronger now, two or three together should not be beyond her own strength to resist. Perhaps her surmise that the Enemy had in some way enhanced the Nazgûl's power, or even confronted Mithrandir directly through the Wraith, was correct; if so, at least that ability appeared to be limited by distance, for she had not felt Sauron's direct presence in the attacks on Lothlórien.

~*~

Neither Elladan nor Elrohir had said much since their aborted sword practice and the news of the Enemy's force approaching three days before, and Elrohir had not given Elladan's attempt at levity that morning – "At least we can postpone worrying about how we can best journey home" – more acknowledgement than an icy glare. He had been fully in agreement though when Elladan suggested that they join Celegir's patrol that was going out to Anduin to watch the arrival of Sauron's force.

As they sat gazing out from a flet overlooking the place where they expected their opponents to cross the river, Elrohir was glad he had agreed. They could not stop the troops from crossing, but this was still better than sitting behind the protection of Lothlórien's borders, waiting without even seeing what was coming.

Not that we can see them coming now, Elladan observed.

"True," Elrohir replied with a brief smile. "Not yet, but we will soon enough."

"Soon enough? Another day at least," Elladan countered.

"Before nightfall today," Elrohir said. "The Enemy's troops move quickly."

They fell silent again, returning to staring east at the darkness at the edge of sight beyond which lay Dol Guldur. The Sun was starting to sink low in the west behind them when a sharp whistle sounded from one of the Elves who had climbed up even higher in their tree. Try as he might, Elrohir saw naught yet, but Elladan had quickly gone up to join the lookout.

They are coming, Elladan confirmed. They are still far across the river.

How long until they are here? Elrohir asked.

"Midday tomorrow," Elladan replied as he returned to the flet. "Sooner if they march through the night."

Elrohir slept deeply that night, even if his dreams were filled with harsh cries and the sound of army upon army of Orcs marching past their flet. He was woken up the next morning by the Sun's first light. Elladan was already awake and stood gazing across the river together with Celegir. The Enemy's armies had set up camp about five miles across Anduin, Elrohir saw as he joined the other two.

"They are not Orcs alone," Elladan said. "Those banners on this side of the encampment are Mannish, from Rhûn I believe."

"I make it close to five thousand," Celegir added.

Elrohir nodded in agreement, as he tried to make out more details of the camp in the early morning mist that lay over the river. "A darkness hangs over their camp," he said at last.

"Nazgûl," Elladan confirmed. "And there is more than one."

"We should go back before they cross," Celegir said. "I will leave two men behind on watch."

They waited in silence until the enemy broke camp, then returned to the ground for the run back to Lothlórien. Even if the approaching troops were not overly bothered about their march being known, they would not let the scouting party escape if they saw them.

~*~

Celeborn stood looking out over the burned and battle-scarred plain that lay south of Celebrant, and shook his head. This land had been green as Lórien itself, but the fighting of the last few months had destroyed it, and a barren waste stretched for miles, with only charred trunks remaining of the scattered trees that had stood there.

Nearly five thousand, led by three of the Nazgûl, had marched on from Dol Guldur. A thousand had turned south towards the Wold, but that still left a sizable army. Would the Wraiths be strong enough to break through Galadriel's warding? She had thought not, and Celeborn could only hope that she was right. They had confronted the Nazgûl already in other attacks, and the Shadow of Dol Guldur was not unfamiliar to Lothlórien, yet the Wraiths were stronger than they had been before.

Have some confidence, his lady's thought now came. I did not speak rashly when I said our defences will hold.

Do not make Mithrandir's mistake, he cautioned her.

Using my Ring? She sounded almost amused.

No. Overconfidence. Our opponents did break through before.

Once. Briefly. But is not the physical defence of our borders yours? There was more than a hint of irritation in her answer.

Celeborn knew she had a point, but as he could already see the dust stirred by their enemies' approach, he did not reply; nor did he mention how weary she sounded. This was the largest attack they had faced since March. The last few attacks had been light, mere pinpricks, and the Ents had stopped them before they could reach Lothlórien or Rohan.

It should not be long before the enemy troops came into view. Celeborn cast a quick glance at the waiting defenders. All were ready, his grandsons standing with the first line of swordsmen.

There their opponents were, one of the Nazgûl on horseback leading them. The lesson that their flying beasts were no match for Elven bows had not been lost then, Celeborn thought. He looked back across his own lines to where a company of cavalry was waiting. They did not have many riders, but enough to counter the Nazgûl. His own horse was kept there as well, should he have need of it.

~*~

As Celeborn raised his hand to signal the archers, Galadriel surveyed the field. There was one Nazgûl close to the front, and while she could not sense the others, the scouts had reported that three had crossed Anduin. At first that had alarmed her; for the Wraiths to lose their aversion to water must mean that they had gained much more strength than she had thought. She had been relieved to find out that they had not used boats to cross, but two of their flying beasts, continuing on horseback once they were on this side of the river.

As she tried to sense where the other two Wraiths were, she felt a touch of darkness brush against the wards around Lothlórien. They must have split up; one to drive forward their own troops, the others to keep her occupied. She moved her attention to her attackers, but they withdrew immediately when she countered them, too quick for her to see where they were.

And thus it was the old stalemate yet again; she could only defend, not attack, for to do that would leave Lórien open. Before, the Enemy had been uncertain about her strength, and had not dared risk open confrontation. She was surprised that he did not even now, though to assume Sauron was doing more than biding his time would be dangerous.

~*~

The first day's fighting had been the worst, their foe's onslaught forcing them back nearly to Celebrant. After a week of constant battle both day and night to take back the ground that had been lost, Elrohir was so weary that he had barely made it up to the flet he and Elladan used. Elladan was yet out in the field, and would rest once Elrohir returned.

When Elrohir woke up, the first thing he noticed was that it was still light; then he heard someone knocking on the bottom of the flet, and a head popped up.

"Lord Celeborn asks that you return to the field immediately," the Elf said, disappearing again before Elrohir could even ask why he was being called back.

Elrohir's first thought was for his brother, but had anything happened to Elladan, he would have known even in his sleep. Had the enemy broken through their defences? It was unlikely; while the messenger had been in a hurry, he had not been too alarmed. With a sigh, Elrohir got up and made his way down. He would find out soon enough.

As Elrohir stepped off the boat that ferried him across Celebrant, he was directed to a small hill near the frontline, rather than to the tent that served as their headquarters. About ten Elves were standing there, and as Elrohir joined them, Elladan and Haldir made room for him. Elrohir cast a quick look at the trenches and other defences the enemy had already put in place in the short time since their arrival.

Celeborn turned to speak to him. "They are bringing in more troops from Dol Guldur."

"How many, and how long before they will be here?" Elrohir asked.

"Another thousand or so, and at least ten days," Celeborn replied.

"As I said, if we stop them at the river crossing..." Elladan said, apparently continuing a discussion that had been interrupted by Elrohir's arrival.

"We cannot and still leave enough defenders here," Haldir said.

"But we cannot afford to let our enemies already here be reinforced either, or we will never dislodge them," Elladan replied.

"If the Ents are willing to help, we can do both" Celeborn interrupted. "We must not let the enemy keep the initiative."

"Are not the Ents too far away to be here in time?" asked Haldir, looking doubtful.

"The longer we wait, the harder it will be to drive our enemies back across Anduin," Elladan said. "Someone will need to go south to warn the Ents of our danger."

If they allowed their opponents to further strengthen this position, it would let the Enemy build up his strength on this side of Anduin. Even if he could not yet enter Lothlórien, it would not be long until he cut off the Elves from both Rohan and the Ents. "I will go," Elrohir said, hoping Elladan would not volunteer to join him, as he could sense how weary his brother was. "I am rested and the Ents know me, or at least Treebeard himself does."

"We cannot risk sending only one," Haldir said. "Perhaps I should go with you."

"You will go, Haldir, but Elrohir will not," Celeborn said. Elrohir was about to protest when Celeborn went on, "You and Elladan must keep ready to depart as soon as the passes open, or I fear that you will not return to Imladris at all. Even a day's delay may be too much when the time comes."

~*~

Even Celeborn had found some time to rest, but every time Galadriel sought sleep, one of the Nazgûl would test her defences, and she could do no other than stay on her guard. Alas, she understood well the Enemy's purpose. Not only was he trying to wear her down to the point that her wards would fail, he also hoped that she would give in to the temptation of taking power from Nenya, rather than rely on her own strength.

Elladan had asked her to show him and Elrohir how to maintain the warding, to allow her to rest. Doing so would give her some respite, and once the twins left, that knowledge might well be of benefit to Rivendell also. There had not yet been time to teach either him or any others. She should not wait much longer though, or her weariness would overcome her first. She was still strong enough, but only barely, and she had no strength to spare beyond what was needed to defend Lothlórien. She had already had to abandon her attempts to follow Legolas and Gimli home through the Mirror before they even had crossed Anduin.

Galadriel wondered if she dared risk sleeping; even half an hour would be welcome, and she would be stronger for it afterwards. Before she did, she would see how the battle – or rather, to name it what it was, the siege – went, and if there was any sign of the Ents or of Haldir.

At first glance everything appeared quiet. Despite her fatigue, for once the Mirror worked with her, rather than resisting as it had done lately. As she cast her thoughts about to find Celeborn, she detected a flicker of movement beyond where the two armies were facing each other. Orcs; a small group, about twenty, but further west than any enemies had been yet in this attack. It seemed at first to be a normal patrol, but then she realised she had stumbled upon the escort of the two Nazgûl who had been attacking her. That was a stroke of luck she had not counted on, and she allowed herself a grim smile. Now that she knew where they were, she could direct their own patrols in their direction, and ensure they were kept busy enough that she might safely rest.

~*~

Celeborn signalled his horse to stop, letting the rest of his patrol catch up with him. They were far enough west that the land was untouched by war, and the thickets that dotted the terrain provided cover both for them and for the Nazgûl and their guard. They had already been out here for well over half a day, yet they had been unable to engage their opponents; every time he thought they were getting near, they had found nothing but a trail.

Now, though, he could not shed the tense feeling that had crept up on him, and he scanned the area for enemies. Orophin was the first to join his lord, and he too looked troubled.

"They are near," Celeborn said. "Do you feel it?"

"Yes, but the Wraiths alone, or Orcs as well?" Orophin asked.

"Shall we find out?" Celeborn responded, as he let his hand fall to his sword. "This game of tag has gone on long enough."

It had gone on more than long enough. Celeborn was surprised to find himself so eager for a confrontation, yet he should not be reckless or overconfident. Even if he did not doubt his own strength, the Nazgûl were dangerous opponents. Yet the Wraiths, except the Witch-king, were no match for the strong among the Elves, and had that one been here, he would not have worked from hiding.

He took a deep breath and closed his eyes in concentration so that he could listen to what the land might tell him. This close to Lórien, the trees would still heed him enough that he might learn what he wanted to know.

After some time, Celeborn opened his eyes again. "Over there," he indicated, as he urged his horse forward, "Beyond that hillock. Follow my lead."

"Quickly now," he heard Orophin exhort the rest of the patrol, as they raced to circle back beyond the point he had indicated. Their enemies would not get away this time.

He reached to draw his sword just as his horse shied aside, startled by a spear striking the ground nearby. With a curse, Celeborn continued his motion towards his sword while leaning down lower against the horse's neck. He considered wryly that not long before he had thought that he should not be reckless, yet he found it hard to think of any other word to describe this charge.

Nearly there... Suddenly several Orcs burst out of hiding, three of his riders in pursuit. The Orcs tried to turn back again when they saw him, but found themselves surrounded. Sword and spear did just as well as archery, and the Orcs were soon dispatched. Celeborn stayed back, keeping an eye out for the Nazgûl; they must not escape again.

He looked around, trying to sense where the Wraiths were. Further back, only one... Quickly he dismounted and advanced on foot; the trees were dense enough here that there was no advantage in riding.

The oppressive feeling of the Wraith's presence grew stronger as Celeborn entered a small clearing, and he gripped his sword tighter, just as the Nazgûl also stepped into the clearing. He wondered where the other Wraith was, but did not sense him anywhere near.

"Elf," the Nazgûl addressed him. "Immortal, yet vulnerable to death."

"Undead," Celeborn retorted. "Afraid to die, bound in unliving slavery."

The Nazgûl halted, almost as if he was studying him, and Celeborn observed the Wraith in return. He had never before faced one of them at such close range, and while he could sense the terror that hung around the Undead, it did not affect him. More dangerous was the other's ability to overwhelm the minds of the weak or the unwary, for that might catch out even a careless or wearied Elf.

His quiet stance was unnerving the Wraith, Celeborn concluded as the creature took a half step forward, then retreated again. He wondered how he might goad him into an attack, when the Wraith spoke again. "I know you, Elf. The Great Lord will yet have you and your Witch both."

"Will he?" Celeborn asked calmly, though he felt his anger rise at the threat. "Too long has your master had that wish for it to carry much weight," he replied with a certainty he wished he felt.

In the distance, he felt his men returning; had they already slain the other Wraith, or did they believe he needed their aid? No matter, he must not be side-tracked.

The Wraith must have felt even this minor distraction, though, as he now moved forward, lunging at him. Celeborn blocked and parried. The other tried to block him in return, but Celeborn was too quick, and his sword hit high on the Wraith's right arm.

The Nazgûl recoiled with a sharp hiss as if in pain, and Celeborn thrust forward into the opening he had been given, his move taking the Wraith clean in the heart. With a great wailing screech, the black robes fell empty, and Celeborn was left staring in amazement.

Could it truly be this easy? Or had the Wraith merely abandoned its shape, going back to Mordor to be reclad in undead flesh? While he still stood considering the true extent of his victory, Orophin and the rest of his patrol burst into the clearing.

"My lord, are you unhurt? We chased down the other Wraith; it is slain."

"So is this one," Celeborn replied with a fierce smile. Even if the Wraith was not truly dead, but only disembodied, it would not trouble Lothlórien for a long time.

~*~

Galadriel had watched the confrontation between Celeborn and the Nazgûl, and she shared her husband's amazement at how easily the Wraith had been defeated, whether slain or driven off. There were differences in strength and skill between the wraiths; even so, when she compared this to what she knew of the fight between Mithrandir and Khamûl...

Yet there was more about that to make her wonder again about her suspicion that Mithrandir had somehow faced Sauron through the Wraith, also with the little that Elladan had been able to tell her of the confrontation between Aragorn and the Nazgûl in mind. There would be time to consider the Ringwraiths later, though. Now, she needed to rest, and she turned to go into her bedroom when she was struck by a sudden thought. With the One Ring in his possession again, can Sauron make new Ringwraiths to replace those he loses?

Chapter Text

May 17 – 27, 3019

Halbarad was less than half an hour from Caras Dirnen when he heard a rider come up fast behind him. As he turned in the saddle to see who it was, the other already hailed him.

"Father! I did not expect you back yet," Halmir called out. He went on as he coaxed his horse to fall in alongside Halbarad, "I was taking this lad here for a run. He becomes restless if he spends too much time in the stables." As if to prove Halmir's words, the horse pulled at its reins and attempted to snap at Halbarad's mount.

"Any news?" Halbarad asked once his son had his horse back under control.

"No news from outside, and the town is quiet, but Mother went to Ringlanthir five days ago," Halmir replied. "She did not think she would be away for more than a week."

Halbarad nodded. He had hoped that Dineth would be there to meet him, but he had also asked her to go see Aragorn's reeve soon. Halmir seemed lost in thought, and they rode in silence until Halmir halted as they came past the archery range.

Following Halmir's glance, Halbarad saw that Haldan was at the range. His youngest son remained oblivious to their presence even when he walked over to the target to pick up his arrows. Halbarad waited until Haldan was done with his next round before moving on.

"Your brother's archery looks much improved," he observed once they were out of hearing.

"He has been working hard," Halmir said.

"Did you practise with him?" Halbarad asked.

"A bit, but most of what you see is down to Hunthor. He has spent much time sparring and practising archery with some of the older boys."

"Hunthor?" Halbarad would not have thought Hunthor had the patience to teach.

"Yes," said Halmir. "He said that he might as well spend his leave in a useful manner. He seems to enjoy the task."

"Speaking of Hunthor, did you talk to him as I asked you?" Halbarad asked when they entered the Keep's courtyard. Halmir nodded, but did not reply immediately.

Mindful of the healing cut on his leg, Halbarad tried to make it look as if he dismounted with ease. The wound had been only just deep enough for him to have the healer look at it, but it made bending his leg to get on and off a horse awkward. Doing so without putting too much of a strain on the stitches had been difficult, and the first few days of the ride home he had only managed by accepting a leg up from one of Hithaeron's Elves. At least, with the villagers becoming more at ease around the Rangers, the days he had spent in Bree to give his leg time to heal had not been wasted. He scowled at the frustration of having to let the patrols that chased down the remaining ruffians ride out without him.

Now, though, even if he no longer needed help, his movement was still awkward enough that it made Halmir raise a questioning eyebrow.

Halbarad shrugged. "It is little more than a scratch."

Halmir gave him another dubious look, but only said, "The messenger from Bree mentioned you were wounded."

"It truly is nothing." It had kept him in Bree longer than he had wished, but the cut was healing well, even if it was still a bit sore by the end of each day and itched enough to drive him to distraction. Both should be over soon, or so Halbarad hoped. "You had more to say about Hunthor?" he asked to change the subject.

"Yes," Halmir said. "We spoke, but if there is anything that bothers him, he will not talk about it. He says he understands why you would not let him go to Bree, and that he is not troubled by it."

"What do you think?'

‘Give him a patrol soon; it will be better for him to be out and about."

"And what about you?"

"I wish I could go out," Halmir replied as they led their horses into the stables. "But Lossë would not appreciate it were I to head into the Wild six weeks before the wedding. She already... Half the women in town are saying that with such a hasty betrothal, she is likely with child, and the other half add that if so, it was only done to entrap the Chieftain's son in marriage. If I go on patrol now, no doubt they will say to her that I intend to run and abandon her." Halmir spoke softly, but his disgust was clear. "Unless there is something you need me for, of course," he added with a marked lack of enthusiasm.

"I cannot help you with the town gossips; you would do better to call in your mother's aid on that, or Mairen's," Halbarad said – he did not point out to Halmir that it was hardly surprising that there was talk; the betrothal had been sudden, and given a chance, tongues would wag. Unpleasant as it was, it would pass soon enough, and the sooner for being ignored. "And Borlas is your captain now," he reminded Halmir. "But I do have something to do for you."

Halmir's expression was carefully blank. "Not a patrol," Halbarad added quickly. "I will call a session of the Council as soon as all Councillors can be here, and as my heir you should take your place beside me."

Though he looked even more reluctant at that prospect than at the suggestion of a patrol, Halmir agreed quickly, adding, "How long will you be busy here?"

"Not too long."

"Then I will see you at home later," Halmir replied as he walked off.

Halbarad headed across the courtyard. He should be done well before dark; he only needed to write the messages summoning the councillors to Caras Dirnen and have them sent.

The messages were soon written, and Halbarad quickly read the few reports that were there. The eastern companies were holding their own, even pushing the Orcs back towards the mountains, and with the passes still closed, the captains expected no problems until the weather in the mountains improved.

The next day Halbarad went to the Keep so the healer could take out his stitches. Other than that, he could only wait until the Councillors started arriving. Bregor might have that list of weaknesses in Caras Dirnen's defences that he had said he would look into for him, and he could take some time to mend his gear. He wondered whether he should perhaps go to Rivendell and return Arwen's letters to Aragorn to her, but he might not be back in time, nor did he think Arwen would be pleased to see him.

The following day, Halmir suggested that they should spar to see how his leg was doing, and Halbarad agreed gladly. The practice would be good for them both and it was better than trying to find things to occupy him in the Keep.

"Sword and shield?" Halmir asked when they approached the practice field.

Halbarad agreed and they put on gambesons while Haldan ran off to collect practice weapons from the armoury. It was early and still quiet, so Haldan would be their only audience, at least at first.

As soon as they had their swords, Halmir started circling, hoping to find an opening. Halbarad waited, trying how his leg responded as he turned to block his son. Halmir was waiting very long before he attacked, trying to get in on Halbarad's wounded side. There. No, a feint.

Again, Halmir moved forward slightly, but stopped as soon as Halbarad raised his shield. This can go on all morning, Halbarad thought and stepped aside again, forcing Halmir to move to the right. Halmir would not attack until he saw an opportunity, and Halbarad was not about to give him one. Suddenly, Halbarad saw the opening Halmir had left him, and he quickly stepped forward rather than sideways, bringing his shield up to block a counterstrike at the same time as he struck his son's left shoulder.

Though Halmir must have felt the hit – even with blunted swords and the heavy padding in their gambesons, a strike still hurt – he immediately reacted and it was only a fast sidestep that avoided a painful encounter between the elbow of Halbarad's sword arm and the edge of Halmir's shield.

They both grinned as their eyes met, and as if by agreement fell back towards a defensive position, though Halmir attacked again almost immediately, increasing the pace of the match and attempting to push Halbarad into a mistake.

After about an hour, Halmir signalled a pause. Halbarad looked around and saw that Haldan was no longer the only one watching them. There were several Rangers, and... Dineth? She was still in riding clothes, so must only just have come back. He raised a hand to wave at her.

"Father, will you practice with me also after you and Halmir are done?" Haldan, who had come over as soon as they stopped, asked eagerly.

"You can take your turn now," Halmir said immediately.

"Then tell your mother I will be over after this," Halbarad said, taking a wet cloth and a drink of water from Haldan. "And bring back some wasters and a gambeson for Haldan from the armoury." As Halmir ran over to Dineth, Halbarad noticed Lossiel standing beside her, making it obvious why Halmir had given up his place to his brother so quickly. Had it not been for Haldan's request, he would have been glad to join Halmir, but this should not take too long.

Haldan did not protest about fighting with wooden swords, and after he had put on his gambeson, rather than rushing in immediately – as he would have done not all that long ago – he waited, moving about trying to find a good position for his first attack. Halbarad parried the attack without trouble when it came, and on the second strike disarmed his son.

His first parry in the second round nearly had Haldan lose his sword again. Halbarad forced himself to hold back more. Even if Dineth was waiting, he found he wanted to see how Haldan bore himself in a longer fight.

"Mind your grip," he warned Haldan as he stepped back slightly, waiting for the next attack.

Haldan shifted his stance and tightened his hold on his blade before moving forward again. Halbarad watched him closely. Haldan had been late to come into his growth, but even gangly and awkward as he could still be, it was not hard to see the man he would become, rather than the boy he yet was.

It was difficult to hold back so much, even in a practice match. Halbarad could have easily ended the round several times already, but he was pleased to see Haldan thinking about what he was doing more than he had in the past. Haldan was too hesitant about following through on his strikes, causing Halbarad to wonder whether his son was afraid that he would hurt him if he hit him.

Men did get wounded in sparring bouts, even when they fought with wooden swords. With a sudden pang of grief, Halbarad remembered two young Ranger recruits – he had not been much older than Haldan – being lectured at great length by their captain, after a practice fight had left him with three broken fingers and Aragorn with a bruised rib and a lump on his head. It had not even been the hurts themselves that had led to the dressing-down, but that they had let themselves be carried away to the point of turning practising a set of moves into a full fighting match.

Haldan attacked again and Halbarad let him come much closer before he parried to draw his son into striking with more determination. On the next move, Haldan almost got past his guard, and Halbarad had to sidestep faster than he had anticipated to parry the attack. This time, Haldan struck again immediately, rather than stepping back before his next attack. Halbarad was still slightly off balance, and before he could parry, Haldan's strike hit him full on his wounded leg.

The hit was hard enough that he almost doubled over as he gasped for breath from the sudden shock of pain. Even so, moving through the pain, he straightened up, stepping forward and raising his sword to a defensive position, before Haldan could follow up on the attack and finish the round.

He must learn not to strike with the flat of the blade, Halbarad thought, at the same time relieved that Haldan had, since it would hurt even worse if his son had hit him with the edge, even with practice blades. Still hurts more than when that ruffian got me the first time.

Halbarad only just registered the shocked expression on Haldan's face as his next charge not only swept Haldan's sword from his hand, but also bore him to the ground.

"That was not fair!" Haldan said, looking up at him indignantly. "I thought I had hurt you, I was waiting to see if you were well, and then you attacked again."

"In battle, that kind of ‘fair' will have you dead," Halbarad said grimly. "Do not ever think you have won, just because you wounded your opponent." Haldan looked embarrassed at the correction, and Halbarad went on. "If you see an advantage, take it. You were watching before, were you not? Did you not see your brother trying to get in on my left?"

"Yes, but that was not fair either," Haldan said stubbornly, as he took the hand Halbarad offered to pull him up.

Halbarad sighed. "Would an Orc spare my wounded side, if he knew about it?"

"No, I suppose not," Haldan answered, looking thoughtful, then asked with a sudden grin, "Can I have another round? I promise I will try to hit you again."

"You think I would give you an opening twice?" Halbarad answered, meanwhile checking that the hit had not opened the wound. It would appear not, even if it still hurt more than he cared to admit.

"Likely not," Haldan admitted. "But will you mind if I do try, father?"

He grinned widely at the challenge. "You may try."

In the third round, Haldan fought with more confidence, and managed another hit, though on his arm rather than his leg. Halbarad still had to hold back to keep the fight going, but at least his son had lost his reticence over striking him.

Once the bout was over, Halbarad at last walked over to Dineth, Haldan following behind.

"Well-fought," he heard Halmir say to Haldan, but the kiss Dineth greeted him with was more than enough to distract him from what their sons were saying.

"That first hit looked bad," she observed as they walked home a short time later.

"It was nothing." Halbarad shrugged, stopping himself from scratching at the wound, which itched ferociously all of a sudden. "How was your trip to see the reeve?" he went on, ignoring her annoyed look at the change of subject.

"Well enough. Enerdhil seems to be honest, and competent in his work, but there is no need to pretend about your leg," she insisted.

Halbarad merely nodded at first, then gave in and told her how he had been wounded. She would only suspect worse if he claimed again that it was nothing. "Now tell me about your findings."

"I already knew that Enerdhil has a good reputation, and what I saw confirmed that. After the news of Aragorn's death reached Ringlanthir, he expected that someone would come from Caras Dirnen to inspect his books and his office." Dineth raised a hand to stop Halbarad from interrupting. "Yes, that would have given him time to hide things, but the books showed no signs of tampering. There were a few mistallied figures, but nothing worse; and any disputes were handled fairly and reasonably. I even visited two farms to confirm my conclusions. I think you should keep Master Enerdhil."

"Then I will do so," Halbarad replied, relieved that he would not have to look for a new reeve. If necessary, Dineth could have taken over, at least for the short term, but it was better to not change anything that did not need changing.

"Are you still set on becoming a Ranger?" Halbarad asked Haldan that evening. He noticed Dineth's frown at the question, and gave her an apologetic glance. It had been Haldan's wish long enough that it should be no surprise to her, and the practice fight that morning had confirmed Halbarad's feeling that his son was ready. And better that he had at least some training once the war came.

"Yes," Haldan replied, sounding almost solemn.

"Then I think you can start your training this year."

"Really?" Solemnity was quickly replaced by a smile.

"Yes, really." Halbarad smiled back, though he wondered how long that enthusiasm would last. Haldan would do well enough, but no recruit had it easy.

The days after Dineth's return from Ringlanthir passed quietly. At first, Halbarad found his mood lighter than it had been for some time, but soon the wait for the Councillors began to dominate his thoughts. Even knowing that it might be another week before the Council was complete, Halbarad found it hard to control his impatience.The Council was likely to prove a hard test, and he wanted it behind him. Yet this was much like the wait before any battle, with all in readiness, and nothing to do but wait for the enemy to make his move.

It was now five days since the messengers had gone out, and the first Councillors should be arriving soon. There had been messengers from Fornost and Bree, telling Halbarad the ruffians were all but hunted down; he would have at least one success to announce in the Council. He could only wait and see how the Councillors would react to Bree finding out what the Rangers were, but that paled in comparison to the One Ring back in Sauron's hand, and having to reveal his own role in Aragorn's deception about the Ring.

As he walked to the Keep, Halbarad noticed two riders ahead of him, one of them Borlas. He was about to hail him when he saw that the man beside his lieutenant was Mallor, and that they were deep in conversation. As far as Halbarad knew, the two had never been particularly friendly; all they had in common was their hometown. Perhaps they had merely happened to travel together, but the sight roused Halbarad's suspicion. If Mallor did intend to challenge Aragorn's decision, and the Lord of Celonhad was gauging what support he had among the Rangers, it made sense that he would speak to Borlas. Yet what was in it for Borlas? What could he gain from supporting Mallor?

It took another four days for the rest of the Councillors to arrive. Halbarad made sure to greet each as he arrived, letting him take their measure. Between arrivals, though he yearned for activity, he spent his time studying ancient scrolls and books, and hoped he would have time to learn all that he needed to know. At last, with the arrival of Hatholdir, Councillor for the villages outside the Angle, the Councillors were all there. Halbarad summoned them to convene the next day.

The morning of the Council, Halbarad woke up earlier than he had for some time. He quietly made his way to the back of the garden, so that he could pace about without disturbing Dineth or the boys. Outside, he immediately saw he need not have worried about waking Halmir at least; his son was sitting on the low stone border of a vegetable bed, pipe in hand. It was not all that surprising that Halmir was restless. Halbarad might be tense over the Council and all that was at stake, but he had some experience with them. Halmir had never been present at a Council meeting.

Halmir turned his head to look at him as he sat down. "How do you think the day will go?"

"I know not," Halbarad said tersely. His son did not ask further, but merely nodded. All too soon for Halbarad's liking, the sky in the east was starting to lighten. Soon, it would be time to go to the Keep.

Outside the door of the Council chamber, Halbarad paused to put on the Star of Elendil, then took a deep breath before entering. Inside, the first thing Halbarad noticed when he entered the Council chamber was that Mallor was not yet there, nor was Borlas. Any doubt that Mallor intended to challenge Aragorn's decision and put forward a claim of his own was now gone.

Halbarad looked around the long table, considering the men sitting there. He was reasonably certain of Angrod and Hatholdir, Edrahil would likely follow Mallor's lead, and the other two he did not know. But what would he do if the Council ruled in Mallor's favour? To step aside was unthinkable. Even were Mallor competent to lead the defence of the Angle, Aragorn had laid that task on him. Would he risk destroying the Dúnedain in a kin-strife as devastating as the breaking of Arnor? That had been Aragorn's fear, and Halbarad knew he could not let it come to that. He had to come out of this with the Council behind him.

There was still some time as Halbarad sat down, and he wished he felt as calm as he appeared. Halmir sat down next to him, looking decidedly nervous. At the appointed hour Mallor and Borlas had still not arrived, leaving Halbarad no other choice than to begin. "My lords, I have summoned you here to receive your renewed fealty for the lands you hold, and to affirm your place on this Council. There are also matters of defence on which I would hear your counsel."

Several Councillors wanted to speak, and when Lord Angrod, who normally led meetings of the Council, did not step in, Halbarad nodded at Edrahil who had stood first. The Councillor for the eastern villages fidgeted and cleared his throat, and Halbarad realised the Councillors were as tense as he was.

"I want to see the provisions our lord made. I understand that his will was set down in writing?" Edrahil said finally.

"It was." Halbarad gestured at Halmir to unroll the scrolls he had brought in anticipation of this point.

Lord Hatholdir was the first to speak once all had read the scrolls. "I have no argument with what is set out here. I say we proceed with the oath-taking, and hear what else our Chieftain wishes to lay before the Council."

Galion of Athrad was not so quickly convinced. "Before we can come to the taking of oaths, I have some questions that I would have answered. First, why did Aragorn declare that the line of the Kings would die with him, when there are others who can reckon their descent directly from Isildur?"

Lord Vëantur interrupted to ask Halbarad, "I would know that as well, as well as why you were not named Heir as well as Chieftain."

"Did you forget then, Vëantur, that Halbarad's mother was born out of wedlock, and that he is thus not automatically in the line of inheritance?" Edrahil asked.

"Even so, he is closest in blood," the lord of Ringlanthir replied. "And had Aragorn, lacking an heir of his body, chosen to name Halbarad as his heir in the line of the Kings, I for one would have supported that decision."

Angrod spoke next, addressing Halbarad directly again, "Aragorn did not name you as Isildur's Heir, but he did entrust the heirlooms of Isildur's line to you. That is enough for me. I will swear."

Just as the Councillor for the western villages finished, the door opened, and Mallor strode in, Borlas close behind him. "I will not," he announced and walked over to Hatholdir to take the scrolls. After reading them quickly, he turned to address Halbarad. "We must have a Great Council."

Edrahil nodded his head in agreement with Mallor. Galion looked uncertain, while the others showed little reaction.

Halbarad nearly laughed at the demand. "A Great Council? Why?" He was now glad he had spent some of his time waiting for the Councillors in studying the laws of succession in detail.

After the division of Arnor, the second King of Arthedain had established a law to avert similar conflict in future; any dispute over the succession within Isildur's line was to be judged by a Great Council that consisted not just of the King's Councillors and other high nobles of the realm, but of all who held rank down to village mayors and Ranger captains.

The law had never been needed yet, nor, strictly speaking, did it apply now, Halbarad knew, and he suspected Mallor was aware of that too. Had Aragorn named him as Heir, a Great Council would have been almost unavoidable. As it was, Aragorn had deftly avoided the problem while still making sure Halbarad would have the authority he needed. Even so, if just two members of the Council supported Mallor's demand, he would have no choice but to have a Great Council assembled. He would likely still prevail, but they could not afford weeks of further delay while the finer points of the laws of succession were debated.

"Why?" Mallor retorted. "With Isildur's direct line ended, all who count their descent from Isildur's heirs must be considered."

Hatholdir stood up to speak. "Considered for what? Lord Mallor, there is no succession to be considered. Aragorn did not choose Halbarad as his successor in the line of Isildur, but appointed him Chieftain only." His slight emphasis on appointed was not lost on the other Councillors, who now all turned to Mallor to await his response.

"That may well be so," Mallor allowed, giving the other Councillor a rather condescending nod of his head. If he was taken aback by the quick rebuttal of his argument, he did not show it, immediately changing his approach as he went on. "But Aragorn chose, you say? Appointed? I would be the last to deny that our late and lamented lord was an extraordinary man, but at the time he made those decisions, he was grievously wounded – a belly wound, and made by the Enemy's weapons, from what I have heard – and he must have suffered unbearable pain. Pain and poppy juice alike affect judgement and will. Did he not also relinquish Arvedui's claim in Gondor? How then can we believe that he was able to think rationally about his decisions?"

Halbarad cursed inwardly. Mallor might be well on his way to proving that he had more ambition than wit, but he was still twisty as a snake. Hatholdir and Angrod both looked at him, but before he could answer Mallor, Halmir had jumped up to speak.

"He had not taken poppy juice. He was of clear mind!" he exclaimed.

"You would say that," Mallor sneered. "And you expect me to believe you?"

"Mallor, there is no need for that," Galion said disapprovingly.

"There is every need," the lord of Celonhad countered. "As the son of the man who stands to profit most from this, the lad is hardly an impartial witness."

Profit? If Mallor thought he wanted to be Chieftain, he indeed measured all others by his own standard. Halbarad cast a brief glance at his son; it would be understandable, but he hoped Halmir would not react immediately to having his reliability, his honour, questioned. Next, Halbarad's gaze fell on Borlas. His second had remained silent and outwardly unmoved through all that had been said so far.

Mallor spoke again. "Captain, did you not witness the Chieftain's will also?" He barely paused to let Borlas confirm he had before going on. "Then I ask you whether you thought our lord, mortally wounded and in pain as he was, was of sound and clear mind when he dictated this scroll?"

Borlas stood up, but waited to speak. He looked long at Mallor before moving on to Halmir, whom he gave no more than a cursory glance. When he met Halbarad's eyes, his gaze was unreadable.

The longer Borlas stayed silent, the more Halbarad's tension grew. Despite their many differences of opinion, he had always thought Borlas an honourable man. Would his second speak the truth or would he perjure himself to throw in his fate with Mallor?

Still Borlas did not speak. The Councillors were starting to stir, but Halbarad kept his eyes on his lieutenant, keeping himself as still as if waiting in ambush for an enemy.

Finally, Borlas spoke. "Yes." He had to stop and wait before he could make himself heard again over the Councillors' reactions. "Yes, he was of sound and clear mind."

Halbarad let go the breath he had barely noticed he was holding; he could still not fathom Borlas' expression. Mallor's anger, though, was clear to see. Halbarad could only hope this had been his final attempt, and they could now proceed with the oath-taking.

"I see you have all decided alrea..." Mallor started, but Hatholdir cut him off.

"Mallor, unless you have any arguments that will hold, let it go. We would all like to finish this," the Councillor said, then turned to Halbarad. "My lord Chieftain, if you will proceed?"

Resisting the urge to check that the Star of Elendil sat properly on his brow, Halbarad took a deep breath before speaking the words that would start the oath-taking. "If there is any who would question my right to receive the oaths of those assembled here, then let him stand and speak."

Even Mallor was silent. Not that Halbarad believed there would not be more trouble from him, but at least his attempt to be named as Isildur's Heir was defeated, though Halbarad could not help but wonder how serious the bid had been if Mallor abandoned it so easily. Even so, Halbarad scarcely felt more at ease than before; he had won the Council's support, but would he still have it after the years of deception over the One Ring were revealed to them?

Halbarad drew Andúril, holding the sword before him point-down. The Councillors would swear in order of age; as his heir, Halmir would be last, even if he had not been the youngest present.

First to step forward was Angrod, the eldest of the Councillors. Angrod knelt before him, clasping Halbarad's hand on Andúril's hilt between his own. Halbarad put his other hand atop Angrod's, indicating that the other should speak. The unfamiliar Quenya of the ancient oath came haltingly from the Councillor's lips.

As the other Councillors filed past to swear to him, Halbarad's thoughts inevitably went back to the oaths he had sworn to Aragorn, both the Rangers' oath and a lord's oath of fealty. The memory was a distraction and he turned his thoughts to the oath itself.

Its words were as old as the Dúnedain, virtually unchanged since the first lords of Númenor had sworn to Elros – the only changes in it made to accommodate their people's changing fortunes. It would not even surprise Halbarad if the wording of the oaths sworn by Hador's or Barahir's men had been much the same; he quickly put that thought aside also – to consider the weight of history behind what took place here was almost as bad as thinking of Aragorn.

At last all Councillors had sworn, even Mallor. Only Halmir remained, and clearly still not at ease in front of the Council, he rushed through the oath, the expression of sheer relief on his face as he sat down again almost comical. To his surprise, Halbarad himself was starting to feel more at ease. Though what was still to come might well be the hardest part, and the Council held more authority than a captains' assembly, he had found their debate not all that different, and he had always handled the captains well enough.

Halbarad now allowed the Councillors, and himself, some rest before calling for the Council to resume. He wondered again how they would take the news of the Ring; it was unlikely they would be as stoic about it as the Rohirrim had been. How to start, though...

"There is some time yet to prepare," he began, "But the Enemy will come north."

"War?" Angrod interrupted. "Why would the Enemy risk..."

"He will come," Halbarad said tersely.

"What makes you so certain?" Angrod asked, his tone sharp, doubtful.

"All here know the tales of the Last Alliance," Halbarad started. "All here have also heard of Isildur's Bane."

Edrahil glanced at Mallor before leaning over to whisper something to Galion, Vëantur looked at Halbarad expectantly; Hatholdir looked as if he already realised what Halbarad was leading up to. From their sharp intakes of breath it was clear both Halmir and Borlas had definitely realised.

"Must you bore us with ancient history?" Mallor even yawned as he spoke.

"Ancient history?" Halbarad answered, regretting that he could not call the lord of Celonhad to order like an unruly recruit. He had hoped to prepare the Council, say more of their situation before having to mention the Ring. It would have to be Mallor who overthrew his plan, though at least the Councillor had given him an opening he could use. Even so, this was not how he had wanted to break this to the Councillors. "No, Isildur's Bane, the Ring of the Enemy, is back in Sauron's hand."

Mallor started to laugh, but fell silent as soon as he realised he was the only one. At first, the other Councillors merely sat in stunned silence, but all too soon they all jumped up and started asking questions, shouting over each other to be heard. Halbarad could barely make out who said what – How? – What happened? – How do you know? – and he had to shout for silence before he could be heard over the din.

"The Ring was lost in Anduin as Isildur attempted to escape the Orcs that attacked him and his men. It was found again many years later."

"By the Enemy?" Angrod asked.

"No, not then," Halbarad answered.

The room was silent.

"How did he get it?" Hatholdir spoke at last.

"The One Ring was first found in the Great River and taken into the Misty Mountains, where it was found seventy years ago by the hobbit who was involved in killing Smaug." The Councillors looked sceptical, but nodded at the mention of Smaug's death. Old Bilbo's part in that was a familiar story, even if it was not believed by all.

"Is that why we kept such close watch on the hobbits? The One Ring was in the Shire?" Borlas asked incredulously.

"Yes, it was," Halbarad replied.

"How long have you known about this?" Borlas asked next.

Before Halbarad could answer, Vëantur asked, "More importantly, how long did Aragorn know? For how long has this been kept from the Council?"

"Nigh on twenty years," Halbarad replied, bracing himself for the response.

"Twenty years? We were kept in the dark on such an important matter for twenty years?" Vëantur shook his head.

"And you? Did you know?" Edrahil asked.

"Not for certain, but yes, I did suspect," Halbarad admitted, not wanting to go into detail on how strong his suspicion had been.

"Had I known this earlier, I would have withheld my oath," Edrahil said bluntly. He clearly wanted to say more, but Galion interrupted him.

"You suspected, and kept quiet. What else was kept..."

"Secrecy was of the utmost importan..."

"Secrecy? The Enemy still found it. What went wr... Wait, the attack on Sarn Ford last year?" Galion asked.

"No, though that was part of the Enemy's search for the Ring," Halbarad said. "By then, the Ring had passed to a new bearer and he left the Shire just in time, ahead of the Ringwraiths. The Ringbearer met Aragorn in Bree and was guided to Rivendell by him." There were no interruptions now, and Halbarad went on quickly. "Master Elrond called a Council, where it was decided that the Ringbearer would continue to Mordor to attempt to destroy the Ring, with only a few companions for secrecy's sake, including Aragorn and Gandalf."

"Elrond sent the One Ring off in the hands of a hobbit?" Galion asked. "To Mordor? Madness! And Aragorn not only agreed to such a hare-brained plan, but accompanied him? We should have used the Ring. If Aragorn had taken it when he first found out, or if not he..."

"Used it?" Halbarad interrupted. "Aragorn knew better than to use the weapon of the Enemy. Even the Wise feared to do so." He would not think of what the Ring would have twisted Aragorn into, had he succumbed to its lure; it was bad enough that Gandalf...

"So instead, the Wise sent it back into the Enemy's hands. How did that help us?" Galion observed sourly.

"It certainly helped Master Elrond to rid himself of his precious daughter's unwanted suitor," Mallor interrupted with a sneer.

"Mallor!" Halbarad barely raised his voice, but his tone was enough to make the others in the room fall silent instantly.

Mallor, oblivious, went on. "If Rivendell..."

"Enough! Mallor, do not prove further that you will certainly never be counted among the Wise." Halbarad forced himself to unclench his fist. Much as he wanted to, he could not strike Mallor, not in the Council chamber. The charge was absurd enough that Mallor had done himself no favour by speaking, and in a way Halbarad was even glad of Mallor's remark, as it diverted the Council's attention from the Ring. After giving Mallor a long stare, Halbarad turned towards the others. "My lords, are there more questions?"

Hatholdir was the first who would meet Halbarad's eye. "Not at the moment; let us leave it at that Isildur's Bane is in Sauron's possession. If the Enemy indeed brings his war north, we have more urgent matters to discuss than a twenty-year old decision we can do naught about, or even a decision taken last year we can do naught about either." At that, the other Councillors, bar Mallor, nodded in reluctant agreement, and Hatholdir went on. "I take it you have given some thought already to our defence?"

"Yes," Halbarad said. "First, I agreed to alliances with both Gondor and Rohan. Rohan is seeking allies among the Elves in Wilderland also; for our part we will see that they are not attacked from the rear by Dunland. And as long as Gondor stands, the North will offer what help we can."

"What can we offer Gondor when we have barely enough men to defend Eriador?" asked Hatholdir.

"Goods," Halbarad said. "The Dwarves will not be able to trade to Wilderland, and Gondor has need of both raw iron and forged weapons. And if our harvest is good, we can also send grain south."

Hatholdir continued his questions. "How would we send goods south, and why send grain to Gondor? I doubt they have need of our harvest."

"The longer Gondor stands, the longer before we come under attack," Halbarad said. "Gondor has lost control of Anórien and its farmlands; and with the damage and disturbance from the war in the southern fiefs, the harvest there will be less than what is needed. How we can send goods south? That brings me to my second point." He paused briefly before going on. "Tharbad. There is much work that needs to be done there."

"Tharbad?" Hatholdir asked. "Not the mountains?"

"The passes are as well-defended as they can be, and until the weather in the mountains improves there can be no large attack there. Tharbad will not hold even a day against a large force seeking to cross the river." Nor were the Beornings likely to accept help from Eriador before their position was desperate, Halbarad added in thought.

"What do you have in mind?"

"Clear the stones of the bridge from the water. The river will be much harder to cross when it can no longer be forded, and once there is a clear channel, barges can be used to ferry goods across."

Hatholdir nodded in agreement as Halbarad waited. Of the other Councillors, Galion and Angrod were with Hatholdir, and Vëantur was clearly still considering the matter. Mallor sat sullenly in his seat, avoiding meeting anyone's gaze, and Halbarad suspected he would have walked out of the Council had he dared. Edrahil shook his head in denial.

"No," the Councillor said. "Any work at Tharbad will only serve to reveal us to the Enemy."

"We already are in the open after Bree," Borlas pointed out.

"Indeed. Why was it necessary to take open action there?" Edrahil asked, looking not just at Borlas, but at Halbarad and Halmir also.

"I want to know that as well," Galion said. "It is clear now why you Rangers protected the Shire so tightly, but surely we should no longer lose men needlessly in the west? We will be hard-pressed here soon enough if what you expect happens. Why should we risk losing men for Bree or the Shire?"

"Think you that because Arnor will not be restored, our duty to defend its people and its lands has ended? That we are no longer Dúnedain?" Angrod began. "Protecting these lands is our duty."

"No longer," Edrahil replied.

"Will you think then!" Hatholdir interrupted. "Losing Bree would cost us the Greenway down to Tharbad, Fornost would be cut off, and the Elves would lose access to the Havens and the coastal lands."

"The Elves," Edrahil snapped in response. "If it was not for the Elves, we would not be in this situation. And what aid do they offer us?"

"Without Rivendell's aid, Bree might have been lost," Halbarad stepped back into the discussion. "At the very least, we would have lost many more men. Rivendell is well aware that we either stand together or fall separately." He noticed that Borlas nodded in agreement. Support from Borlas? On this? That was surprising... or perhaps not. Despite Borlas' dislike of Rivendell's policies, his second was no fool, even if his brief alliance with Mallor might suggest otherwise. "Also, the Angle remains hidden. All that the Bree-landers have learnt is the purpose of the Rangers and our duty of old."

"Perhaps," Edrahil conceded, "But there is one other matter on which I would question your actions."

"Speak."

"Why did you take no more than just the Grey Company south? Did you truly think it would be enough?"

Halbarad took a deep breath and held it long before letting it go again in a sigh, as he met the Councillor's gaze. "Had I taken two more companies, it would not have been enough." Not against the Nazgûl. "And withdrawing even another half company might have meant the loss of Bree or Tharbad." Halbarad would never forgive himself for not reaching Aragorn in time on the Pelennor, but on this point at least he did not need to seek blame.

A long silence fell, until Edrahil nodded sharply and Hatholdir spoke. "So, Tharbad. I second your plan."

The others followed suit, only Mallor remaining silent.

"I will talk to the Master Builder," Halbarad said.

Borlas stood up to speak, and Halbarad nodded at him. "Captain?"

"What about Rangers?" Borlas asked. "Open activity around Tharbad will draw attention."

"Half a company, for now," Halbarad said. If the men working on the ford guarded their own camp, it should be enough.

"For now," Borlas replied.

Edrahil stood to speak. "Will clearing a channel not also make it too easy for the Enemy to cross with boats?"

"Sink them in the middle of the river, and the barges that are used to ferry goods can be used to block the channel," Halmir said.

Borlas laughed. "Good thinking." Halbarad met his son's gaze and nodded his own approval.

"Is there anything else?" Hatholdir asked. "It has been a long day, and we all have much to think about."

Halbarad turned to the window. He was surprised to see that it was already close to dusk. "No, this is all."

"One more question," Vëantur said. "The Ring. How open can we be about that?"

"It need not be kept secret." Halbarad doubted that would be possible anyway. All he could hope was that there would be no panic.

At last, the Council was at an end. Halbarad waited while the Councillors filed out; he was certain they would have questions in the next few days, but for now it was over.

Halmir was waiting for him near the door, while Borlas had come over to Halbarad after the Councillors left.

"About the Tharbad company?" Borlas said. "With more men there, they will need a second lieutenant as well."

"Go on," Halbarad said. With a company and a half, having a second lieutenant did make sense, and he could easily guess who Borlas had in mind.

"It will be some time before the work can start, likely not until after midsummer." Borlas turned to look at Halmir. "I think he may be ready for that lieutenancy."

"If you think so, captain," Halbarad said. Borlas might be trying to mend his own standing after his brief alliance with Mallor, but it was a good idea even so, and would be good experience for Halmir.

Chapter Text

May 21 – 24, 3019

Gimli was amazed as much as relieved that he and Legolas had made it to the Forest Gate, but here they were at last and it should be no more than a week to reach Thranduil's realm.

Legolas still stood looking south with an almost offended expression on his face. "Four weeks," he muttered, throwing pebbles at a tree stump as if it was the tree's fault that they had been so delayed.

"It would have been less if you had not let those Orcs near Rhosgobel get on our trail," Gimli pointed out.

"We would not have been anywhere near there if you had not insisted on hunting for trace of Radagast," Legolas retorted.

In truth, the Orcs had cost them no more than a day or two; it was only a small band, and they were quickly dispatched between the two of them. Most of the delay had come from having to avoid the other Orc troops marching south. Likely these were headed for the Ford, and Gimli hoped the Beornings were ready for an attack. As they did not yet wish to use the lembas the Lady had given them until they were inside the forest where food would be hard to find, time had also been lost to foraging and hunting after the supplies the Beornings had given them ran out. Gimli wisely said none of all the things he could have said, but remounted his horse and rode on into the forest.

"Gimli! Wait!" Legolas called out immediately.

He stopped and turned round to see Legolas struggling to keep control of his horse. The Gondorian horse appeared unwilling to continue, edging back every time Legolas attempted to have it move forward, and Gimli suspected it was only the Elf's skill with animals that kept it from bolting. In the end, Legolas had to dismount to lead the animal in under the trees. As Legolas calmed his horse enough to ride on, Gimli looked back towards the beginning of the path. Though the day was overcast, the contrast with the dark forest made the light blindingly bright.

After his eyes had readjusted to the gloomy forest, the Dwarf looked around curiously. He had of course traversed Mirkwood before, but though he had heard much from his father and Thorin's other companions, this was the first time he had been on this path. On the whole, the forest seemed much like it did near the Forest Road, though the trees were closer together and no wind played among them, the air stifling even this little distance into the forest. Putting his father's description of eyes in the dark aside, Gimli smiled at recalling the tale of how fat Bombur had fallen into the Enchanted River. But how would they themselves cross that stream, and, even if there still was a boat there, how would they get their horses across?

He turned to Legolas. "You said before that if we can reach the Enchanted River, you would be able to find your home from there. Have you thought about how we shall cross the River?"

"Of course," Legolas said, sounding altogether too smug for Gimli's liking.

"And?"

"We use the bridge," the Elf added.

"The bridge? Has it been repaired? When?" Gimli asked.

"Oh, about ten years or so ago. It was still sound the last time I went there three years ago."

Frayed webs hung motionless in the still air under the trees, yet no spiders could be seen. Nor did they see any other living creature all morning, though Gimli thought several times that from the corner of his eye he saw something small skitter away. Should he warn Legolas? Or was he jumping at shadows?

"Wait," Legolas said suddenly, as he stopped his horse, and took aim at the trees above them.

So it had been spiders trailing them, Gimli thought, then noticed that the Elf was muttering to himself under his breath as he loosed his first arrows at the spiders that now approached openly.

"Legolas?" Gimli asked.

"Hm?" the Elf responded distractedly as he took aim at a new target.

"Are you counting?"

"Three – yes," Legolas said in reply, his next arrow dislodging a spider from a branch near the path.

"Then make sure to get your count up now; once they come within reach of my axe, the advantage will certainly be mine," Gimli spoke, hiding his satisfaction. After he had admitted to his second thoughts in Lothlórien, Legolas' mood had slowly improved the closer to their homes they came, and this could only be a sign that he was feeling well. Gimli could not use his axe from horseback, but he would be on solid ground soon enough once the spiders came. It seemed, though, that these spiders were not about to attempt prey that fought back, as the surviving creatures disappeared back into the darkness.

"Perhaps," Legolas said, looking worried, "But even with the warnings we had, I did not expect to find spiders, even young ones like these, less than half a day into the forest. Nor are the smaller ones normally this daring."

"You know this path best. If you think we should go back and try the Forest Road after all...?" Gimli would rather not return, but if going north had been a mistake, it would be better to retrace their steps now.

Legolas was silent for some time before he answered. "No. We would only lose more time if we went back, and the Forest Road is likely worse than this."

Though they saw no more spiders that day, or the next, Gimli was certain they were being watched. Legolas clearly felt the same, as he rode with his bow at the ready.

That evening as they made their camp, Gimli could hear something – or some things? he wondered – moving about in the vicinity. Their campfire only seemed to make the night darker, but at least he could see no eyes around them yet. That was something he recalled from Glóin's tales of his journey, how unsettling the constantly watching eyes were. He was not yet afraid, but he would be relieved to reach Thranduil's realm. Fangorn had been unsettling too, but had felt merely watchful, awake, defensive. Here, there was a malevolence, a dark intensity in the watching.

"Legolas, I do not like this. There is something here, something evil." This was hardly his first crossing of Mirkwood, and the forest had never been a light place, but this he had not felt before. More than anything, it brought to mind the Paths of the Dead, or even the Nazgûl before Minas Tirith. Was it some dark influence of Dol Guldur that stretched this far north?

First, the Elf looked as if he was about to dismiss Gimli's concern with a joke, but when he spoke all levity had fled. "I fear you are right, but I do not see any other choice than to continue on this road."

Gimli was about to reply, when Legolas veered up and loosed an arrow into the dark. The angry hiss and thud that followed, confirmed he had struck his target. "Four. And you yet to start your count, Master Dwarf."

"I will have my chance yet," Gimli replied. "And then you will be doing the catching up. All the same, I would rather not have them within axe's reach before the morning light."

"That I agree with, even if I would debate the outcome of the contest," Legolas said. "I will take the first watch, and we should not consider our course until day sheds some light on it. Darkness is an ill counsellor."

Gimli slept fitfully and woke up thinking he felt the cold glare of spider eyes watching him, yet all he saw as he raised his head was the soft gleam of Legolas' eyes in the low light of their campfire. He wondered what time it was, but all he could make out was that the dawn was still far off. "Is it my watch already?" he asked as Legolas met his gaze.

"No," Legolas replied. "Another half hour or so, but do not go back to sleep. The spiders are all around, even if they do not yet come close."

Beyond their fire's small circle of light, it was dark enough that Gimli could almost make himself believe that he was deep under the mountains, surrounded by the comfort of solid rock. There! As he turned his head towards a sudden sound in the trees, Legolas had already jumped up, gazing into the darkness above them. Gimli grabbed his axe as he stood up also, all thought of sleep gone.

"Put more wood on the fire," Legolas said as he tensed his bow and fitted an arrow to the string. "And untie and saddle the horses, but keep hold of their reins."

After taking care of the fire, Gimli walked over to untie the horses. His own mount, while alert, did not appear overly nervous, but the Gondorian horse was trembling, the whites of its eyes showing as it tried to look everywhere around it at once. "Are you certain I should release the horses?" Gimli called out to Legolas. "Yours is about to bolt."

"Saddle them, but keep them hobbled," Legolas replied. "I will try to calm them."

Gimli took over the watch while Legolas put his hand on his horse's head and spoke softly to the animal until it had calmed down again. He then undid the hobbles on the horses' legs and led them closer to the fire.

"Legolas! They are getting nearer!" Gimli could see the spiders' eyes now.

The Elf hurriedly bent down to pick up some long branches from the forest floor, and held them in the fire. "We must go. The spiders fear fire. If we use these brands to light our path, we may still escape. There are some more open areas ahead, where we can rest more safely."

"Which way? Back? And do not the Elves patrol this part of Mirkwood?" Gimli asked.

"No," Legolas responded, "I fear the larger spiders have circled round behind us, to cut us off from the edge of the forest. They may not expect us to go east by our own choice. We might encounter patrols once we are across the Enchanted River, but that is still two days' hard riding. Should we be separated, keep to the path, and keep heading east."

Taking a firmer grip on his axe, Gimli only nodded at the instruction. Not only were the spiders close enough that their eyes reflected the light of their fire, but he could also hear the thin, cold sound of their chittering at each other. It was almost as if there were words in it.

As Legolas turned to mount his horse, the frightened animal skitted away far enough that it came under an overhanging branch. Immediately, a spider, much larger than the ones they had faced the previous day, dropped down to the horse's hindquarters. The horse reared, throwing the spider to the ground and pulling its lead rope free from Legolas' hand.

Gimli stood ready to strike at the spider, but the horse, despite its fear, reared again to bring down its front hooves on the beast until it stopped moving.

Legolas attempted to take his horse's lead rope again, but it backed away nervously, and as two more spiders dropped down on its back, it bolted, the spiders clinging on. Unexpectedly, the Lórien horse pulled free also and followed the other animal. Gimli cursed sharply, then looked around quickly to see where the remaining spiders were.

About ten more spiders scurried into the clearing, the largest he had seen by far, some heading for him, the others moving towards Legolas, who backed away slightly as he drew his long knife.

"Legolas! Above you!" Gimli called out, just as the biggest of the spiders on the ground darted towards him, its fangs snapping at his boots in vain. He did not see how Legolas dealt with his assailants, as he needed all his attention on his own spiders, but by the time he was done, the Elf stood near the fire, examining his left hand closely.

"You are wounded?" Gimli asked as he came closer.

"A bite. One of the smaller spiders got me," Legolas said, rubbing at the red marks on his hand and arm that Gimli could now clearly see. "It is nothing."

"If you say so," Gimli replied. "I..."

Legolas gestured him to silence, and stood listening for some minutes. "The spiders have gone, and so must we."

Gimli glanced up anxiously at the trees, but all he could make out was darkness.

"If we stay here, they will be back with reinforcements. Our hope is to keep on the move," Legolas said.

"Hope?" Gimli snorted. "What hope have we on foot, when the spiders are already hunting us?"

"Very little," Legolas admitted, still distractedly rubbing at his hand. "Even if we run as we did through the fields of Rohan, it is at least three days to the Enchanted River."

"Then run we will," Gimli said, as he met Legolas' gaze. "And the spiders may yet find us harder prey than they care to bargain for."

Legolas gave an almost feral smile in return. "Indeed, even if you still have to match my count, friend."

"You are not that far ahead," Gimli defended himself indignantly. "I only need two to catch up."

They ran all through the morning, at first lighting their way with the burning branches they had taken from their campfire. The forest canopy was not as dense as the previous day, and once the sun had risen, bright sunlight dappled the ground. They had not seen any spiders for a while, but even so, Gimli could not escape the feeling that black doom was closing in on them and that the brightness of the day was no more than a cruel mockery. No matter how fast they ran, their respite from the spiders could only be brief. He also suspected that Legolas' assertion that the spider bites did not bother him was not entirely true.

"Are you sure you are well?" he asked as they rested briefly. "You seem more tired than you ought to be."

"Yes, quite certain," Legolas replied, "The bites itch, that is all."

Close to noon, Legolas suddenly halted to look at a clearing near the path. Gimli stopped also, curious what could have caught his attention. As he followed the Elf's gaze, he saw what seemed a small area of raised ground among the undergrowth.

"That was mine," Legolas said.

Gimli looked at him blankly, not understanding what he referred to. Then, as he studied the half-shadowed shape closer, he saw that it was a horse, its outline blurred by a cocoon of spider webs. "I only see one. Maybe the other one escaped?"

"Perhaps," Legolas replied. "But it is Elven-trained and should have returned to us after it first ran, so I fear not." He scratched at the spider bite on his left hand, and, at Gimli's glance, explained, "Spider-poison always itches; it truly is nothing to be concerned about."

"As I have never yet been bitten by one, I can only take your word for it. On, then, if you are certain you are well," Gimli said, turning back towards the path. He was still unconvinced by Legolas' assurances.

Before they could go on, Legolas grabbed his arm to draw his attention, and Gimli turned around rapidly. Spider! But it seemed they had not yet been seen, as the beast was single-mindedly moving towards the dead horse. Gimli looked at Legolas. Could they yet escape? Legolas gestured at him to very slowly move back towards the shadowed undergrowth at the edge of the path.

Keeping his eyes on the spider, Gimli slowed edged back, hoping their Lórien cloaks might offer some protection if the spider happened to look their way. Legolas moved equally slowly, taking an arrow and slowly tensing his bow, but as he fit the arrow to the bow, the string snapped.

Though the sound could not have been loud, it was enough to alert the spider to their presence. The beast turned and quickly scuttled up into the trees, disappearing from sight. Gimli watched and waited, axe in hand, while Legolas was rummaging in his pack for a spare bowstring.

"Where there is one, there will be more," Legolas said as he restrung his bow. "We must be off before they return."

They ran even faster now, though there were no spiders yet that Gimli could see and only a few webs. Soon, though, the forest grew denser again and they had to slow down to dodge webs that hung over the path from overhead branches.

"All these are old webs. We may still be ahead of them," Legolas said, just as they came around a turn in the path.

"Not so," Gimli responded as they came to a hurried stop to avoid running into the webs that had been set across the path. He took hold of his axe to hew at the barrier, but Legolas stopped him.

"The threads would stick to the blade," the Elf explained as he drew his own knife to slash at the web.

"And not to your knife?" Gimli asked.

"No, Elvish..." Legolas started to reply, then stopped and whirled round.

Gimli turned also, just in time to bring his axe down on the leg of a spider that was larger than any he had seen yet. Its body was easily the size of a pony, its fangs as long as Gimli's underarm. Hissing angrily at him, the spider drew back out of reach before Gimli could strike again.

"Can you get through the web?" Gimli asked Legolas, keeping his eyes on the spider. "I doubt we can easily make it back past this one, and our road lies eastward." Without saying anything in reply, Legolas started on the threads. "Quickly," Gimli added, some urgency creeping into his voice as more spiders approached. These were not as large as the one already there, he noticed with some relief.

The big spider stayed out of reach, drawing back every time Gimli moved towards it. As soon as he had driven it back some ten yards, the others spiders darted past him, and he realised it must have been the spiders' intention to separate them.

"Legolas, watch out," Gimli called, not stopping to look behind him, but even the brief loss of attention was enough for the big spider to be upon him. Despite its wounded leg, the spider moved faster than Gimli would have thought possible, and he found himself fending off the snapping jaws from far closer than he would have liked. Those fangs looked wicked and he had no desire to find out for himself whether spider-poison itched.

At least his axe seemed to instil some respect in the beast, and except for some scratches he kept it from getting those fangs in his flesh, even if it took all his skill to do so. He could not risk looking around to see how Legolas was doing against the other spiders, but that question was soon answered when several arrows in quick succession struck the spider's right eye. Two opponents were clearly more than it cared to take on by itself, and the spider quickly turned and ran.

"What took you so long?" Gimli turned towards Legolas.

"I was busy," the Elf answered. "Twelve, by the way."

"But not without further wounds," Gimli observed as Legolas came closer, and he could see a long, ragged-looking cut along the other's right arm. "And do not tell me that it is nothing," he cut Legolas short as the Elf started to reply.

"It is not as bad as it looks," Legolas protested. "Just help me clean and bind it, and then we must go on. It can be looked after properly later." Gimli doubted they would get very far, but said nothing. The Elf was right, though, he noted as he held a strip of cloth in place while Legolas wound the other end around his arm; even if the skin around it looked red and irritated, the wound was more like a deep scratch than anything.

"It is getting dark already. We should carry fire again, if it will help keep the spiders at bay," Gimli said. Legolas nodded in agreement and went to look for suitable branches, while Gimli started a small fire to light them.

Gimli made sure to stay behind Legolas when they went on, so he could keep an eye on him while they ran. At first, the Elf appeared well enough, but it was quickly apparent that he was short of breath, and he began to stumble. After Legolas nearly fell, Gimli was about to call for a halt, when Legolas stopped himself.

"I... I cannot go on," he managed to say in between gasping for air. "I can barely breathe, and my head is spinning."

"Then we will rest here," Gimli said. "You will feel better in the morning."

"Perhaps," Legolas replied as he sat down, wrapping his cloak around himself tightly. Gimli noted that the Elf was trembling as if he was feeling cold, and he quickly collected some dead wood that he could pick up without going too far, and lit a fire.

"Let me look at your arm," Gimli said as he returned, forcing a cheerful tone. Legolas held out his arm without protest, and that worried the Dwarf even more. He said nothing as he unwound the cloth they had used to bind it, though when he uncovered the wound he could not stop himself from gasping in shock. The edges of the wound were swollen and almost black in colour.

"Do we carry anything against infection?" Gimli asked. "I should boil some of our water to wash it out, but what else?"

"Elves do not get infection in wounds," Legolas said softly.

"Then what would you call that?" Gimli reacted vehemently. "And do not say again that it is nothing. I am no healer, but I know that looks bad."

"It is not infected," Legolas insisted weakly, then raised his left hand to stop Gimli from interrupting. He paused to regain his breath before he went on, speaking slowly now. "It is the spider’s poison. I have been bitten before, and never was it worse than a rash and the bite itself, which would heal soon enough."

"Then...?" Gimli started to say as Legolas huddled deeper into his cloak, shivering violently. "Are you cold?" Legolas only nodded, and remained silent as Gimli took off his own cloak and wrapped it around him, keeping his arm around the Elf's shoulder so the other could lean against him. With his other hand he held his makeshift torch aloft, even if he knew not how he could hold the spiders off if they attacked again.

After some time, Legolas went on. "I have seen this... It was a Man, from... from Dale. He died within a few... a few hours after he... was bitten."

Gimli shuddered. He did not know how long he sat there, holding Legolas. The Elf did not speak again and lay silently, leaning against him. It had gone dark some time before, and unlike under the mountains, here he was disoriented, his sense of both time and place gone.

To his surprise Legolas opened his eyes again, and turned his head to look at him.

"Gimli, I can hear the Sea," Legolas whispered, so low that Gimli could barely hear him, yet the words cut straight to his heart. "Can you hear it too?"

"Yes," Gimli responded, tears blurring his eyes. "Yes, I can."

"Good," Legolas said, before drawing in one shuddering breath and going still. It was some time before Gimli could bring himself to close the Elf’s staring eyes.

He reluctantly got up to collect more firewood. What do I do now? The spiders would be back soon, and fire would not keep them back forever. He could stay here with Legolas, fight until the spiders overwhelmed him, and die beside his friend, or he could attempt to reach the Elves. At least then they would know that Sauron had the Ring, and Thranduil would have word of his son's death. But how do I get that far, alone and on foot?

He was torn from his thoughts by a rustling among the trees, and he jumped up, axe in one hand, burning branch in the other. If the choice had already been made for him, he would not submit easily. To his surprise, it was not a spider, but the Lórien horse that emerged from the forest.

"Curse you," Gimli yelled. "Where were you before? We would have had a chance!"

The horse whickered softly and lowered its head, almost in apology, as if it understood him. Slowly, the animal came closer. Gimli could now see that it was limping, and must have had its own confrontation with the spiders, for he noticed several wounds along its neck and back.

As he looked at the horse, he knew he had just been offered his chance. On horseback he might make it to the Enchanted River, and then, if he got that far, and luck was with him one more time, on the other side of the river he would find an Elvish patrol, and safety.

No, he thought frantically, looking at Legolas again, I cannot let the filthy spiders have him. Was there anything he could do? He could use his axe to dig a grave, if he had but the time, but the spiders were certain to be upon him once more as soon as they found him alone. There were no rocks for a proper cairn. Fire? A pyre would take time too, and he had no dry wood or oil to ensure the flames would burn hot enough. What then? Legolas would want him to go on, to warn the Elves.

With a sob, Gimli folded Legolas' hands on his breast and placed his bow and arrows beside him before rising to mount the Lórien horse. He did not look back as he rode away east towards the Enchanted River.

The horse seemed to recognise his urgency, and settled into a fast trot that Gimli knew it would be able to keep up for a long time without rest, at least if its limp did not get worse. He could feel it keeping the weight off its left front leg as it ran. Would it be enough? Or were the spiders hunting him again even now? The improvised torch he still carried showed him nothing, yet his mind's eye provided images of giant spiders converging on him, closing in for the kill.

Suddenly, the horse stopped. Gimli lost hold of the burning branch, which guttered out slowly on the ground. He only just kept from falling himself, and now sat in the dark, trying to see what the horse had reacted to. It had to be close to dawn; he could make out the shapes of the trees around him. He could also make out other shapes. There were spiders ahead, several as large as the one he had faced the day before.

"Run if you can; try to find the path again, but get us away from the spiders," he said softly, hoping the horse would understand him. Clearly, it did, for it turned and sprang away, stumbling and recovering as it retraced their steps.

Just as Gimli realised they were heading away from the Enchanted River and Thranduil's lands, the horse stumbled again, and fell. Though he managed to roll away and avoid getting caught underneath the animal, a sharp pain shot through his leg, and he knew he would not be able to go much further, even if there had been no spiders nearby.

The horse was still on the ground, squealing piteously as it attempted to stand up again. That leg... it looked, no, it was broken, as Gimli feared his own leg might be as well. He should get up, and put the poor animal out of its misery, yet as he attempted to stand, his leg buckled under him, refusing to bear his weight. He snorted derisively; I may as well put myself out of my misery while I am at it... not that the spiders will not take care of that soon enough.

Gimli could see the spiders better as it was getting lighter. They were still wary of him, even now. He took hold of his axe, and somehow, resting the axe-head on the ground, pushed himself back to a standing position. The leg was not broken then. It mattered little. He wondered what Thranduil would think about his son dying beside a Dwarf, then realised he would not have to worry about what the Elf King might say.

Slowly, the spiders were moving towards him, taking care to stay out of axe reach. They were trying to drive him closer towards the trees. He risked a quick glance behind – a large web between trees; but no spiders, not yet – then nearly fell as he had to turn around again quickly to fend off a spider. Even in that brief moment of distraction, one of the spiders had dashed in close, trying to slash at him. He kept his feet, but it could not be long before they overpowered him.

Again, two spiders moved closer. Gimli waited as long as he dared, then struck, his axe squelching through the first bloated body. "Seven," he said softly, then, "Eight," as the second spider was still within reach. He looked at the spiders surrounding him. "Come here and finish it, you filth."

The largest spider started to edge forward, then stepped back as he raised his axe.

Movement at the edge of his sight. He turned as quickly as he could, and the spider that had moved in closer skittered back. He turned back the way he had been facing, only just in time to chop at the legs of the spider that had used the distraction to come closer. Again. And curse it, he was losing ground. Every time he turned, they were driving him nearer the trees.

He risked a glance behind him. Less than a yar... He stumbled to his knees as a weight from above fell against him, and a searing pain shot through his leg. The spider that had been in the tree had jumped too soon to fall on top of him. The others rushed in, but he still had hold of his axe, and he hewed at the legs of the large spider as the beast darted in for the kill. Not so fast. I am not yet entirely helpless. They were now close enough to bite, and it would not be long.

One of the smaller spiders was the first to get a bite in. As he chopped at it, the other spiders crowded closer, and he fell over. He still had his axe in hand, but he found himself unable to move his legs even before another spider dared come close enough to bite. Somehow he found the strength to move his hand to his breast, where lay the bright strands of her hair that Galadriel had given him.

Legolas was right, Gimli thought as his sight went black. Spider bites do itch.

Chapter Text

May 28 – 29, 3019

“My lord, will you take the helm to bring her into port?” At the question from the Falcon’s captain, Imrahil looked up from the map he had been studying.

“If you wish,” he replied.

As it had when he steered the Falcon out of the harbour at Dol Amroth, Imrahil’s mood lifted with the ship’s response to his touch. He had not wanted to do it; to enjoy even the simple pleasure of sailing felt wrong when Erchirion… Yet the crew would be upset if he broke with tradition; having their lord at the helm at the beginning and the end of a trip brought luck, and he would not have them sail under a bad omen.

Apart from that brief stint out from Cobas Haven, it really had been too long since he had held a ship’s wheel in his hands, Imrahil thought as he followed the captain. Even so, the task failed to take his full attention, letting him continue his train of thought about what he would find in Pelargir. Before he returned to Dol Amroth, there had already been talk among the minor lords, questioning Denethor’s leadership and even his sanity, after the Steward had placed Gondor’s crown on the pyre beside the one who had come to claim it. The lords had attempted to draw him into their plotting, but he had been clear that he would have no part of it. He had little taste for such games, and Gondor could not afford division. Also, unlike them, he would not make the mistake of assuming that Denethor did not know what he was doing, or that he would long tolerate this dissent.

Of course, Imrahil had questions he wanted to ask Denethor. Though he did believe that Thorongil, Aragorn, had been the Heir of Elendil – even if proofs would have been required had he formally declared his claim on the throne in front of Steward and Council – the Prince was uncertain of Denethor’s position. Had the Steward merely made clever use of an ambiguous situation? Imrahil knew of the scroll in which Aragorn had confirmed the position of the Stewards in Gondor, and with that in hand, Denethor could do no other than publicly aver that he believed Aragorn was what he claimed to be. That said, the Steward would not have needed to go as far as he had in his acknowledgement if his purpose was solely to strengthen his own position. Expediency did not explain that; there had been no need to acknowledge that Isildur’s Heir was also Elendil’s Heir in Gondor.

Imrahil was willing to wait for clarity; if there was one thing he had learned over the years, it was that trying to second-guess Denethor was rarely successful. Denethor had acknowledged the claim, but he had also made it clear that Aragorn had been the last one anywhere who had a valid claim on the throne of Gondor. Yes, Imrahil would wait and see how things developed.

And then Aragorn himself... Imrahil had recognised him as Thorongil as soon as he set eyes on him on the Pelennor, and regretted still that there had been no opportunity for them to speak. Even after these many years, he would have liked to know why Thorongil had abandoned Gondor so abruptly after his victory against Umbar. But there was little point now in considering might-have-beens; all that was in the past, and he had enough to occupy him without further adding to it.

They were still some distance from Pelargir when they were hailed from a smaller vessel. Not long after, the Falcon’s captain approached, leading a man whom he introduced as their pilot.

At Imrahil’s questioning look, the pilot explained, “There are too many wrecked Corsair ships along the river to let anyone come in without guidance.”

Letting the pilot take the helm, Imrahil moved to the railing to watch as they approached the port, joining Elphir who had been there most of the morning. From out on the river, the damage Pelargir had suffered in its capture and retaking was much more obvious than it had been inside the town. From what he could see of the work being done, it was more than just repairs, and some thought had been given to strengthening the defence of the quayside.

Elphir waved at someone standing on the quay, and Imrahil realised Faramir had come to welcome them. Imrahil raised a hand in greeting as well, then as soon as they were moored, he jumped down to the quay.

“Welcome, uncle,” Faramir said, adding with a smile. “You seem eager to come to land.”

“Hardly,” Imrahil replied, “But it is better than waiting until the plank is finally lowered.”

Faramir said nothing to that, but asked after a while, “How are Lothiriel and my aunts?”

“Yávien and Lothiriel are well, under the circumstances. Ivriniel has been ailing, though she finds some distraction in my grandson.” Imrahil did not voice his concern for his sister, who had grown increasingly frail over the winter.

“Alphros is two now?” Faramir asked.

Imrahil nodded, but before he could say more, Elphir joined them and with a proud paternal smile interrupted, “Yes, and walking and talking well for his age.”

“If I have time, I will come to Dol Amroth soon. It has been too long since I last visited,” Faramir said as they started the walk from the harbour to the castle.

*-*-*-*

The next morning, Imrahil cast an impatient look at the door to the council chamber, then glanced at Elphir sitting next to him. At least his son kept his impatience with the delay well under control. Imrahil could barely keep from getting up to pace as they waited for the last arrivals to the Steward’s Council. It would have to be Faramir who kept them waiting.

Imrahil’s relief that he and Elphir had not been the last to arrive turned to wondering what had delayed his nephew. Glancing at the Steward next, the Prince was surprised to find his own unrest echoed in the tension in the other’s posture; Denethor was usually better at hiding his emotions.

It was strange; they had spent their lives watching and waiting for the Enemy to attack, and now the War had come, and after the initial confrontation they still waited. Yet it was not the same. Too much had happened that he would not have held possible a year ago; Sauron held the One Ring again, and had thus regained all his strength of old; Minas Tirith was in the hands of the Enemy; the King had returned – and how that phrase would have set his imagination alight that year ago – and had almost immediately been wounded beyond hope. Imrahil still wondered if he should have ridden out in support as soon as he had seen Elendil’s standard raised over the Harlond, rather than wait for Mithrandir’s prompt.

Though Denethor had not said anything to him about that sortie beyond the last Council in Minas Tirith, Imrahil knew his willingness to follow the wizard’s lead had not been forgotten, nor had his conciliatory position in the Council. Denethor’s behaviour towards the Northerners had been an outrage, even if Imrahil understood why the Steward had been goading them as he had. He had been impressed by the control the northern Chieftain and the Half-elf had shown; even he would gladly have struck Denethor more than once in that meeting, and he had the advantage of being used to his kinsman’s manner.

Faramir’s arrival, together with the Lord of the Keys, allowed Imrahil to stop his thoughts before they turned to the evacuation of Minas Tirith and having to leave Erchirion behind. He had gone over it more times than he cared to consider already; better to clear his mind and pay attention to the council.

Meanwhile, Faramir had turned to Denethor. “My apologies for our late arrival, my lord, but a messenger from the garrison at the Crossings of Erui came in as I made my way here. There was an attack there three days ago.”

Denethor’s expression immediately moved from disapproval to keen interest and, as Imrahil noted Angbor of Lamedon leaning forward anxiously, asked for more details.

Both Húrin and Faramir sat down as Faramir replied. “A group of about a hundred and fifty Uruks attempted to overrun the defenders of the Crossings. They were beaten back, though some few made it across before they were killed.”

“Losses?” Angbor interrupted sharply, then immediately cast an apologetic look at Denethor. “Your pardon, my lord.”

The Lord of Lamedon was in an interesting position, Imrahil considered. His quick support of Aragorn had not done his relation with Denethor much good, even if he now emphatically supported the Steward against the murmurings among the minor lords that Denethor’s rule – or his mind – was failing. Whether or not Angbor had realised it at the time, his decision to give horses to the Grey Company had been important for more than one reason. It had not only allowed the Northerners to return home and start preparing their lands for war, but had also removed a source of internal strife from Gondor.

Imrahil had spoken long with the northern Chieftain, and he had learned that Halbarad was close kin to Aragorn, though apparently not able to claim the title of Isildur’s Heir without challenge. Had Halbarad and his men remained in Gondor longer, no doubt some of those who now stirred against Denethor would have been emboldened by the presence of one who could be used to weaken the Steward’s position, and might have attempted to build a plot around him, whether or not he was willing to support it. While the spectre of the Kinstrife had not the power under the Stewards that it had when there still was a King, the memory of that dark time in the history of Gondor was never very far away.

“Eleven badly wounded, eight dead.” Imrahil was drawn from his musings by Faramir’s reply to Angbor. “The messenger has a detailed report from the garrison’s captain.”

Angbor nodded his thanks for the answer as Denethor went on. “Did they expect further attacks?”

“No, not from what the messenger said,” Faramir replied.

Angbor spoke again. “What do we do now? It will take me several days to reinforce the garrison.”

Denethor responded. “Only replace the casualties, but keep another company within a day’s march from now on. Other than that, we wait; and prepare for when the real attack comes.”

“We just wait?” Forweg blurted out. “Cede the advantage to the Enemy?”

“He already has the advantage,” Imrahil reminded the young lord of Lossarnach, “Unless you can think of a way to retake Minas Tirith and Osgiliath both.” The Prince noted Denethor’s nod of agreement as Forweg remained silent, looking daunted after daring to speak up in his first council. Imrahil made sure not to smile at the young man’s unease. Forlong’s grandson and heir had only been confirmed as lord of Lossarnach three days before. At least he was old enough at eighteen, even if only just, that no regent had to be named. Succeeding Forlong would have been a daunting task at best, but under the current circumstances...

It was a pity Denethor had decided not to reveal the return of the One Ring to Sauron’s hand to more people, Imrahil thought. It would have been easier if all those present knew the truth of their situation. Húrin knew, and Imrahil had told Elphir, but Angbor, Forweg and Indor of Lebennin did not.

Forweg took a deep breath before speaking again. “But what must I do? Half of Lossarnach will be cut off when the Enemy advances to the Erui, and there are still so many of my people in the mountain valleys.”

“What do you yourself think is the best course?” Faramir now asked the young man in a gentle tone.

The lord of Lossarnach thought for some time, his uncertainty clear. Finally, he replied. “If those in the north stay where they are, they can only escape into the mountains when the Enemy attacks, so maybe they should come south now. But Grandfather said before he went to Minas Tirith that I should hang on to the valleys as long as possible if we were to come under attack; and a lot of people would not want to leave either.”

And that was the crux of it, Imrahil knew, for all of them. It could not be long until the Enemy advanced again; they would need to know where they should fight, and where to fall back and concede terrain without offering resistance. Yet Denethor would be loath to give up the mountains and access to the ancient secret strongholds that might become their final refuges.

“We must at least hold at the Erui,” Angbor said, “But you should perhaps empty the high mountain valleys except for a small force of fighting men.”

Denethor reacted after a brief pause. “Not yet; there will still be time for the people to take the mountain paths when Sauron advances again. It will be wise to be prepared for that event, though.”

Forweg looked pensive. “Then that is the course I will follow, my lord.”

Indor was next to speak, sounding slightly peevish. “And what about the Crossings of Poros? Do we just wait there too until Umbar marches across?”

Faramir started to reply, but Elphir was quicker. “Umbar will not attack over land, at least not soon. They will concentrate on building a new fleet, and their losses have been bad enough that I do not expect them to attack again this summer.”

“How soon do you expect an attack from Umbar?” Denethor asked.

Elphir considered the question before answering. “Unless they come before the autumn storms begin, not until next spring.”

Imrahil shook his head. Elphir was right in theory, but he was more pessimistic than his son. “Do not forget that their current lord was likely deposed as a result of losing his fleet. His successor will be eager to prove himself. Umbar will do everything it can to attack sooner rather than later.”

The Prince would prefer to know for certain what was going on in Umbar, but his spying network relied on traders and smugglers moving about, and trade had come to a halt with the war. What little they did know made a change in leadership very likely. Imrahil wondered which of Angamaitë’s sons would grab power, or had already done so. No doubt whoever it was would seek the Dark Lord’s continued favour by sacrificing his disgraced predecessor on the same altar on which Angamaitë had slain his own father after Thorongil’s raid on Umbar. And though the thought of those dark altars was enough to turn Imrahil’s stomach, he found there was a certain poetic justice in the probable fate of the lord of Umbar.

“How close a watch can you keep on Umbar?” Denethor asked Imrahil.

“Not close enough,” Imrahil replied. “We cannot even get within sight of the coast. They may have lost their main fleet, but the coastal defences are still there.”

“You may do better once the captured fleet is used,” Indor said. “You should perhaps not wait until the ships have new sails. Black sails may give a better chance to approach unchallenged.”

Imrahil wished it were that simple, but then Indor was Harbourmaster because of his administrative talents. The only time he had shown any strategic insight was when he had married the old Lord of Lebennin’s only daughter. Any Umbarite ship’s captain worth his salt would recognise these ships as the ones they had lost, and know that they were not manned by their own crews. Still, Indor had given him the opening he had been waiting for. From the quick narrowing of the Steward’s eyes, it was clear he had also noticed.

To the Prince’s surprise, Denethor spoke himself, rather than let him broach the subject. He quickly dismissed Indor’s suggestion, then went on. “Once all ships have new sails, and they are otherwise ready for service, the fleet will leave Pelargir to be based at Linhir.”

Linhir? That was unexpected. Imrahil had thought Denethor would, despite the ancient port’s vulnerabilities, favour Pelargir as the fleet’s base. As he looked around, it was clear all were surprised by Denethor’s announcement. However, on second thought Imrahil could see that it made sense. If this fleet was to protect Pelargir and the Ethir as well as the falas, Linhir was almost as good a choice as Dol Amroth, even if its harbour was small, and the largest ships would have to go to Dol Amroth or Pelargir for repairs.

Even so, Imrahil felt a twinge of regret that he had not advised Halbarad to let him have control of the fleet the Northerner had inherited from Aragorn. Alas, Denethor would have taken that as an outright challenge to his position, as indeed it would have been. They would have done Sauron’s work for him as Gondor destroyed itself in a second Kinstrife.

“Linhir?” the Lord of Lebennin said. “Why not Pelargir, my lord?”

Indor was not doing himself many favours in this council, Imrahil thought as Denethor replied. It was a good thing for him that he was at least a capable administrator, for that made it unlikely that Denethor would replace him as Harbourmaster. The defence of Pelargir was another matter, and for that Imrahil expected either Faramir or Húrin to be named soon, if the Steward did not take charge himself. And who would be put in command of the ships? That would perhaps show where Imrahil himself stood as far as Denethor was concerned. There was also still the Captain-Generalcy to be considered; Denethor had already waited long to announce his decision on that, and it could not be much longer before he did. Imrahil knew the chance that it would be him was very slim, even if – or perhaps because – he would be a popular choice with many of the common soldiers.

With Indor looking well-chastened, Denethor turned his attention to the others around the table again. He caught Imrahil’s gaze as he spoke. “I trust I can count on you to command the fleet for me, kinsman?”

There was only one possible reply and Imrahil quickly nodded his acceptance. Once good crews were found and a patrol schedule set up, he would not need to spend all his time with the fleet. In the meantime, and while he was at sea, Elphir was fully capable to take charge of Dol Amroth’s own defence.

“We shall discuss the details later between us,” Denethor added. He then turned to Faramir and asked him to repeat his account of what he had found in Ithilien. Faramir did so, concentrating on the armies he had seen marching north from the Cross-roads

“I wonder where those troops were going,” Forweg said once Faramir had finished.

“Rohan, I would think,” said Húrin.

“No,” Faramir and Denethor replied almost in chorus.

“We would have heard by now,” Faramir went on, “And there has been no word of more than skirmishes. They must have gone further north. Have we not heard from the messengers from Rohan that the Rohirrim have allied themselves with Lothlórien?”

Imrahil hoped that, if the Enemy was indeed attacking there, the alliance between the Horselords and the Elves would allow both to stand longer than they would alone. Lothlórien was little more than a name out of distant legend, and few in Gondor had ever seen an Elf. Yet in Belfalas and Dol Amroth there were still remains of ancient buildings, and coves that held what was left of harbours from which Elven ships had once sailed West – long abandoned and fallen into ruin – to bear witness of Elves having inhabited these lands once. It was even rumoured that on occasion Elves from Wilderland would still sail from such hidden coves, but he knew of no reliable sightings. And of course, there was the legacy of one Elf who had loved a mortal in his own blood, though little more remained than an occasional touch of foresight and a beardless chin. He wondered what had become of Mithrellas after she abandoned husband and children. Had his foremother sailed West, or did she yet wander the wilds of Middle-earth?

“Speaking of Rohan,” Angbor now said, casting a quick glance at Indor before he turned to Denethor, “Must the cost of the new messenger stations in Lamedon be borne by us, when I already contribute a considerable number of troops, while Lebennin contributes nothing except one messenger post?”

“Lebennin will provide much of the upkeep of the fleet at Linhir,” Denethor responded, holding Angbor’s gaze until the lord of Lamedon looked down.

Imrahil spoke immediately, addressing Denethor. “Should we not discuss the North also? Rohan is securing its northern borders, but there are also the Dúnedain and the Elves of Eriador to consider. Should not messengers be sent there soon?”

“They will be,” the Steward replied curtly.

“And who will be sent?” Imrahil went on, ignoring the look Denethor gave him. The idea that Gondor might need to accept aid from the remnants of Arnor was a sore subject for Denethor, yet it had to be discussed.

“I have not decided yet,” the Steward replied. “But most likely one of the higher-ranking lords of the realm, perhaps the Lord of the Keys, and one other.”

Imrahil nodded, while noticing a distinct lack of enthusiasm from Húrin at this announcement. Had he not just been appointed to the fleet he would have offered to go himself, as he was more than a bit curious about what the North held. Perhaps Denethor might consider Amrothos as the second envoy.

After a longer silence, Denethor spoke again. “I shall think about the North later, but for now I would like to turn to Ithilien again. It would seem that even if North Ithilien is lost, the southern half is not yet.”

Faramir, who had appeared to be deep in thought, looked up as the Steward addressed him. “Not yet, but it will be perilous to patrol near the Cross-roads. There are likely still Ringwraiths at Minas Morgul, and we have no cure to offer those who are stricken by the sickness they spread.”

“But it can be done?”

“Yes,” Faramir replied, “Though I would need to set up a new schedule for patrols to cover the south effectively.”

“Leave that to one of your lieutenants; I have another task in mind for you,” Denethor said.

Faramir looked at him expectantly, but Denethor waited until he held the full attention of all. “Captain, if you be willing, I herewith appoint you to the position of Captain-General.”

Imrahil was watching his nephew, but still caught Elphir’s surprised glance. Surely Elphir had not expected him to be given the post, certainly not after he had been appointed to lead the Corsairs’ fleet?

An elated smile spread across Faramir’s face as he replied to the Steward. “Thank you, my lord; I will give you no reason to regret your decision.” Then his expression turned solemn again and he said softly, “I will try to be a worthy successor to my brother.”

Once all had congratulated Faramir on his new rank, the meeting quickly came to an end, and Imrahil stood up to leave, but waited at a sign from Denethor. Elphir had joined Faramir and Húrin in a corner of the room. Denethor quickly came over to Imrahil. “I would send Elphir north if you can spare him in Dol Amroth.”

“No,” Imrahil replied immediately, “I was thinking that Amrothos might be a good choice.” While he did not look forward to sending either of his sons into the unknown so soon after losing Erchirion, it would be good experience for Amrothos. Denethor looked doubtful at first, but then gave his agreement.

There had been many surprises in the day, but one thing was certain, the Prince thought as he considered the Council, any who believed that the Steward had lost his ability to rule, would do well to examine their own faculties, for Denethor had lost none of his.

Chapter Text

June 28 – Midsummer's Day, 3019

The road at last...

Elrohir rushed to join his brother at the top of a low hill overlooking the road. Elladan had been looking west, but turned southward as Elrohir came up.

Elrohir did so as well. I wish we did not have to choose where to stand.

We have made our choice. We left Lothlórien, Elladan replied sharply, then went on out loud, "If we find the Beornings, they may be willing to tell us what news they have, both of Wilderland and of the High Pass."

"They might even have word of Legolas and Gimli. And with luck, they still hold the pass." Elrohir did not pursue the other point. He could not shake the thought that their farewell to their grandparents had been final. He hoped he had kept that thought from his brother, but from the look Elladan gave him, he had not been successful.

"There is only one way we will find out," Elladan said.

"Shall we stop now and go on at dawn? The horses need to rest," Elrohir said. He was glad they had accepted Celeborn's offer of horses. The animals they had ridden from Gondor had not been bad, but they were not Elven-trained, and, perhaps more importantly, these horses had crossed the Misty Mountains several times already, and would be more reliable in the mountains.

Elladan agreed, adding, "If we reach the foothills tomorrow, we can start the crossing of the pass the day after."

"A week until we are home?" Elrohir asked as they went down the hill.

"If all goes well. I would like to be," Elladan answered.

Elladan took the first turn at guard and Elrohir was quickly asleep. He was annoyed to find that it was already close to dawn when his brother woke him.

"I was too restless to sleep," Elladan said, "And it is little hardship to stand a double watch."

"I know," Elrohir replied, "But you should not take on more than your share." He sighed at Elladan's silence.

"We must be off if we want to reach the foothills tonight," Elladan finally said.

Elrohir merely nodded, but as he went to refill their water-bottles from a nearby brook, he paused to put his hand on Elladan's shoulder. His brother smiled and returned the gesture.

Before they set off, they again went up the hill from where they had watched the previous day. A thin fog lay over the land towards the river, though not enough to obscure their view of the road. It would be a long time yet before Eärendil's star would be visible in the morning, yet Elrohir waited until he could see the first edge of the sun above the faraway darkness of Mirkwood before he turned west. The foothills and the lower slopes of the mountains seemed a solid mass of trees, and the Misty Mountains were but a wide smudge of dark grey on the horizon. Yet as he watched, a dash of pink-tinged white appeared along the edge of that dark mass; the first light of day had touched the highest tops.

"Dare we risk the road?" Elladan asked.

"Yes, at least for the first stretch," Elrohir replied.

"I am worried. The road is too quiet," Elladan said that night as they made their camp in a clearing about a mile from the road. Through a gap in the trees, the mountains were now clearly visible as a long row of high peaks; and beyond was their home.

"So am I. We should have seen some sign at least of the Beornings." Elrohir shook his head. "If they have lost the High Pass..."

"...we will find another path across the mountains," Elladan finished.

"I hope so. This night, I will stand guard," Elrohir said. Elladan nodded and was quickly gone to scout the area.

Elladan was away for about an hour. "There is a path nearby that looks as if it is made by Men, but no recent tracks," he reported when he returned.

"We may find the Beornings tomorrow," Elrohir said.

"Or Orcs," Elladan replied, before he lay down under the shelter of some low branches and was soon asleep.

As the moon sank towards the west, Elrohir watched the darkening sky. The evening was quiet; all he could hear were the soft noises their horses made in their sleep, a summer's night choir of crickets and frogs, small animals rustling about looking for food, the ghostly hoo-oo of an owl. He understood why Elladan had not woken him up the previous night; had he felt even slightly at ease, this watch would have been pleasant. Yet was this peace more than a mockery? Soon enough the Enemy would attack the North and the only peace would be that of death.

Elrohir looked west again. Arwen... Their father would need them now. Even if the High Pass was held by the Enemy, there were enough other paths across the mountains that they would not have to return to Lothlórien.

He stood up; it might clear these dark thoughts from his mind if he moved about. Just as Elrohir stepped into the deeper shadow of the tree under which Elladan slept, the night went suddenly quiet. His hand fell to his sword hilt and he listened for anything that could have disturbed the night animals. Nothing. No, wait...

A change in his brother's breathing betrayed that Elladan was awake. What is it?

I do not know. The forest went silent.

The sudden noise of the crickets resuming their chirping was enough to make both brothers jump, and they laughed nervously as they realised there was no immediate threat.

Then, just as Elrohir lifted his hand from his sword, he heard what he had feared to hear for days. Far away, yet still too close. Wolves. Towards the mountains.

"They are too far off to be hunting us," Elladan whispered.

"It may be just an ordinary pack, and not Wargs," Elrohir replied as he looked over at their horses. The wind was from the west, and were the wolves a danger, the horses would give warning soon enough. The animals were awake and must have heard the wolves too, but they were not overly alarmed. "Go back to sleep. Unless they come nearer, we are better off staying here than wandering around in the dark."

His brother followed his suggestion without a word. Elrohir sat down, though he longed to pace. Even if the night was peaceful again, that very peace now felt threatening, ominous.

In the morning, they set off before the sun had even risen. Soon they were into the foothills, and the road rose and dipped through the hilly terrain, forcing them to slow to spare the horses and making it hard to see far. Around noon, they found a sheltered spot just in sight of the road; as it was Elladan's turn to fill the water-bottles, Elrohir would stay with the horses and watch the road.

There is a stream down here, Elladan said. And ripe raspberries. I will pick a few for our meal.

Elrohir smiled and shook his head. If Elladan was going to forage, he would be gone for some time; what his brother considered a few raspberries would feed them noon and night. Then his smile changed to a frown. Elladan had turned around and was coming back.

Orcs. We must go, was all Elladan said. Elrohir quickly picked up both their packs and mounted, waiting.

Elladan only paused to take his pack from Elrohir and hand him his water-bottle, before he mounted his own horse and directed the animal towards the road. A full troop. I almost walked into their camp.

Did they see you?" Elrohir asked. Elladan nudged his horse into a trot as soon as they reached the road.

I think not, Elladan answered, then spoke aloud as Elrohir caught up. "They did not give chase at least."

Elrohir almost believed that they had indeed escaped, when suddenly Elladan's horse swerved and stumbled, but kept going.

An arrow whistled by, barely missing his own horse, but before Elrohir could even look to find their attackers, he felt a sharp pain in his right arm. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he still managed to turn in the saddle to look back, but saw nothing.

Elrohir!

Ride! It is nothing. The arrow only grazed my arm. He could feel it was more than that, but he would look at it once they were out of bow's reach – and hope there were no patrols waiting for them further along the road. Your horse?

Upset more than hurt. He can go on.

A few more arrows were loosed, but there were no further hits; if they made it to the next bend in the road, they would be out of range.

One, perhaps two archers. No more, Elladan concluded as they reached safety.

"At least for now," Elrohir said. "They will give chase."

"Let me look at your arm then," Elladan said, bringing his horse up close.

"There is no time; it can wait," Elrohir protested, but at an insistent gesture from Elladan he held out his arm.

Elladan took his belt knife and cut away the sleeve of his tunic. Elrohir inhaled sharply as his brother carefully felt around the arrow. "Just a graze?" Elladan asked, adding, "I will have to push the arrow through."

"Dressings are in my pack," Elrohir said, and waited as Elladan searched for them. Even though he made sure to look away as soon as his brother took hold of the arrow, he still almost fainted.

Steady, Elladan said as he snapped off the arrowhead, then pulled out the shaft also. The healer still brought low by the sight of his own blood? he teased gently as he put on the dressing, with Elrohir still looking away. Elrohir grimaced and nodded.

The way this is bleeding, they will have little trouble following our trail, and Wargs will spot us from miles away, Elrohir observed wryly once they were under way again, galloping hard rather than riding at a more sustainable trot. Both he and Elladan were now constantly looking over their shoulder, and well aware that they could not afford to spare the horses overmuch. At least it was still bright day, and the Orcs would be reluctant to march before dark, unless they had their quarry in sight.

For speed, I would keep to the road as long as possible, Elladan said.

Elrohir glanced at the sun. I agree, but we will have to decide on our path soon.

"It is another hour before we reach the northern road. We can rest the horses while we decide. I want another look at your arm as well. Is it troubling you now?"

"Not too badly," Elrohir replied. "About as sore as you would expect."

"It is unlikely the arrow was poisoned then," Elladan said, "Even so, I would rather have bathed the wound with athelas."

Elrohir looked down. "We have none left, as you well know." He turned towards Elladan again. "I doubt it is necessary. It is no more than an ordinary arrow wound."

"We must stop anyway, to give the horses a brief rest at least," Elladan said, "I may as well look then."

"There should be a river about half a mile to the north; we can let them drink there, and you can look at my arm again." It would not cost them too much time and would reassure his brother.

They were about to turn off the road, when Elrohir thought he saw something to the west. He stopped his horse, and looked again. Still miles away, and only intermittently visible between the trees lining the road, but... Elladan. Three horsemen. Beornings.

Elladan turned his horse around and came back. "Yes, I see them too."

Still on horseback, they waited by the side of the road until the riders were within hailing reach.

As soon as the men saw them, they pulled up their horses, and approached at a walk. All three had a tight grip on the long spears they carried. Both Elrohir and Elladan raised their right hand in token of peace, but the expressions on the faces of the strangers remained wary, and they lowered their spears but slowly.

"What brings two Elves here?" the foremost one called out, giving them a searching look.

"We are travelling towards the High Pass," Elladan said.

"The High Pass? You..." The Beorning was interrupted by the man next to him, who leaned over in his saddle and whispered something. He nodded at his companion, then asked, "Where are you headed beyond the mountains?"

"Rivendell," Elrohir replied after a brief hesitation.

The men conferred again, then the one who appeared to be their leader spoke, looking troubled, "I fear you will have to try another road. We are sending messengers there ourselves, but should you reach the house of Elrond Half-Elven, tell him we need his aid, for we cannot hold the High Pass much longer without it."

Elrohir exchanged a glance with Elladan before he answered. "We shall deliver your message. But... you say that the Beornings still hold the High Pass, yet you advise us to seek another road?"

"Yes," the Beorning responded. "We still defend the pass itself, but our enemies hold the approaches on both sides. I doubt you will be able to get past them."

"Yet you are here," Elladan said.

"We left before their reinforcements arrived. We are messengers, riding east to seek help. What news can you give us of that road?"

"Ill news, I fear. There is at least one large Orc band close behind us," Elladan said.

"That is ill indeed, and we cannot afford to lose time," the Beorning muttered, then addressed them again as he turned back towards the road, "But I thank you for the warning."

If the Enemy is attacking the High Pass in force, it is likely Rivendell is his next target, Elrohir thought.

And we are still in Wilderland, when we ought to be there! Elladan answered, and gestured Elrohir to silence as he spoke further to the messengers. Their leader confirmed that an Elf and a Dwarf travelling together had crossed the Anduin at the Old Ford two months earlier, but could offer no further news.

After well-wishes for the road were exchanged, they watched the Beornings ride east in silence, before they themselves turned and headed for the river and the north.

"Our path has been set for us already, it seems," Elladan broke the silence some time later, as he cleaned and rebandaged Elrohir's arm.

"Can we trust them or their warning?" Elrohir said.

"I think so, nor do we have much choice," Elladan replied. "We are already hunted."

"North it is then," Elrohir conceded. "We can take a short cut from here," he added. "It is only a few leagues across this vale until we encounter the northern road."

Elladan nodded as he ran a hand down his horse's leg. "And that will gain us enough time that we can walk the horses for a while. I would rather give them more rest, but..." He stopped and raised his hand, listening.

Elrohir heard it too; the raucous yells of Orcs on the hunt, still distant, yet too near. "We ride," he said, followed by a sharp curse as he used his wounded arm to pull himself up into the saddle.

In the dense forest, they could only proceed slowly, and it was close to dusk by the time they reached the path. The sounds of pursuit could still be heard behind them, and in the far distance they could hear Wargs too. The hunt was truly on now.

"We cannot rest," Elladan said. "If we stop, they will catch up."

"They will anyway," Elrohir replied, "We may outrun them on this road, but not in the mountains."

"Then what do you suggest?" Elladan asked. "We must cross soon, before we get too close to Goblin-town."

"They will expect that." Elrohir turned in the saddle, peering into the gloom behind them. "But we cannot go further north; it will take much too long to get back to Rivendell." Perhaps, with the Redhorn Pass blocked by avalanches and rockfalls, they should have gone through Rohan after all, but that too would have taken too long.

Now that they had reached the path, they could go faster, and it was not long before they could no longer hear their distant pursuers. After about an hour's riding in the dark, they dismounted again. They could not afford to stop, but walking would give the horses some rest.

"How is your arm?" Elladan asked.

"Painful, stiff," Elrohir replied. "Not too bad."

"Can you climb with it?"

Elrohir tensed his arm and tried how much movement he had without it hurting too badly. "Yes, I think so."

"Then we should attempt the first pass."

"The trail was made by Orcs. They will know every short cut and trap."

"That was over a thousand years ago; it has been out of use since we cleaned out the caves that opened on to it."

"And we cannot take the horses." Elrohir remembered the path clearly – it would be dangerous enough on foot. Even so, Elladan was right; they would have to take a chance if they were to make it across at all. "But I see no other choice either."

"If we release the horses before we start into the mountains, they have a good chance of making it back to Lothlórien," Elladan said.

"Their chances may be better than ours," Elrohir muttered. Elladan said nothing, and they continued through the night in silence.

As it grew light, the path started to turn west, and they found themselves at a sharp dip in the terrain. "We may as well let go the horses here and continue on foot," Elladan said. "It is no more than a mile or two to the path that leads to the pass."

"We should hide the saddles and headstalls," Elrohir said, after they had dismounted.

"I will take them up a tree," Elladan suggested, putting his words into action as soon as they had unsaddled the horses. It would be too much to hope for that the Orcs would follow the horses and miss their own trail, but at least the puzzle would give them a brief delay. While Elladan climbed the tree, Elrohir busied himself with rearranging their packs and checking how much food they had left.

"We will have to start on the lembas within a few days," he said as Elladan dropped back down to the ground for the last time.

"We have almost enough to make it home, and once we are on the other side of the mountains we should have opportunity to hunt or forage," Elladan said, before he turned and spoke softly to their horses. The animals dipped their heads in unison, as if they were acknowledging orders, then turned and slowly walked off, heading north. "They will turn back south later," Elladan said. "They know the Orcs are out there, and they will be careful."

"Time for us to be on our way as well," Elrohir said. They had not heard their pursuers for some time, yet they should not risk stopping too long. The mountain path would be hazardous, even without the Orcs on their heels. The day was already well past noon when Elladan spotted the turn that would take them further up. It was obvious the route had not been used or maintained for a long time; it was overgrown with grass and low tangles of brambles, and shrubs and small trees grew even on the path itself. In the distance Elrohir could see where an old rockfall had spilled over the path.

Using stout branches as staves, they made better speed than Elrohir had dared hope. Just before they reached the ancient rockfall, Elladan stopped to look around. "Look behind," he said, pointing down to where they had come from.

Far below, already in the shadow of the mountains, Elrohir recognised the place where they had set their horses loose. At first, he saw nothing to alarm him; then an Orc briefly moved from the deeper shadow of the trees.

"Half a day at most. I would have preferred a longer lead." Elrohir turned away, back towards their path. "They will gain overnight."

They walked on afternoon and evening, resisting the urge to keep looking over their shoulders. They would hear the Orcs long before they saw them. Close to dusk, a rumble in the distance had them even more on their guard.

"Rockfall," Elladan said. "Hopefully it has not blocked our path, but there is naught we can do about it. Shall we stop to eat, then go on through the night?"

Elrohir sat down quickly. If the path was blocked, they would have to climb to get around the obstruction, and while his arm could likely take the exertion, he did welcome the chance to rest.

"At least the Moon is nearly full, and we will have more light until he sets," Elladan said as they set off again after a quick meal of dried meat and a handful of berries.

"So will the Orcs," Elrohir observed sourly; Elladan's attempts at optimism started to grate on him. They walked on until the Moon had set, then rested briefly. They had to go slower now; Elrohir was starting to tire again, and he could sense his brother's fatigue as well

Was that the Orcs he heard behind them? Elrohir paused to listen more closely. Yes, it was. They are less than an hour behind. A howl in the distance. Warg.

No doubt passing messages to others, Elladan replied.

Before Elrohir had counted more than five heartbeats, the Warg's call was answered.

Ahead of us, Elrohir said.

And still hours until sunrise, Elladan replied, looking up at the sky. It was cold enough that Elrohir could see his breath escape in cloudy puffs against the bright stars above.

"We had best go on again," Elrohir said, "Not far now until we reach the first entrance to those caves. If I remember aright, the path should grow easier for some time once we are past there."

They soon reached the caves, and were about to pass them when Elrohir heard a shuffling noise. Elladan!

Yes. I hear it too. Orc.

More than one. Wait until they attack.

Before Elladan had moved ten paces past the mouth of the caves, three Orcs jumped out, no doubt thinking to rush him. Elladan spun around, drawing his sword before he had completed the turn, and the first Orc was dead. Elrohir had stepped forward as soon as the Orcs ran out of the cave, and his strike beheaded the second one. He cursed inwardly as the sweeping movement pulled at the wound in his arm, but kept from crying out in pain. The third Orc turned and ran back inside before either brother had a chance to strike at him.

"Let him go!" Elladan cried out as Elrohir was about to go after the Orc. "We do not have the time."

But he will betray our presence to our pursuers.

They already know we are here. Besides, we do not know how many more are in there.

Elrohir sighed, then winced as he wiped his sword on one of the dead Orcs' clothes. Elladan was immediately at his side. Your arm?

Leave it for now. We must go on.

Elladan reluctantly gave in, and they went on, now wary not just for the Orcs already in pursuit, but also for any others that might be lurking nearby. If those caves were in use again, there would be more than a mere three Orcs in them. The next part of the path was indeed easier; though there were patches of snow beside it, the path itself was clear. Even in the dark, and despite their weariness, they made good speed. Yet every time they heard their pursuers, the Orcs were closer.

They keep gaining on us.

Perhaps the day will bring counsel.

Perhaps... Elrohir glared at the mountainside that loomed over their path. It might look better in daylight, but in the pre-dawn gloom, all looked dreary and grey. At least the Warg howls that had trailed them throughout the night had stopped.

Not long now until the sun rises, Elladan went on. "With some luck we can regain the lead we lost."

"And if not?" Elrohir asked softly.

Elladan said nothing at first, but lowered his right hand to his sword, and pulled Elrohir into a tight embrace with his left. "We fight."

Elrohir nodded against his brother's shoulder. They would give a good accounting of themselves, but with them on foot and against Wargs as well as Orcs, the enemy had the advantage. "Come. We have to keep moving," he said as he broke their embrace.

There was a sharp bend ahead, and Elrohir tried to remember what came after as they approached it. There should be a fairly easy section first, followed by a steep climb towards the highest point of the pass.

Looking over his shoulder, Elrohir was relieved to see that the Orcs were not yet in sight. As he went forward again, he nearly ran into Elladan who had stopped abruptly upon reaching the turn in the path.

Elrohir did not know whether this was the rockfall they had heard the day before, but no more than a few hundred yards beyond their vantage point, the mountainside had collapsed, leaving a long gap in the path.

"Do you see any way across that?" he asked.

"Not from here," Elladan replied. "We could take a closer look, but I doubt we can get past the gap."

"Then what do we do?" Elrohir looked behind again. The Orcs were still not in sight, but it would not be long before they caught up.

Elladan was silent for a long time, first looking back as well, then taking a few steps forward as if that made a difference in what he saw. Finally he shook his head. "It is no good. Even if there is a way across, their archers can pick easily us off. We are trapped here. Unless..."

"Unless?" Elrohir asked when Elladan did not continue.

"If we go back to..." Elladan started.

"Go back?" Elrohir interrupted him.

"Yes. Back," Elladan almost snapped at him in reply, then went on more quietly, "Do you recall where there was only a narrow path a bit before? If we go down there, we can find our way around the rockfall lower down while the Orcs are still up here."

"What is to stop their archers from picking us off there too?" Elrohir asked, rubbing at his wounded arm. He remembered the passage his brother meant, but he did not see that it would give them a better chance to escape.

"Did you look over the edge?" Elladan asked, then continued as Elrohir shook his head in denial. "There is a ledge about twenty yards down that will shield us from view from the path."

Elrohir nodded, considering the idea; it might work. "Very well. We will try that."

"Then we must go back now," Elladan replied. Unless you think you cannot make the climb?

No, it should not be a problem.

"Stop. This is the place I meant," Elladan said after a few minutes, gesturing at the mountain below them. "If we can make it down to the bottom of the slope before they catch up..."

Elrohir quickly lowered himself over the edge of the path. Even getting to the ledge would not be easy, he thought once he put his weight on his wounded arm. He gritted his teeth against the pain and hoped he could keep it from his brother; he did not want to slow them down. There, the ledge... he breathed a sigh of relief.

The next section was just as steep, but there appeared to be enough holds for hands and feet. Further down, there was a rough scree slope, at a precarious angle and with many large boulders among the smaller rocks; but if they made it down that far unseen, they might once more have a chance to outrun the Orcs.

They were no more than ten yards down on the second part of the slope when Elrohir heard the Orcs above them. He glanced over to where Elladan clung to the rocks. If the Orcs would just run past...

At first, it seemed the Orcs fell for the deception, and continued on their way.

No. The Wargs know we were up there, Elladan said as there was a sharp yelp from above.

Soon, Elrohir could hear their enemies milling about on the path. The Wargs might have found their scent, but they did not yet know where their prey had gone.

It may take a while before they think to look over the edge, Elladan observed from just above him.

They were nearly halfway down the steepest part now; only another thirty yards until they reached the scree. Elrohir looked up to where they had come from, just as a dozen Orcs dropped down over the ledge.

No archers yet, Elrohir thought, then pressed closer against the rock as a large rock clattered down past him.

Perhaps the first rock had been loosened by accident, but the Orcs still on the ledge now started throwing down more rocks. Luckily, the projectiles either bounced away harmlessly or struck near the Orcs already lower on the slope. The Orcs yelled up at their fellows at the top to stop. Amid jeering and catcalls they did, but they too now started down in pursuit of Elladan and Elrohir. At a quick count there were about forty Orcs, though at least the Wargs could not follow.

Elrohir could already see that the scree would be no easier than the first part of the slope, its treacherous surface liable to slip away underfoot. The first Orcs were not far behind. As Elrohir looked over at Elladan, his brother indicated that they should separate more, forcing the Orcs to spread out further as well. Elrohir slipped slightly as he moved to the side, a rivulet of pebbles clattering down the slope below him.

Careful. The slope is unstable, Elladan warned, then cursed as he overbalanced and nearly lost his footing. They both recovered quickly and continued on down, but the incident seemed to have encouraged the Orcs to resume their earlier barrage of rocks. The first rocks missed them by a wide margin, but the other Orcs soon followed suit and a hail of rocks and pebbles started to fall down.

As most rocks fell short, Elrohir wondered at the Orcs' aim, then realised that they were trying to disturb the slope enough to set off a rockslide. Even worse, it was working. Small streams of pebbles were running down the slope.

I see it too, Elladan said. Faster and more to the side! It is our only chance.

The surface was even worse further down, and in their haste they stumbled as much as ran. There were larger rocks coming down as well, and Elrohir did not dare risk even a brief glance behind to see where either his brother or the Orcs were.

Suddenly, the jeers and shouts from the Orcs turned to a confusion of screams, almost immediately drowned out by the clatter of falling rocks. Where was Elladan? Was his brother clear of the scree yet?

Keep going!

Elrohir slipped, further losing his balance at a sharp blow to his head.

In a reflex, he felt at his head. Blood; warm on his hand.

Sliding, falling

Brother! Where

Grabbing at rocks, trying to slow, to stop

Tell Father I

... am with you ... not alone ...

Still falling

NO! Do NOT stay with me. Let go!

Rocks striking arms, legs, back, chest, head

hurthurthurtHURT

LET GO!

. . .

Chapter Text

Mid-year's Day, 3019

Above her, the stars shone white and cold. Will I be able to see them beyond the Circles of the World? She would know soon, and the quiver that ran through her was anticipation rather than apprehension. I have already waited too long.

Before, Arwen had still felt a faint echo of Estel's presence in her mind, telling her that he was yet within Mandos' Halls. Now even that was gone. Had she thought then that she was alone, now he was truly gone from the World and only silence, emptiness remained.

When she had not answered his last, despairing outcry, had he given up hope that she would follow him? Another, perhaps worse, thought struck her. Could she know that her Choice would be allowed by the Valar? What if, coming to the Halls of Mandos she found that she was not Mortal? No. No, she had to trust that her Choice was made.

She shivered at the unbidden memory of Estel's hand brushing away a lock of her hair as he lowered his head to kiss her as they plighted their troth. Had she any hope of reaching Lothlórien, she would have gone to Cerin Amroth. Instead, she would spend this night in the place where she had learned of his death, and in the morning she would go and say her farewells before returning here for the last time. And where better? Was this not also where, many years ago by the count of Men, a callow, yet oh-so-earnest youth called her Tinúviel and placed his heart at her feet? She had dismissed him then, yet he remained on her mind until she saw him again in Lothlórien, arrayed in silver and white, as bright as Eärendil's star.

Their time together had been so short; a week here, half a day there, just enough time for a kiss as he hurried through Rivendell, once several months after he had been brought here to recover from a wound. So little, yet it had been enough to sustain them, and always they had hoped that they would prevail. Estel, I hoped with your hope, as you hoped with mine. Now the Enemy has won, defeated us, and I am bereft of hope.

Then why, when I already knew what I should do, have I lingered so long? There is still something holding me back. But what? Arwen sat down to ponder what it was, but stood up again immediately, too restless to sit. What is it? Fear? No... How could she fear death when she had no reason to live? Yet to die would be never to see her family again.

Arwen wished she could have seen her brothers one last time; at least we could have said farewell. Likely they were still in Lothlórien with their grandparents, and even in the thick of battle, they were as safe there as they would be anywhere in Middle-earth.

Her mother had gone West to find healing, but Arwen would find no healing there or anywhere within the Circles of the World. I would that father could understand that. It tore at her to watch his pain and grief, yet he too might in the end find some measure of peace in the West.

She shook her head at her thoughts, as if love were nothing more than a set of scales to be balanced, with Estel on one side and her kin on the other. Yet they were not what held her back. It is as if there is something I have to do, here, before I will be free to leave. But what? "Your fate need not be Lúthien's," her father had said. But how could it not be?

Lúthien... Lúthien had not been cowed even by Morgoth. In the end, she had chosen the Fate of Men to be with Beren, but she had not bowed her head in defeat; she had defied Thingol, denied Fëanor's sons, braved the dangers of the wild of Beleriand, and at Tol-in-Gaurhoth she had confronted Sauron for her love's sake.

O demon dark, O phantom vile

of foulness wrought, of lies and guile

here shalt thou die...

Arwen gasped, so suddenly did the thought come to her. If I am indeed like Lúthien, I should be so in full. I know what I have to do.

A love is mine, as great a power
as thine, to shake the gate and tower
of death with challenge weak and frail
that yet endures, and will not fail
nor yield, unvanquished were it hurled
beneath the foundations of the world.

On the day she had first made her Choice, she and Estel had pledged not only to cleave to each other, but also to oppose the Shadow, and see it destroyed. While the latter was beyond her – I can scarcely challenge the Enemy to a needlework duel... – the war would require all effort, even if she did no great deeds, but merely her daily duties.

She did not know whether to laugh at her presumption in thinking to pit herself against Sauron, even in so small a manner, or to quail in fear, but then her hand strayed to the Elessar. She had worn it every day since it came back to her. Let the stone that had been a token only of her love also be a sign of her determination, her challenge to the Enemy. I will not submit in defeat, fade in bitter grief. I will not abandon our fight. She would take her grief, take her love, her pain, her anger, and there find the strength to stay and stand against the Dark One. She would see this through to whatever bitter end there would be. Only then could she follow Estel. Arwen shuddered as she thought of him waiting, alone. Soon enough I will be with you again.

Chapter Text

Midsummer's Day, 3019

Erkenbrand's main feeling once Éowyn and Elfhelm finished their marital oaths was relief that it was done. Éowyn's stern, cold face was hardly that of a bride and Elfhelm looked as if he faced an Orc-troop in battle. Even so, Erkenbrand quickly shrugged off his doubts. It was for the weal of the Mark, and both Éowyn and Elfhelm abided by that. He wondered what Théoden would have made of it; likely, at least when his mind was still his own, the king would have been in favour, even without the necessity that now guided it.

Elfhelm had scarcely finished speaking when the guests started to cheer. Éowyn managed a smile at "Praise to the Queen," but when someone shouted, "Praise to the King," Elfhelm quickly stepped forward and raised a hand to demand silence, while Erkenbrand tried to see who had spoken.

"King? I am no king," Elfhelm spoke. "I am but the Queen's first liegeman, and I will not hear it said otherwise." He then turned back towards Éowyn, and knelt before her. "My lady, lest any would doubt my loyalty, I pledge once more my fealty to my queen."

As Erkenbrand followed suit, silently praising Elfhelm's quick reaction and cursing knees that were no longer as young as they once were, he again glanced across the Hall, and caught one of Folcwine's retainers as he all but forced young Anlaf to his knees. So it had been Anlaf shouting… Meanwhile, everyone else rapidly followed Elfhelm's lead in paying homage to Éowyn. She appeared surprised, but recovered quickly. "I thank you all. Now rise and let the feast begin." The latter command resulted in another cheer as all rose again.

Erkenbrand was soon sitting with a mug of ale in hand as he considered the commotion and whether to seek more behind it than Anlaf being in his cups already. He was disturbed almost immediately by one of the doorwards.

"Lord Erkenbrand, the Queen's esquire said to speak to you. Herulf of Dunharrow is approaching with a party of Gondorians," the man said. "Master Meriadoc will take care that they are received properly when they arrive, but he thought you should know as well."

"Thank you, Leofric," Erkenbrand replied. These were likely – at last – the envoys who would travel north with him. After he had gone to Dwimordene on the Queen's business, the Council had not been overly pleased that he would be travelling abroad again. None of them had offered to go either, so Éowyn had prevailed in choosing her envoy to the Dúnedain and the Elves.

Erkenbrand had not said during the meeting that he also had his own reasons for wanting to visit the north. The things he had heard in Dwimordene – little and shrouded in mystery though they had been – confirmed what he had already understood upon first hearing about the Enemy's Ring: there was little chance that the Mark could weather the storm that was brewing in the East. Alone, they certainly would not stand. He was scarcely a lore-master, yet if his people were going to their doom, he at least wanted to know why. If either answers or help were to be found, it would be among the Dúnedain or in Rivendell.

At least Éowyn's bold move in marrying Elfhelm appeared to have achieved its first purpose, Erkenbrand thought. If the mood in Edoras was anything to go by, the people were keen on the match, and seemed to take it as a sign of hope even after so many Riders had been lost before Mundburg. Most lords of the Mark seemed to approve also, but whether they approved of Elfhelm's advancement or of Éowyn's response to the pressure the Council had put on her? Anlaf was drunk enough to speak unwisely, but that did not mean others did not also prefer to have a King rather than a Queen's consort. Either way, having taken the advantage of surprise, Éowyn and Elfhelm – and those who had, like him, tied their fate to them – could only continue to act boldly.

Erkenbrand took a fresh mug of ale from one of the serving men standing nearby, and moved out of the way of the servants who were setting out long trestle tables in preparation for the evening's feast. He wandered on towards the far end of the hall, where he spotted the holbytla…hobbit Meriadoc talking to a woman sitting next to him. As she turned her head, Erkenbrand saw it was his distant kinswoman Hild.

The hobbit – as Meriadoc had been at pains to remind everyone was the proper name for his kind – looked up to greet him with a smile. Holbytla might well be the right word in the speech of the Mark, but hobbit was somehow more fitting, Erkenbrand had to admit. He would have liked to know when and how the paths of their peoples had crossed, leaving little more than words as reminders, but the Mark had only vague tales of hobbits, and he doubted that the hobbits' own stories recalled more of their distant past.

"Greetings, Meriadoc, Hild," Erkenbrand said as he sat down next to him at one of the tables that had been set up already. "Well, master hobbit, what make you of our wedding customs?" he asked.

Before Meriadoc could answer, the hobbit was struck by a coughing fit, just as he was taking a sip of ale. Hild immediately gave him an enthusiastic pounding on the back to stop his coughing, and as Erkenbrand met her laughing gaze, it struck him that Hild and Master Meriadoc might be more familiar with each other than he thought. He considered the idea as he drank the last of his own ale. Hild was several years widowed, and none should speak ill of it if she chose to take either a lover or a new husband to her bed. The hobbit was a brave warrior and of sufficient rank both in his homeland and in the Mark that he made a good match. Or – and Erkenbrand had to make an effort to keep a grin off his face – he would if one put aside the need for a ladder for them to kiss; it was just as well Hild was not a very tall woman.

The hobbit was soon recovered from his coughing fit. "In some ways very like our own," he said, "The bride also puts flowers in her hair, and we too give a feast. But in the Shire the bride's father or another member of her family would walk with her, and place her hand in the groom's hand before they speak their vows and sign their names to the marriage contract, along with the signatures of witnesses."

Erkenbrand was about to explain the part the parents of bride and groom would normally have in the Mark, but Hild spoke before he could.

"A contract?" she asked. "Your people write contracts for marriage? And as for the bride's father putting the bride's hand... giving her to her husband? Have your womenfolk no will of their own?"

Meriadoc seemed taken aback at first, then snorted in laughing denial. "No will of their own? You would not say that if you knew any hobbit women. It is just the way we do things." From his pensive look he was not done yet, and he did indeed go on. "But no contracts; how then are disagreements dealt with if nothing is put down in writing?"

Now it was Hild's turn to be taken aback. "Is spoken word not binding? One who is faithless will not become less so because of some markings on paper. Besides, there are witnesses to the promises that are made, and the law will rule on what portion belongs to whom, and the rights of..."

Erkenbrand was starting to feel superfluous as the two continued comparing customs. Leaving them to their discussion, he had made his way to the side of the hall when he saw a guard come in to speak to the hobbit. Meriadoc stood up and followed the man to the entrance. That probably meant the Gondorians had arrived. Meanwhile, it should not be long either until the tables were set up and the feast could begin in truth.

Not long afterwards the hall's door opened and two dark-haired men entered, with master Meriadoc beside them. They paused to let their eyes adjust – the Hall might be brightly lit today, but it would still seem dark when one came in. Erkenbrand watched as the hobbit led them towards the dais. They looked weary, and while the younger of the two gazed about him curiously, the older barely looked aside, his expression proud, almost disdainful. They spoke briefly with the Queen and Elfhelm, before Meriadoc led them out again. If they returned to the hall, Erkenbrand would make sure to speak with them; if not... He shrugged. There was time enough; it was another week before he and they were to set off north.

Erkenbrand continued his round of the hall, talking to people here and there. Mostly he listened, gauging the mood of the guests. At least he did not hear Anlaf's foolishness repeated quite so openly, although there were a few who sniggered that it would be interesting to see just who wielded the sword in this marriage. Even so, people appeared genuinely pleased at the wedding, hoping that Elfhelm would curb and steady Éowyn's headstrong character, guiding one who was very young, and, as a woman, not raised to rule. He noticed some cautious looks at the delegation of Elves from Dwimordene who had arrived the previous day – they had not come especially for the wedding, but had been pleased to be invited to the feast – but even they were treated with wary curiosity rather than open hostility or fear. For a moment Erkenbrand wondered how people would have reacted had any Ents come to Edoras. Elves were one thing; uncanny as they could be, at least they looked like Men, but talking trees…?

Before long the Gondorians returned, along with Herulf. Erkenbrand quickly walked over, and after he had greeted Herulf, the lord of Dunharrow introduced the two to Erkenbrand. "Lord Erkenbrand, Lord Húrin of the Keys and Lord Amrothos, son of the Prince of Dol Amroth."

"Lord Erkenbrand? I understand that you will accompany us on the journey north?" the younger Gondorian, Amrothos, said after nodding his thanks at Herulf, and after Erkenbrand's confirmation he went on, "Have you ever been to the north? What is it like?"

"I have been some way into Dunland," Erkenbrand replied, "Though on the road we will travel, I have never gone beyond Greyflood."

"We have maps for the first part of our road," Húrin interrupted, loftily dismissing Erkenbrand's lack of information, "And there will be towns and villages where we can ask for information about the road if we need it. We spoke with the perian earlier and he confirmed that there is a good inn in a town called Bree where we can stop and rest before we journey on to the capital of the northern Dúnedain."

"Perian?" Erkenbrand repeated, not recognising the word; then he realised the Gondorian meant the Queen's esquire. "Oh, the holbytla, Meriadoc?"

"Holbytla? What a quaint word," the other said dismissively, "But yes, if 'holebuilder' is what you call his kind, he is whom I meant."

Erkenbrand took note that the Lord of the Keys knew the speech of the Mark at least somewhat. His own understanding from speaking to Meriadoc was that except for what help they might get from the Rangers, they would have to depend on themselves both before and after Bree. He said nothing; Húrin would find out for himself. Erkenbrand would merely make sure to prepare for a harder journey than the other seemed to expect. He dismissed the thought that if Húrin remained as pleasant as he was on first acquaintance, the journey would certainly appear much longer and harder.

Noticing the sidelong glances many of the women in the hall were giving the younger Gondorian, Erkenbrand considered that a renewal of the ties between Rohan and Dol Amroth would be welcome. There was already a connection, through Morwen of Lossarnach, but it would do no harm to strengthen those bonds again, either through Amrothos or through his sister. In a way it was a shame that the Council had been against an outsider as Éowyn's consort. With so many young men lost in the ride to Gondor there were enough lords with daughters who would welcome a Gondorian son-in-law, although Gondor had lost many as well. Erkenbrand laughed at himself. Perhaps he should have another mug of ale rather than try to play matchmaker, before he ended up trying to find a Rohirric bride for the Steward of Gondor's heir as well.

When the signal for dinner was given, Erkenbrand took his place at the high table; the Elves were across the table from him. Unfortunately he was also sitting next to Wigmund, who was accompanied by his eldest daughter, a sour-faced woman of forty or so. Since the Elves did not speak the tongue of the Mark, courtesy required that he, as one who knew Westron, give his attention to these guests. Since Wigmund did not speak the Common Tongue, it also meant he would be spared having to talk to the Councillor overmuch. It really was a pity that Wigmund could not have been removed from the Council along with Swithulf and Eadwig. And at least that fool Anlaf had been placed far down the seating, even if Folcwine was at the high table.

At first the Elves spoke mostly among themselves, though they occasionally asked him a question about the dishes that were served. After the first course Erkenbrand asked them how Dwimordene – Lothlórien, as they promptly corrected him – was doing in its defence against the Enemy's armies, and they were soon engaged in discussing numbers and tactics. Erkenbrand was relieved to hear that Dwi…Lothlórien was yet holding its own. The Elves were also able to give him news of his old travel companions, and Erkenbrand heard that the sons of Elrond were on their way to Rivendell, and that the Elf and the Dwarf had left for their homelands as well.

While they talked, time passed quickly, and so it did not seem long until the final course was served. Soon after, a space was cleared in front of the high table and a low-backed chair placed there. All remained silent in anticipation as the door of the hall opened and old Gléowine walked towards the dais, his apprentice following behind carrying the minstrel's great harp.

Gléowine bowed to the bridal pair before he sat down, quickly running his hands along the strings of his harp. He appeared pleased by what he heard, for he immediately started playing. As he sang of Eorl's Ride, Erkenbrand glanced at the Elves, wondering whether they recalled those days, and what tales they could tell. There were many other songs afterwards, both from Gléowine and from others, and the mood in the hall became ever more raucous as the guests became ever more drunk.

All fell silent, though, when one of the Elves got up and walked over to the performer's chair. He spoke briefly to tell the tale he was about to sing, of a lord of Lothlórien and an elf-maid who had been lost in the south many years ago. Erkenbrand smiled; he had heard that song in Lothlórien, and seen the river that bore the maid's name. He glanced over at the Gondorians; the elder looked bored, while the younger nodded in recognition at the tale, seemingly entranced. The story would be new to everyone else, and though they could not understand the words of the Elf's song, all listened in rapt silence.

The song over, at first the silence remained, until someone at one of the lower tables started to clap, and a thunderous applause swept the hall, louder even than the one given to Gléowine. The cheering went on even after the singer returned to his place, and Erkenbrand saw that Éowyn and Elfhelm had stood up. It was at last time for the witnessing of the bedding then; Erkenbrand wondered what had been prepared for bride and groom. The least that could be expected were bawdy jokes and bad singing.

Only about twenty people, led by Éothain and Meriadoc,came along, yet in the corridor outside Éowyn's bedchamber they still made a crowd. The songs in honour of the bridal couple were as awful as Erkenbrand expected. He was surprised that Meriadoc sang along with one song that was crude enough to make a Rider blush. When had the hobbit learned those words?

From her expression, Éowyn's hair might as well have borne a wreath of simbelmynë as a bright garland of wildflowers. By now, Elfhelm merely looked resigned to his fate, even if he did comment that Éothain seemed to be volunteering to muck out the royal stables by himself the next day.

Éothain only grinned at the suggestion, before raising his hand to request silence. Once he had it, he spoke. "We are gathered here to witness the most important part of today's wedding," he started.

"What, that part?" one of the Riders from Elfhelm's éored called out. Erkenbrand grinned; he had not known that Elfhelm could blush so deeply.

"Indeed," Éothain went on unperturbed, "To witness not that part, though it is our task to witness that the bride and groom enter the bedroom with no compulsion on them other than their own desire."

"They were together all the way to Gondor. Do you truly think..." someone muttered softly. Erkenbrand thought he recognised Wigmund's voice, and he started to turn to give the Councillor a withering glare.

Ignoring all comments, Éothain continued to speak. "My lady, my lord, if it be your wish, now enter the bedroom."

As Éowyn and Elfhelm stepped forward, Erkenbrand wondered what they would find. For his own wedding, everything had appeared undisturbed; it had not been until he and Leofgyth undressed and got into bed that they found that the mattress had been covered with stinging nettles. He glanced at the hobbit who was craning his neck in anticipation, then quickly looked back to see for himself as the door opened.

Inside, Éowyn's Windfola and Elfhelm's Blackfoot slowly raised their heads from their feed.

Chapter Text

Midsummer's Day – July 1, 3019

You must awaken.

Do not want to… Let me sleep, he murmured in mind, reaching out to pull his blanket over his head. He did not wish for an argument, he just wanted to sleep. But his hand found no blanket, and it was cold, despite the glare of the midday sun on his face. He had a headache – and he could feel something wrong... What was it? And why was he sleeping outside in the middle of the day? He raised his hand to his head, and winced in pain as fingers brushed hair matted with crusted blood.

Wake up! Again, the call, more insistent now.

"Let me sleep," he repeated out loud. Maybe if he answered now, his brother would let him go back to sleep. Elladan? he asked when there was no reply.

No, alas, I am not he.

Abruptly, Elrohir was wide awake. Who...? He nearly fainted as he attempted to raise his head. Taking it slower, he tried again, and though he had to pause to fight off the pain and nausea that rose at every move, he made it to hands and knees.

Having gotten that far, he slowly raised his head to look at the grey slope around him. He remembered; there had been Orcs, a rockfall. The blood on his head... Had he been struck by a rock? Lower down he saw a gleam of metal – an Orc helmet – among the stones, and beyond that several Orcs. He hoped they were dead. He did not think he was up to a fight.

Just above him was a boulder that could easily have crushed him if it had rolled further down. He eyed it anxiously, but it did not shift as he gingerly edged out of its path and moved into a sitting position.

He tried to stand up, but a bout of dizziness that was bad enough to make him retch forced him to sit down again. His wound must have bled fiercely, and his head still hurt; likely he was concussed as well. Out of long habit he tried to list all his wounds. The arrow-wound from when the Orcs had first found Elladan and him was healing well, though the arm hurt worse again after the abuse it had suffered in climbing – and falling – down the slope above him. His left shoulder and his back were sore; bruises and cuts on his legs; he suspected at least one broken rib.

He had heard his brother's warning, then the sharp pain as a rock struck his head, the dizzy lurch as the slope started to slip underfoot. Not all of it had been him either; he had felt Elladan's slide downhill as well, adding to his own disorientation.

Elladan? Where are you? They should go on as soon as they could. These Orcs would no longer trouble them, but there would be others, and they still had a long journey ahead of them. Where was Elladan?

It was difficult to make out among the stones and rubble, but he thought he saw his brother's cloak. He forced himself to his feet again, though the pain in his head was even worse than it had been before. A trickle of pebbles followed in his wake as he half-stumbled, half-slid down almost to the edge of the scree.

It was Elladan's cloak, and there was his brother's pack as well. Elladan must have lost it in the tumble down the mountainside.

He tugged at the hem of the cloak, but it was stuck under a rock.

ELLADAN! Answer me!

Silence.

No. Not silence.

Absence.

He… No, he cannot be... Unconscious, not… Elrohir threw aside a large stone. He tugged at the cloak again. He must reach Elladan.    

Another stone.

Another.

Too slow.

Elrohir took a deep breath before he placed his hands against the largest rock and pushed. If that one was out of the way, the rest would be easier. Yet he was too weak, or the rock was too heavy, for it did not budge. He gasped at a stab of pain from his ribs as he fell to his knees. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself up again for another attempt. Yes! No. Not enough. Yet even that small shift loosened rocks further up the slope.

Several rocks rolled against him as he curled up to try to shield himself. Elrohir lay still, waiting, not daring to move at first for fear of bringing down the whole slope. At last, when no more rocks came down, he slowly sat up, wincing as his body protested even that careful movement. All his progress in reaching his brother had been lost, even if the large rock that had thwarted him had shifted slightly.

He had to try again – do not stop, do not think – but the rock was too heavy to shift on his own. His head… he should rest before he fainted. No, Elladan. He slowly moved back for another attempt.

Halt!

Elrohir looked around in confusion at the sudden command. He had forgotten about the stranger who had woken him up. He snorted at his carelessness; he did not even know whether the other was friend or foe. The stranger's presence did not feel hostile, but it was so hard to think, to concentrate.

He did not see anyone – had he imagined it? – but then he realised that the other had only spoken to him in mind. Why had that not struck him as odd? There was also something familiar about him; had they met before? At first his thoughts shied away from remembering, but finally he knew where it had been. Minas Tirith. You... you are the one who helped Aragorn to es... escape the Enemy.

I have been watching for a long time.

That was neither acknowledgement nor denial, but even so Elrohir was certain he was right. Why? Who are you? And if you were watching, why could you not help us? Now Elladan is dead.

My path is set for me, and I may not stray from it. A pause, and a deep sadness underlying the other's thoughts. Would that I could have done more.

Path is set... Watching for a long time... Again, Elrohir's thoughts returned to Minas Tirith. He had glanced away from Estel's face as Eärendil's star became visible in the darkening sky, but he had soon turned towards his foster brother again, the light from the Star of Hope seeming bitter mockery. Elrohir spoke aloud in sudden realisation. "Eärendil."

He looked up, though he knew there would be nothing to see in the middle of the day. Dark spots appeared in his vision at the abrupt movement. When next he was aware, the sun was already below the horizon; Elrohir lay still, staring up into the night sky. Eärendil?

After some time Elrohir sat up again, too restless to lie down, wincing at the pain from his ribs as he moved. He pulled his cloak tighter around himself as he followed the path of the Moon in a sky that was already starting to lighten again. It would not be long until the sun rose. The cold... he could scarcely stop trembling. If he stayed here, he would die. No, he... No. What would Elladan think of him if he just sat here until he died?

He should try to make it home. Father had to hear what had happened, where Elladan lay buried. And he should tell Father also that Eärendil had spoken to him, and... Should he? Had it even been real? Or was his head wound making him imagine things? No, the conversation had been real. But what would Father make of it?

Elrohir bit his lip in uncertainty and raised his hand to the crusted-over wound on his head. He should probably clean it. He reached for his water-bottle, but all that remained of it was a torn leather strap on his pack. Where had he lost it? He tried to remember the last time he had seen it; had it been the night before? No matter, the bottle was gone, and no way to retrieve it.

Wait. With shaking hands, Elrohir reached for Elladan's pack. There was a pack of lembas inside, and the last of their dried meat and fruit. But Elladan's water-bottle was empty and too damaged to mend. Elrohir sat back again. Without water, he might as well not even begin the journ... No, think. The idea almost made him retch, but if he found one that was not too foul, he could take a water skin from one of the Orcs.

Elrohir hauled himself to his feet, and started down what was left of the slope.

Chapter Text

July 14, 3019

The battle to retake the Pass had gone well. The dead had been buried, and the wounded were recovering. They had not lost many, and all that remained now was securing the Pass against a counterattack from Goblin-town.

Why then, am I so on edge? Glorfindel wondered. Something is wrong, but what...? He had come down a few miles from the High Pass to where he could see the patrol he had sent out coming back. Of course, had they found an army ready to march from Goblin-town, there would have been a messenger already, so no news was likely to be good news. Or they have run into trouble… I will give them one more day, and then I will go out with another patrol.

At a nudge from Asfaloth, he turned briefly towards his horse and gave him a distracted pat, before going back to looking north. Another nudge and he moved his hand to scratch the horse's forehead. Glorfindel laughed softly as Asfaloth's eyes started to droop closed in enjoyment of the attention. As ever, you are the wiser. I should stop worrying about Orcs and enjoy the quiet while I can, is that it? He laughed again when Asfaloth flicked his ears in annoyance as he lifted his hand.

Before Glorfindel could sit down, distant cawing disturbed the silence as a pack of crows flew up far away. Immediately his hand fell to his sword, but he loosened his grip again once he saw that the crows had been disturbed by what appeared to be the patrol he was waiting for.

The first to come into view from behind a low ridge was Alagon, the patrol's leader. Glorfindel counted as Elves and Rangers emerged behind him. One, two, three, four… Five, six. They were on foot, leading their horses. No, wait; they have one man on horseback. Despite the hot weather, the rider had the hood of his cloak drawn over his head.

As the group approached, Glorfindel's unease tightened to a foreboding of ill news. It was not long before Alagon saw him and hurried ahead, followed by one of the Rangers; Gelmir, Glorfindel recalled the man's name. Glorfindel nodded at Alagon to give his report.

"Yesterday, we found Elrohir wandering near one of the lesser passes," the Elf said.

Only now did Glorfindel see that the huddled figure on horseback was indeed Elrohir. "Do you know what..." he started to ask.

"He only said he was alone, and that he needed to get to Imladris quickly," Gelmir interrupted.

"Neither of you asked further?" Glorfindel asked. Alone. His foreboding now became a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach – do not let me have to bring Elrond such tidings again... He tried to tell himself that Elladan had remained in Lothlórien, or was lying wounded somewhere with Elrohir having gone for aid, but one look at Elrohir was enough to dismiss any such hope.

Both Alagon and Gelmir winced at Glorfindel's sharp tone. "I did," Alagon said, looking troubled. "But he did not answer, and he appears not badly hurt."

Turning away abruptly, Glorfindel bit back an even sharper reply. He walked over to Elrohir, who had dismounted, and now stood looking at the ground, his cloak pulled around him. He only raised his head to look at Glorfindel when he was standing next to him.

Elrohir's clothes were torn, and his face was as gaunt as if he had come close to starving, but his look of utter desolation nearly made Glorfindel recoil. At first he doubted whether Elrohir even knew him, but after the peredhel briefly looked away, there was recognition in his gaze. There was something else there as well, something he did not want to name, but which he had seen in Arwen's eyes. He forcefully put the thought aside. Not now.

"Elrohir, are you well?" Glorfindel broke the silence. Where is Elladan? he wanted to ask.

Elrohir merely nodded his head at Glorfindel's question, and looked down again, staring at his hands. Glorfindel said nothing, quietly waiting for an answer until Elrohir muttered, "I am well."

"You do not look it," Glorfindel replied, "You will eat and take some rest when we return to camp, and then you can tell me how you come to be here."

"That is unnecessary," Elrohir said. "I do not need to rest. We should ride on home, not waste time."

Glorfindel looked at him sharply. "If you carry such urgent news, I will send a rider to Imladris, but you are in no shape to go far at speed."

Elrohir shook his head in denial. "That is unnecessary," he repeated. "I can keep up."

"Perhaps," Glorfindel said, "But we are going back to our camp, so you shall not have to prove that you can." Elrohir shivered and drew his cloak even tighter around him, but did not speak. Glorfindel waited, but when nothing was forthcoming, he spoke the other's name sharply. "Elrohir!"

Elrohir hesitated, but after another, briefer, pause he did answer. "No… I… I must speak to Father."

Glorfindel considered how to proceed; clearly, Elrohir would not speak of what had befallen him, and – much as he might protest – just as clearly he was in no condition to ride anywhere at speed. Waiting another day until the peredhel was in better shape would give Glorfindel time to hand over securing the High Pass to Alagon and Borlas.

"Back to the camp," Glorfindel called out to the patrol, then asked Alagon as they mounted, "What news from Goblin-town?"

"We had to be careful, but we could get fairly near the lower entrance to the caves. All I saw were the regular sentries," Alagon said. "There have been no large troop movements recently, nor do the Orcs look as if they are about to march off to war. I left the rest of the patrol out there to keep an eye on them, and give warning when they do start gathering."

Even if the Orcs were playing a waiting game, there would eventually be a counterattack, and they would need that warning, Glorfindel thought as he looked to see whether all were ready. Elrohir was still standing by his horse and only mounted when one of the Rangers nudged him, but then followed along without further prompting.

It was hard to concentrate on troop movements and numbers of slain and wounded rather than on what had happened to the twins, but there was enough to consider for Glorfindel as he started to mentally prepare his report to Elrond. Regaining control of the High Pass had been worth the argument they had had over this action. Elrond had had been reluctant to allow it, both for the losses it would mean, and for fear of drawing the Enemy's attention to Imladris. Any losses were more than Elves or Dúnedain could afford, and Glorfindel understood well Elrond's reluctance to act openly, yet yielding the High Pass so soon would not keep Imladris or Eriador safe either.

In the long run, unless Sauron lost his Ring, the war was unwinnable. Even so, any resistance they offered him might allow more to find safety, for a time; time to flee West for the Elves... For anyone else… There would be no new War of Wrath, no reprieve for Middle-earth. Glorfindel shook his head. The Dúnedain could notabandon this war, and he would not.

In the camp, ignoring the curious looks and questions from those who recognised Elrohir, Glorfindel took his charge to the command area, detouring only to grab two bowls of stew from the field kitchen. He was not hungry himself, but Elrohir should eat. At first, Elrohir only looked at the bowl, but after Glorfindel prompted him, he picked up his spoon and ate a few bites. He then returned to looking at his food, before putting the bowl down on the ground.

"Stop fussing!" he snapped as Glorfindel again encouraged him to eat. "I am fine."

"Tell me what happened to you, and I will be the judge of that," Glorfindel replied, resisting the urge to snap back at him. Elrohir fell silent again. He was quiet so long that Glorfindel no longer expected an answer, but finally he spoke, albeit so softly that Glorfindel could barely hear him.

"Elladan is dead."

Glorfindel lowered his head briefly, then looked at Elrohir again. He had expected it, but he could not afford to grieve, not yet. See to the living twin.

Elrohir looked down at his hands, which were clenched tight in front of him. "We… we came north from Lothlórien. Orcs found us along the Forest Road, and gave chase. We encountered Beorning messengers who warned us that the High Pass was closed, so we went further north." He briefly looked up to meet Glorfindel's gaze. "We took the first of the lesser passes that we could. You remember those caves we cleaned out about a thousand years ago?"

Glorfindel nodded grimly. He remembered the caves, but the pass had been only a foot trail even then, and a thousand years of disuse would not have improved it.

Elrohir continued talking. "We could only cross on foot, so we set our horses free, but the Orcs were only a few hours behind and they caught up with us." He fell silent, shivering and drawing his arms around himself.

"We climbed down over a ridge. We hoped the Orcs would miss us, but they followed, and there… there was a rockfall." Elrohir was silent again, and Glorfindel was about to speak, when suddenly Elrohir looked at him and spoke angrily, "And now I find that if we had waited a bit longer, we could have come safely over the High Pass. So Elladan died for nothing!" He stood up and ran off, not watching where he was going.

Biting back a curse, Glorfindel was on his feet and after Elrohir, past several startled Elves who had been nearly bowled over by the peredhel's passage.

"Elrohir!" Glorfindel called out, but the other did not slow down until he reached the edge of the camp, where he sat down abruptly on a large rock. Elrohir did not look up when Glorfindel sat down next to him.

Finally, Elrohir spoke. "I am sorry," he said, "I should not have run off."

"It matters not," Glorfindel replied, putting his hand on Elrohir's shoulder. Elrohir's only response to the touch was a deep shuddering breath, as if he was holding back tears. When he turned to look at Glorfindel, his eyes were dry.

"Has Eärendil ever spoken to you?" Elrohir said next.

Glorfindel stared at him, startled by the incongruousness of the question.

"I mean, after you…," Elrohir added, mistaking the cause of his confusion.

Still not understanding why Elrohir asked, Glorfindel said, "We met several times in Valinor before I returned to Endórë. Why?"

"I meant after you came here," Elrohir replied.

"No," Glorfindel said, "How could he have?" Then he realised that Elrohir was looking at the exact spot in the sky where Eärendil's star would be at this time of day, and he looked at Elrohir sharply.

"Indeed," repeated Elrohir. "How could he have?" He took a deep breath and looked at Glorfindel again. "He spoke to me." He sounded defensive as he went on. "I did hit my head when I fell. But I am certain that he was real. If he had not spoken to me, I thi… I would have followed Elladan there and then." Again Elrohir paused, trembling. "We were always together. He is there, alone…"

"The Halls of Mandos are not so terrible as you may fear," Glorfindel said gently. To his surprise, even if he did not yet fathom what it might mean, he found that he did not doubt Elrohir's assertion that Eärendil had spoken to him.

Elrohir looked up to give him a wan smile. "Perhaps not, but our fate lies beyond them. That even you can tell me naught about."

"You have made your Choice?" Glorfindel asked.

Elrohir nodded in confirmation. He looked relieved to have spoken as he stood up. "Let us go back to the camp," he said.

Glorfindel knew he would get nothing more from Elrohir for now, and stood also. "As you will," he replied. He did not yet say to Elrohir that, though it would not be not at the speed Elrohir wanted, in the morning they would ride to Imladris together.

Chapter Text

July 18 – August 1, 3019

"Is that Bree?" Húrin asked. Denethor's Halfling might have called it a town rather than a village, yet Húrin remembered reading old reports from Denethor's spies, and he knew not to expect much. But it is even smaller than I thought it would be.

"Yes, and a welcome sight it is," their Ranger guide replied cheerfully.

"Then take us to that inn you keep talking about," the Rohir lord, Erkenbrand, called out. "Traveling is dusty business, and we could all do with a pint or two to clear our throats."

Húrin said nothing. At least, since the Rohirrim and Húrin's men-at-arms did not understand the Elven-tongue, the Northerner generally spoke Westron rather than Sindarin. It was a relief to be spared his rustic accent.

Húrin wondered how far they were yet from the Northern Dúnedain settlements. He had known before they got there that Tharbad was nothing but ruins. What he had not expected was that they would not see even a single farm between Tharbad and Bree, and that the road had been devoid of traffic except for their own group. Their guide called this the Greenway, and that was certainly accurate. To think that the Great Road had come to this state of neglect in what had been part of Arnor… Even the section that ran through Rohan was in better condition.

And as for the Rangers… The northern Rangers at Tharbad had moved as stealthily as the Rangers of Ithilien to take them by surprise, but no man of Ithilien would be so raggedly attired as Bronweg and his fellows, and Húrin still wanted proof of their prowess in actual battle. Had it not been for their cloak pins, which he recognised as the same design worn by the Northerners in Minas Tirith, Húrin would have taken them for ruffians. The Grey Company, as grim a lot as they were – and in truth their attire had been as dour and grey as their mood – had at least looked like a proper company of knights, not like vagabonds. Húrin grudgingly admitted that it galled him that he had seen more men of high Númenorean blood among the ragged remains of Arnor than he would have anywhere in Gondor except Minas Tirith or Dol Amroth.

Now, though, Húrin was glad that they had reached what passed for civilisation in these parts. Hopefully the inn could offer a decent meal and acceptable rooms. He had not slept in a proper bed in weeks, and he wanted a rest from riding. They had been in the saddle every day since leaving Edoras, and today Bronweg had set a harder pace than at any previous time. He was insistent that they not spend even one night among the hills he called the Barrowdowns. While Húrin refused to entertain the man's claim that the hills were haunted, he had also been eager to reach Bree, so had welcomed the faster pace, though he would undoubtedly pay for it the next day in sore muscles.

They passed a dilapidated little gatehouse. Without the damage to the high hedge around the village and the burnt poles and stakes driven into the ground near the gate, Húrin would have questioned whether such a sleepy-looking place needed even these slight defences. Beyond the gatehouse Bree looked pleasant enough, but it was far from a bustling cross-roads town. Even if they were not yet in Dúnedain lands, the Steward's insistence that Gondor would need the North was beginning to look like the actions of a drowning man grasping at thin air rather than a shrewd strategic move.

They had not gone far within the village when Bronweg stopped and dismounted and led them into a cobbled courtyard. Húrin noticed they were being watched as they entered, and once they were all in the courtyard a rotund little man warily appeared. His mood changed once he saw their guide.

"Good evening, Master Bronweg," the innkeeper – as Húrin assumed he was –addressed their companion, "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Rooms for us all, and stabling for our horses, if you please, Master Butterbur," the Ranger replied.

"That should be no problem," the innkeeper answered, adding, "May I ask how long you will be staying?"

"A few days," Bronweg replied, "Enough to rest our horses, and we will want supplies for the rest of our journey if you have them."

"I am glad to hear it," the innkeeper said, "If you do not mind me saying it, business has been bad even after you Rangers got rid of those ruffians. There are hardly any Dwarves on the road, and even fewer visitors than usual from the Shire. But I am rambling; give me a minute and I will send someone to take care of your horses."

Two stable boys quickly appeared after the fat innkeeper went back inside, and Húrin handed his horse over to them. Of course the Rohirrim, including the Lord of the Westfold, insisted that they would look after their horses themselves.

"They should bed down with them, and save paying for rooms," Húrin muttered to Amrothos. Erkenbrand, who overheard the comment, only laughed. Not for the first time Húrin wondered what it would take to get more than the mildest reaction out of the man.

"I will show you your rooms," the innkeeper said as he came into the courtyard again. "Your bags will be brought up for you, and baths can be readied as well if you like." The inn was quiet enough that they would not have to share between more than two, confirming the innkeeper's complaint about business being bad. Húrin thanked the innkeeper for his care, at the same time cringing inwardly at the man's speech. It was bad enough to have to listen to Bronweg's rustic Elvish, but the Bree variety of Westron was worse than the accents of the Rohirrim.

After Húrin had found their rooms acceptable, they followed the innkeeper to the common room to eat. Húrin would have preferred the private parlour the man – Butterbur; such an absurd name – offered them, but he was in the north to gain information; he would learn nothing by eating in private.

Not surprisingly after what the innkeeper had said, the common room was quiet. Húrin assumed the few people in there were locals as Halflings and Men sat together as if they were familiar with each other, and they looked like peasants – farmers and craftsmen coming in for a drink and company. They cast wary glances at the strangers in their midst, but otherwise ignored them.

Húrin and Amrothos shared a table with Erkenbrand and Erkenbrand's servant Wídfara. The Gondorian and Rohirric men-at-arms had their own table, and Bronweg had joined a group of Rangers who had come in just after their own party. After some time, Amrothos, saying he recognised one of the Rangers, went over to talk to them.

Once Húrin and the Rohirrim had finished their meal, Butterbur came up. "I hope you do not mind me joining you for a bit of a chat," the innkeeper addressed them as he pulled up a chair and sat down before Húrin had a chance to agree or disagree. "Now you are free to tell me to mind my own business, but I cannot help wonder where you are all from and what your business is in Bree. From your speech I can hear you have come far, and we do not often get travellers from the south. In fact, lately we have only had trouble coming from there; not that you look like the kind to cause problems, but not all in the Bree-land may look kindly on travellers coming off the Greenway. I must say I took you for a Ranger at first," he nodded at Húrin. "You do have a bit of the look of them, but I think you are not."

Húrin had given some thought to what he could say about the purpose of their journey, so he had an answer ready. "You are right; we are not Rangers, though they are akin to my people."

"And whereabouts are your people to be found?" Butterbur asked next, glancing briefly at the group of Rangers behind them.

"We are from Gondor." Though riled by the innkeeper's suspicious tone, Húrin managed a smile with his answer. He resented being questioned by an overly familiar small-town innkeeper, but the man was likely influential in Bree, and thus it would be better to give him his answers.

"That is not a name you hear very often," Butterbur replied. "I would not normally question you so, but these are suspicious times, and as I said just now, our recent troubles began with travellers coming up the Greenway."

"Indeed. You did mention that," Húrin responded, hoping to stop the innkeeper from retelling the tale of Bree's predicament. With all he had heard already from the Rangers about the so-called Battle of Bree he doubted the innkeeper could tell him anything of either use or interest.

Erkenbrand interrupted him to speak to Butterbur. "We have heard about your troubles, and it is likely that many of those who attacked you have previously made war on my own lands."

"Then they will bother you no further," Butterbur said, sounding for all the world as if he took personal responsibility for the relief of Rohan, although he did add, "Things would surely not have ended so well without the Rangers."

"On an entirely different matter, Master Butterbur," Erkenbrand said, "We carry letters for the Shire, and our guide said to ask you. Can you tell us how to go about having them delivered?"

"Letters for the Shire?" Butterbur looked down, twisting his hands and plucking at the hem of his apron. Erkenbrand had to repeat his question before the innkeeper continued. "After those ruffians tried to invade them, the hobbits are still a bit leery of Big Folk, or I would have said to ask the Rangers. I will look for any hobbit going that way soon, and ask if he is willing to take them. Whereabouts do they need to go?"

"Tookborough and Brandy Hall," Erkenbrand replied. Húrin noted the innkeeper's considering nod at that. He knew of course that these were the ancestral homes of the two Halflings, but it was interesting that the names rated a respectful acknowledgement here in Bree.

"It was a pleasure talking to you," Butterbur said, adding, "Now if you will excuse me, it may be a quiet night, but I do also have to look after my other guests. Please call if there is anything you need."

Ignoring the two Rohirrim as they spoke softly together, Húrin considered that, as little as he had liked being put into use as Denethor's Halfling's postal service, at least it had been resolved with a minimum of inconvenience. Hopefully, his real mission would go as smoothly, even if he did not see how the north could benefit Gondor. Only a desperate man would look for help in this forlorn land, but in truth, Denethor was desperate, even if he hid it well, Húrin thought. Beleaguered both in the field and in the Council chamber, the Steward was sorely in need of a success to keep the lords in line. He was drawn from his musings by a smug-looking Amrothos returning to their table.

"I was right," Amrothos stated as he sat down, adding, "The Ranger I thought I recognised is one of the group that came to Minas Tirith, and he is their Chieftain's son."

At that, Húrin took an interest. "Why is he here?"

"He is going to Tharbad," Amrothos said. "He is in command of a half-company to reinforce the garrison there."

Húrin nodded; when they crossed the river, he had thought the site under-garrisoned to defend the work on the bridge. He glanced at the group of Rangers. "Are those all his men, or are there more coming up?"

"I did not ask," Amrothos said, "But I think this is the whole group."

"Remember we are here to gather information," Húrin admonished Amrothos, and asked, "Did you learn aught else?"

"I doubt they would have said more if I had asked," the younger man replied. "They are not talkative, but I did find out that there are constant skirmishes with Orcs near the Misty Mountains."

Húrin let it go and went back to pondering his impressions. If this – a quick count had revealed the Rangers to number only fifteen – is a half company, then the thirty of the Grey Company that we saw were indeed at full strength, rather than odd-sized for being an honour guard for their Chieftain And if they can spare but fifteen for such a strategically important place, what does that say about their numbers? What would Denethor make of it? And those skirmishes… How many were involved on either side, and what was at stake? Patience, he told himself. Patience. He would be in the North for months yet, there was time to find out, along with everything else he needed to learn.

The next morning, Húrin woke up only when it was already light. When he came downstairs he found to his chagrin that Amrothos and the Rohirrim had gone out, and the only thing left for breakfast was porridge. He was reluctantly chasing the last spoonful around his bowl when Bronweg came in, looking marginally less dishevelled than before. The Ranger was about to head upstairs, but came over when he saw Húrin.

"Butterbur thinks he will have our supplies for us today or tomorrow morning, and we know the Road is as safe as it can be. We should reach our destination in a week or two," Bronweg said. He looked at the porridge Húrin was toying with. "That was all Butterbur had left? If you like, I can have a look in the kitchen and see if the cook will take pity on you."

"That will not be necessary," Húrin said. "This is perfectly adequate."

"Have it your way." Bronweg shrugged and walked off again.

Húrin cast a sour glare at the Ranger's back, and forced himself to finish the porridge. It had not been too bad when it was still warm, but now he had to make an effort not to gag on the congealing mess.

As Húrin headed upstairs, he saw that the Rangers who were going to Tharbad were about to leave. Bronweg was outside, speaking to them, and returned inside as they rode off.

The following day, they left Bree early, heading east along the main road. Húrin was fairly certain the Dúnedain settlements had to be close to whatever remained of Fornost Erain and Annúminas, and expected them to turn in that direction soon.

"When are we turning north?" he asked that evening as soon as they had made their camp. Around noon, they had passed a worn looking building that Bronweg said was the Forsaken Inn, and there had been no sign of habitation since then. Surely they should be able to leave the road unnoticed now.

"North?" Bronweg replied. "Oh, you thought…" He gave Húrin a thin smile. "No, unless you like midges, I have no reason to take you north from here." He did not explain further, adding only that Húrin had the next watch before pulling his cloak around him and lying down. Except for the itching brought on by Bronweg's mention of midges and his annoyance at the Ranger's secretive attitude, Húrin's watch was unremarkable, and he was glad when he could finally go to sleep.

The next day, they set off again along the eastern road. By now, Húrin had lowered his expectations far enough that he was pleasantly surprised to see that the east-west road was in better condition than the Greenway. Bronweg kept just far enough ahead that Húrin had no chance to speak to him to find out where they were heading – if not near where Arthedain's last stand had been, where would its people have gone? As far as Húrin knew, except for Imladris and its Elves, there were no inhabited lands between here and the Misty Mountains. He was not even entirely certain where Imladris was; only that it lay near the mountains. Boromir had found it, to have taken up with the Fellowship of the Ring and Isildur's Heir, but Húrin knew no more than that; if Denethor knew, he had kept his knowledge close.

By the end of the afternoon a new suspicion had grown in Húrin's mind. He could see a lone top ahead that had to be Amon Sûl; perhaps that ancient landmark served still as a beacon to the Dúnedain, though it looked as if the tower that had once crowned it must have fallen into ruin. Perhaps the Dúnedain dwelt near the hills to the north of it, or hidden in the wild lands to the south or east?

"Is that Amon Sûl?" Amrothos called out to Bronweg.

"Yes," the Ranger called back, and halted his horse until he was within normal speaking range. "And that puts us almost halfway to the Last Bridge."

"The Last Bridge? Why is it called that?" Amrothos asked next.

"Because it is," Bronweg replied, ignoring Amrothos' annoyed look as he rode ahead again.

The next morning, upon reaching Amon Sûl, Bronweg announced he was going up to have a look around. Leaving the men-at-arms at the bottom of the hill with their horses, Húrin followed him, along with Amrothos and Erkenbrand. When they reached the top, Húrin was disappointed to see that only some low stonework remained of the ancient tower. "Why has the tower of Elendil been allowed to fall into ruin?" he asked, adding at Bronweg's surprised look, "Long may it have been since we from Gondor came north to aid Arnor, we have not forgotten about these lands, or our ancient history. Such a place would not have been allowed to fall into disrepair in Gondor."

"Is that so?" Bronweg replied in a level tone.

"Who are that on the road?" Amrothos, who was looking east, suddenly said.

Húrin turned to look, shading his eyes with his hands against the sun, but he saw no movement. "Where?" he asked.

"I see nothing either," Bronweg and Erkenbrand stated, almost in chorus.

"Almost out of sight," Amrothos said, pointing. "But if you look closely, you can see movement on the road where it curves before disappearing from sight." Try as he might, Húrin saw only a distant haze.

"If you can see that far, your eyes are almost elven-keen" Bronweg replied. "Can you make out anything more?"

"Only that they are coming this way," Amrothos said, peering into the distance again.

"I would rather wait until we know whether they are friend or foe," Bronweg said, "But that would delay us for two more days. We will continue today, and then I will go ahead with one other to scout."

Though he was reaching the end of his patience with slow going and over-cautiousness, Húrin said nothing; after Bree, Bronweg had become even more taciturn and dour than before.

They rode slowly that day, and Bronweg took them further away from the road for their camp than before. Once the camp was set up, he went off to set snares, so they might have fresh meat the next few days. He then spoke to Erkenbrand and Wídfara before announcing that Wídfara would come along with him to scout.

Even if it left him in charge of the camp, Húrin was annoyed over the Ranger's choice. True, his time in Ithilien had been years ago, but he could still handle himself well in a fight. He listened with barely restrained irritation as Bronweg instructed him to return to Bree as quickly and unobtrusively as he could if they were not back by the next evening, and to be careful if they went hunting or foraging the next day.

"Keep an eye and an ear out for trouble; we may return in haste," were the Ranger's parting words as he and Wídfara led their horses away from the camp.

Húrin set two guards around the camp for the night, taking the first watch himself so that his rest would be uninterrupted. There were no disturbances during the night, so likely enough the travellers were harmless.

As soon as it was fully light, Erkenbrand went off with one of the Rohirric men-at-arms to check Bronweg's snares from the night before. Amrothos announced that he was going to see if he could find any berries nearby. After walking to the small stream nearby to refill his water bottle, Húrin settled in to wait. Bronweg and Wídfara returned by midmorning.

"Elves, travelling to the Grey Havens," Bronweg said, before falling silent again with a troubled expression, leaving Húrin to wonder why this was significant.

Over the next several days they rode in uneasy silence, until they reached a river, which by Húrin's reckoning had to be the Mitheithel. How much further could it be now? They were still in lands that had been part of Arnor, though Rhudaur had been the first of the petty kingdoms that came after to fall to the Enemy's minions. It would surprise him if the Dúnedain lands were located outside the realm of old, but he would wait and see.

"This is the Last Bridge," Bronweg informed them with a wide grin at Amrothos, as they halted at the top of a short slope leading down to the river, which was spanned by an ancient bridge. As they crossed the sturdily built bridge, Húrin noticed that it looked to be of Dúnedain workmanship; and if he was any judge of architecture, it was old enough to be a remnant of Arnor.

After the Last Bridge the terrain became rougher, and tall, dark trees grew on the hills bordering the road. Occasionally Húrin would see ruined towers or the remains of defensive walls crowning a hill, but only on the northern side. To the south the land appeared just as uninviting, but the hills were slightly lower and not occupied by ruins. Still there were no signs of recent habitation, either north or south, and Húrin began to reconsider his idea that the Dúnedain lands were within the borders of Rhudaur.

On the second day, they turned south, entering Dúnedain lands as Bronweg said; I certainly would not have known otherwise, Húrin thought. At first, they had to lead their horses to clamber over a rocky ascent that could not be called a path. It was at least two hours walking before they could mount again, to follow a narrow trail through rough hilly terrain. Their road was little more than a deer track, and there were no tilled fields or flocks of livestock to show that they were in civilised lands. That night they made their camp under dark fir trees that rustled in the wind, and Húrin dreamt of hidden cities to equal Gondolin springing up from lush green vales to be revealed to him as they came down from the hills.

"Today," Bronweg said the next morning while they broke up camp. He could not be drawn upon to say more, and they rode in silence until noon. As they exited a range of rocky hills and turned a bend in the road, Bronweg halted suddenly.

"Caras Dirnen," was all he said.

About a mile down the road sat a walled village, surrounding a fortified keep of dull grey stone. Curtain wall, outer bailey, inner bailey, keep; he quickly tallied. Appears soundly built, but not even a moat, and no larger than some Gondorian garrison barracks.

"That is your capital?" Húrin did not even attempt to keep the contempt from his voice. If this was what Denethor had placed his hope on, Gondor was doomed.

Chapter Text

August 3 – September 1, 3019

At first Gandalf's travels had been aimless; all he knew was to get out of Sauron's reach. Later, he had started to think again about where to go and what purpose he could still find. For weeks, as he considered his choices, he had not even bothered to ride, leaving Shadowfax free to follow or not. In the end it had become obvious that there was only one course to take. Círdan will be glad to aid me.

Would that I could go there, Gandalf thought as he glimpsed the White Towers far to his right. Beyond lay the Shire. In his mind he saw a friendly light shining from the windows of Bag End, Bilbo opening the door to welcome him, Frodo opening the do... Shadowfax stopped just before the road turned. Gandalf closed his eyes and took a deep breath. No. He would not hide in the Shire.

Reluctantly Gandalf turned away from the temptation of his favourite haven. There were still some hours to go before the Grey Havens, and he was weary. Not that a chair or a hearth or even a bed would do much good. His weariness was of the mind and the heart; it would not be relieved by mere rest. His hand moved to the pouch where he kept Narya, and barely did he stop before he touched it. There was a sensation in his fingers almost like an itch, and he longed for the soothing warmth of his Ring's Fire, just as he knew that Narya yearned for his touch. He had been beyond Sauron's reach since he left Gondor, but would that still be so if he used Narya now? Surely, if I took only the merest trickle of power to bolster my strength, I would not open myself to the Enemy? Shadowfax tossed his head and stepped forward.

Gandalf took a shaky breath and moved the errant hand to his side, grasping a fold of his robe to give his fingers something to occupy them. They still itched. If he wanted confirmation of his course, he had just had it, the wizard thought as Shadowfax slowly walked on. It had been months since he had even touched Narya, and still the desire to use it was almost strong enough to overcome him.

Yet even now Gandalf had counsel and guidance to offer. But who would heed him? Denethor would not allow him to enter Gondor again. Perhaps... No, even Faramir would spurn his advice. The North? The Shire could not be refuge, but might it be ally? Another no; the hobbits would fight if – when – they had to, but there was so little they could do. The Dúnedain? That they would fight was not in question, but they were too few to be of significance, even if he directed their effort where it could do most good. It was a shame Halbarad had become so wary of him after his – admittedly ill-timed, but otherwise entirely reasonable – request for the use of the Orthanc palantír in Minas Tirith. After that, the Ranger looked upon all of Gandalf's acts with suspicion, and he doubted he could regain the man's trust. A slight itching came to his fingers once more, making Gandalf snort. Aragorn always said that Halbarad was the best at sensing the Enemy's traps. Right again, friend.

Aragorn. The sense of weariness deepened to sorrow. Gandalf had lost both friend and ally in him. The wizard's thoughts returned to Minas Tirith and the bitter scene after his defeat of the Nazgûl. A familiar argument started in his mind, one that he never lost, yet could not bring to an end. Leaving when he did had been his only chance, but when the remaining members of the Fellowship refused to come with him, should he have tried harder to convince them? Perhaps, but they understood what was descending upon the city and they made their own choice. He could not choose their path for them. Aragorn, though, he had in truth abandoned; avenging his death on Khamûl could not undo that. Still, had Aragorn been aware of their situation, his friend would have urged Gandalf to go before the city fell.

Gandalf silenced the tiny voice when it observed that even if he had refused to deal with Khamûl to exchange Aragorn for Frodo, he had been all too willing to exchange Aragorn for himself. He could only hope that the skill Elrond's sons had in dealing with Morgul wounds had been enough to protect Aragorn. But to let Sauron gain control over Narya – and over him – would have been worse. He glanced at his hand that was clenched around the cloth of his robe. His fingers did not itch or twitch. Narya was content to wait.

Yet there were Three. Were Elrond and Galadriel to join him, might the Bearers of the Three together have the upper hand on Sauron? But going to Lothlórien would bring him within reach of Sauron again, and – if he sought out Thranduil or the Dwarves rather than the other Bearers – that was true also of Mirkwood and the Lonely Mountain. Most of the allies he might yet have were beyond his reach, and likely already under attack or defeated, except Rivendell.

Shadowfax stopped abruptly, and Gandalf saw a figure in stained and tattered white robes sitting by the wayside, his horse nibbling at the grass beside him.

"Greetings and well met again at last, Mithrandir," the other spoke as he stood up. Although he looked even more bedraggled than Gandalf, he still sounded as lordly as if he were sat in Orthanc deigning to hear a supplicant.

"Saruman." Gandalf's terse acknowledgement amused the other wizard.

"What?" Saruman laughed. "No warm greetings for a fellow traveller? You pain me, Mithrandir."

"You wore out any warm welcome you might have received a long time ago, Saruman," Gandalf sharply replied, disgust and anger pushing aside the melancholy that had dogged him all afternoon. He itched to teach this traitor a lesson.

Saruman started to laugh again, but almost immediately fell silent. Finally he replied, "You are right of course. I should not expect to be welcomed..." He sighed, leaving his sentence unfinished.

Neither spoke during the rest of the journey to Mithlond. Gandalf wondered why Saruman had come here, and why Treebeard had let him go free, against what had been agreed. All that was of later concern, though, as at last the town came into view.

Gandalf halted briefly to take in the familiar sight, using the time to collect himself. He had not been near even a village since Ethring, nor had he spoken to anyone except Shadowfax since accepting shelter for a few days with a family of fisherfolk near the mouth of Greyflood. Raising a hand to shade his eyes against the sun, which was already low on the horizon, he noted that aside from the usual fishing vessels in port there were four large ships being worked on in the docks. Normally there would be only one, two at most, in preparation for the journey West.

The guards at the town gate let them in with just a nod in greeting. At the entrance to Círdan's residence, both wizards dismounted. As Shadowfax and Saruman's horse followed an Elf to the stables, Gandalf headed for the main door, Saruman almost on his heels.

The two guards beside the door quickly lowered and crossed their pikes, barring the wizards' path.

"Rhúnendir, what is the meaning of this? I must speak with your lord," Gandalf said, recognising one of the two.

"And so he will be informed," Rhúnendir replied, and gestured at a third Elf, who went off after a whispered conversation.

"I, too, will speak to Círdan," Saruman announced.

"His time is not yours to command, but he will be told of your desire," Rhúnendir said.

Gandalf tried not to let his pleasure at Saruman's reception show, but the other wizard turned to him and said softly, "It seems your welcome is less than… warm… also, Mithrandir; I would not presume too much if I were you."

It did not take long for someone to arrive back with word that the two could enter. "You must be weary from your travels. Please follow me; I will guide you to your quarters so you can refresh yourselves," the Elf said as they followed him. "I will come for you in an hour," he added as he turned to unlock the door to a guestroom and gestured for Gandalf to enter.

After the careful welcome, Gandalf had half expected that Círdan would put off seeing them until the next day. However, the Shipwright must have realised that Gandalf would have a reason of great import to come to the Havens now. Nor would Círdan let Saruman go unheard – or unwatched.

After about an hour, the two wizards were indeed taken to Círdan's main audience chamber. Except for Círdan himself the chamber was empty.

"Mithrandir, Curunír, welcome," the Shipwright said. "What brings you here?" His tone was polite, but there was a cold undertone in it that Gandalf had not expected. Perhaps he should have. Círdan, more than anyone else in Middle-earth, knew why he had been sent here, and was the one who had given him Narya in support of his task. Yet Círdan also, more than anyone else in Middle-Earth, would understand his need, and the importance of his request once he could speak freely to explain.

"I need a ship."

Gandalf glared at Saruman, who had spoken first, only to meet an equally fierce look in return. As he met Saruman's gaze, it hit him what the other had said. What was the former head of the Istari up to? What did Saruman truly seek here?

"Indeed," Círdan replied. "And what would you do with a ship, lord of Isengard?"

Saruman turned towards Círdan again, his expression going from haughty to something that almost looked like humility. He lowered his head briefly before replying. "I wish to return home."

"You wish to return home," Círdan repeated. "And is there any particular reason you wish to do so, or is this merely a whim?"

There was a brief flash of anger in Saruman's eyes. "A whim? You dare…" The wizard stopped and shook his head, and it was clear to Gandalf that he sought to calm himself. "Forgive my outburst, Círdan, old friend; I am a hunted man, and fear has the better of my tongue."

Gandalf snorted contemptuously. Hunted man, indeed.

Saruman cast him a brief glance, but quickly returned his attention to Círdan.

Círdan regarded Saruman for a long time. "If you are hunted, I do not doubt that it is the result of your own actions. Even so, I will think upon your request. We will speak again," he finally said. Next, he turned to Gandalf. "And you, Mithrandir, what is it that you seek?"

Gandalf hesitated. As soon as Saruman spoke, he had known Círdan would not grant his own wish, at least not without further persuasion. "I, too, seek passage West."

Now it was Saruman's turn for a contemptuous snort. Gandalf managed to find the restraint not to look at him.

"I see," Círdan said. "Your request for passage at least is more modest than Curunír's wish for a ship. Are you a hunted man also, Mithrandir, or do you have a loftier reason than self-interest for your wish?"

"I would prefer it if my reasons remain my own for now," Gandalf answered. Much as he trusted Círdan, rumour would soon spread if he spoke openly. Nor would he speak of the Three in front of Saruman. The look Saruman gave him was enough to make Gandalf consider that the other already knew too much.

"Then I can only say that I will consider your request also," Círdan said. "I will speak again with you both and in the meantime, you are welcome to the hospitality of my house."

The audience at an end, the wizards returned to their respective quarters. Gandalf contemplated staying behind to try to sway Círdan, but the Shipwright left the chamber along with them, his decisive steps as he walked away making it clear he was not in a mood to be persuaded.

~*~

Gandalf found no opportunity to speak with Círdan in private for several days. He could not determine whether Círdan was avoiding him or whether he was genuinely as busy as he seemed. Whichever was the case, he was relieved that Saruman also failed to get a hearing.

One morning, as the sun had only just risen in the east, and a thin fog lay over the Havens, Gandalf had gone outside to smoke. Just as he lit his pipe, he saw Círdan come down the path that led from his residence to the harbour.

As soon as the Shipwright spotted Gandalf he came over to speak to him. "My apologies for not seeking you out before, but with a ship about to sail, my time is not my own."

Gandalf nodded. "About ships…" he started, only to be interrupted by Círdan.

"I understand that you did not wish to speak more openly in front of Curunír," Círdan said as they walked along the quayside, "But the time has come for you to declare your intentions."

"I wish I could," Gandalf replied, "Yet even to you I cannot reveal all my plan."

"Your plan?" Círdan asked.

"You did not think I had one?" Gandalf laughed, though there was little mirth in it.

Círdan's expression was suddenly as stern as ever Gandalf had seen it. "In all honesty, I scarcely know what to think. Curunír clearly has no thought beyond saving himself from the Enemy's wrath. Perhaps there is nothing more than that underneath these hints of a great plan that you have given me; perhaps you truly believe that your leaving will help us against our opponent. If so, I will know what it is."

Gandalf looked down briefly. "Alas, I cannot say it." He held up his hand as Círdan started to answer. "No, wait, let me finish. Trust me. The ship that is about to sail. Grant me a place on that. That is all I ask."

Círdan looked at the water lapping at the foot of the quay for a long time. "No," he finally said as he looked at Gandalf again. "Unless you speak to me of your purpose, I will not endanger my ships or those who take passage on them."

"Sauron's strength grows greater by the day," Gandalf replied angrily. "If you will not aid me for my sake, do so for the people under his rule who suffer needlessly."

"Mithrandir, one more time. Why did you come here and why do you wish to go West?" Círdan spoke softly, but determinedly. At Gandalf's continued silence, the Elf sighed and walked away.

~*~

Gandalf had been sitting watching the water all morning. He had found a quiet spot away from the daily goings-on of the fishing boats and the work on yet another ship being prepared for the journey West. Here the docks were lower, suited to smaller boats and often used by those who wanted a place to fish or swim from, or just to sit and think.

The wizard drowsily drew in a long puff of smoke. The warmth of the sun was almost enough to send him to sleep, and for once his thoughts were not on ships, Círdan's stubborn attitude, or Rings. He had been arguing with Círdan for weeks, and his problems would still be there when he returned to them, he thought with a flash of annoyance. Not yet, though. The day is warm; I have a pipe full of good pipeweed, and a bit of time to spare before I… He was drawn rudely from his musings by approaching footsteps on the wooden boards of the quay, and voices arguing. Círdan, Saruman!

"By your own admission, Curunír, you are a traitor and a renegade. You are not welcome aboard my ships," Círdan said, just as he and the other wizard came around the corner.

Gandalf could sense Saruman's anger even without looking at him, but the former master of Isengard was given no chance to reply by Círdan.

"Mithrandir, well met," the Shipwright said smoothly. "Will you join us on our walk? There is a spot a bit further away that you might find interesting." Ah, not a chance meeting. Gandalf's curiosity was raised by Círdan's request.

"Certainly," Gandalf replied, suppressing his amusement at Saruman's frustrated anger. He could only wonder, though; never before would his own presence have inhibited the other wizard from speaking. Not that he believed Saruman's contrition was genuine, but the other had changed. Or was it that he himself had?

Círdan led them away from the town and the water, past an area of low trees and old ruins. Gandalf wondered that the buildings had been left to fall into ruin like this, but said nothing. It was not long after that they returned to the waterside, where broken paving stones marked the remains of a path. Finally, they came to what was left of a low quay, its masonry crumbling.

The Shipwright halted under a broken arch of white marble. "I sometimes come here when I need to be alone with my thoughts," he said.

Neither wizard spoke at first, but both looked around them curiously. By the age of the ruins, Gandalf guessed that this quay dated back to the Second Age. Círdan had not brought them here without reason, Gandalf suspected. If the Elf wanted to speak with them in private, his audience chamber or even his garden would have sufficed.

"Why will you not grant us passage?" Gandalf asked, causing Saruman to look at him in surprise at being included.

Círdan did not answer the question. Instead, he gestured at the ruined quay and the water. "What do you see?" he asked, and went on without waiting for an answer. "The work of our hands fails, the land itself changes. Only the Sea is always there, unchanging. Nothing else is, in the end." Gandalf wanted to interrupt, but Círdan continued. "The Immortal Lands endure, but they have been separate from Middle-earth since the days that this was Mithlond's main quay. I had no part in your coming here, and I do not believe I will have in your departure either."

Gandalf felt a shiver run down his back as he recognised the ring of foresight in Círdan's words. Meanwhile, Saruman had turned to look out over the Gulf of Lune.

"What is that?" he asked, pointing into the distance across the water.

"What is what?" Gandalf asked in return as he and Círdan followed the direction of Saruman's gaze.

Gandalf's uncanny feeling deepened. Still far out on the Gulf, a dense patch of fog moved towards them. There was a sudden tension in the air, much like the stillness before a great storm broke. As Gandalf glanced aside it was clear Círdan and Saruman felt it also.

"What is that?" Saruman repeated, now addressing Círdan. "You… this is some kind of trick!" Círdan merely shook his head in denial as he looked out over the water.

Slowly the mist faded, until all that was left was a sharp salt tang in the air, and a boat. Aboard, just one man… no, one entity. No doubt, to most, he would appear as no more than an old sailor, with grey hair and ragged garb. The boat had a single sail, which its occupant lowered as he neared the quay, using a broad paddle to close the last few yards.

Perhaps even Círdan saw no more than that ancient sailor clad in rough grey cloth, Gandalf thought, but to him that form was no more than an image, a shadow in the mind. Before him stood the Lord of Waters in his full power. Awe and sudden joy brought Gandalf to his knees. The weariness that had lain upon him for so long ebbed away, as though a dark taint was washed from him. He felt Círdan's love of the Lord of Waters pour out along with his own adoration. Saruman alone remained standing, until Ulmo turned to look at him, and he hurriedly sank to his knees.

There was a brief pause before the Vala spoke. "Rise."

"Welcome to Mithlond, Lord," Círdan spoke as soon as he stood, appearing barely perturbed by one of the Powers turning up in his lands.

The Lord of Waters looked at him, but if further words were exchanged, they were not spoken out loud. However, after a short time, Círdan bowed his head as if in acknowledgement and withdrew slightly.

Next, Ulmo turned to Saruman.

"Lord, I… I… forgive me, I…"

"Curumo."

Saruman fell silent.

"Curumo," Ulmo said again. "Save your words for the Máhanaxar. Get aboard."

While the other wizard scrambled aboard the small boat, Gandalf felt his own courage almost abandon him. No, I faced even death without flinching, and I always intended this. Do not fall at this hurdle.

As soon as Saruman was safely aboard and sitting down, the Vala turned to look at Gandalf, who steeled himself to stand calmly under that terrible regard. While Ulmo spoke with Saruman, Gandalf had considered how to present his own case. He had not expected to do so here, but in Valinor before all the Valar, indeed in the Máhanaxar. Perhaps this was better – either way, he would certainly not emulate the obsequious cringing of the other Wizard. Best to be bold, even if he felt unable to match Círdan's quiet confidence now that he faced the Lord of the Sea in truth.

"Lord, without guidance, the Children are unable to muster the strength and wisdom needed to oppose the Enemy. If I were granted the full and unrestrained use of my powers, and more…" Gandalf waited, but the Vala showed no reaction. Onwards, then. "The Enemy had no part in the making of the Three Rings of the Elves, nor did he ever touch them. It should be possible to… Allow me to bring the Ring of Fire West so that I, together with its maker, can break it from Sauron's control." There was a disbelieving snort from Saruman, and a sneer in thought – that is your great plan? – but Ulmo remained silent still. Gandalf continued. "I can then return to Middle-earth to gather to me all those of the Free Peoples who will stand to oppose the Enemy."

"And how would you return? The ships of the Elves cannot sail back along the Straight Path, and I do not run a ferry service for erring Wizards, Olórin," the Lord of Waters said sternly.

Gandalf glowered at 'erring', but he knew better than to object. He had presented his case, and he could only wait how it would be received.

"Olórin, attend my words. A choice is before you. You may come with me now, but if that is your decision, it is final. You cannot return again."

"But…" Gandalf started, then as he was faced with a look as cold as the black depths of the ocean, changed what he was going to say. "And my other choice?" he asked.

Ulmo looked at him again. Gandalf quickly lowered his eyes, feeling as if a great wave was about to crash down and sweep him away.

"Your other choice, Olórin, is to become again who you were meant to be. Renounce the temptation of wielding power for its own sake."

At that, Círdan stirred slightly, and the Lord of Waters turned to him. "Your intent in passing on Narya was good, and it was then accepted in that same spirit. Indeed, for most of the Age, Olórin used it wisely and nobly. It was only with the return of the One Ring to its maker's hand that he grew careless, and thus all but lost himself."

Círdan nodded in acknowledgement of the Vala's words, and Ulmo returned his attention to Gandalf.

The wizard knew that Ulmo was waiting for his decision. What to do? He could only admit that he had failed. All his plans were overthrown, and all his deeds had in the end only led to disaster. Go home, and maybe someday find a measure of peace again? Or stay, in the hope that I can find redemption, if not in the eyes of others, at least for myself. Can I ask for more time to decide? One look at the Vala's face put an end to that idea. What do I do?

Gandalf looked away from Ulmo, dismayed, glancing down at the still-burning pipe in his hand. A wisp of smoke rose from the bowl, and the awe he felt before the Power became something gentler, smaller, but no less beloved. Would that I could go there…

"I will stay. But will you not at least take Narya?"

Nay, Olórin, I will not. I am glad at your decision, but the Ring is yours to bear, for good or for ill."

Chapter Text

August 5, 3019

Elrond woke with a start when his head nodded forward.

Elrohir!

He breathed a sigh of relief when he touched his son's thoughts and found him well. There had been no knock on the door, no other sudden noise to wake him. His Ring, then? No, Vilya rested quietly in its pouch on a chain around his neck, and he felt nothing more ominous than the vague sense that he always had that the Enemy was searching for him through it.

No threat or disturbance manifested itself, and slowly Elrond's breath slowed down and his heart stopped pounding. As weary as he was of late, it was no surprise that he had nodded off, even if he had merely closed his eyes for a moment to collect his thoughts. As uneasy as his sleep was when he did sleep, it was no surprise either that he would wake abruptly.

Elrond's thoughts went back to the day that his sons had ridden off with Halbarad and the Grey Company. They had both turned around in the saddle for a quick wave just before the riders disappeared from sight. That had been the last time he had seen Elladan. Elrohir alone had come home. Elrond had known as soon as he looked at him that Elrohir had chosen to be reckoned among Men. He, too…

He stood up, unable to sit still any longer. Elros had once said that his occasional habit of pacing when he wanted to think was the only sign of Mortal restlessness that Elrond had. He had also, ironically, found it deeply annoying. The thought of his brother led Elrond to yet something else that bothered him. Eärendil.

Why now, Father? Why now? So much of Eärendil's heart had been given to the Sea. There had been room for Elwing, but very little for their sons. Not that Eärendil had ever been harsh, or unkind; just too often absent, even when he was there. And there had been happy moments too. Elrond shook his head. Maglor and Maedhros were Kinslayers, in thrall to the Silmarils and the Oath, but had been more of a father to him and Elros than Eärendil. Yet Elrond could not dismiss his sire's actions either. There was a debt of gratitude that must be acknowledged. Without Eärendil's aid, not only would Elrohir have died along with Elladan, but Aragorn might well have become a wraith under the Enemy's rule. For that alone…

Elrond stood at the window, but quickly turned and sat down again. Leaving aside that he had no answer for why the Valar would allow Eärendil to interfere in even such a small manner… It would have been so much easier had he been able to dismiss Elrohir's assertion that Eärendil had spoken to him as the result of a head wound and the shock of his twin's death.

Now, there was a knock on the door, immediately followed by the door opening and Glorfindel looking in.

"Elrond," Glorfindel said. "Did you forget that we would go over the patrol schedules this afternoon?"

Curse it! He had forgotten, Elrond thought. "Go ahead to my office. I will join you there."

"As you wish." Glorfindel nodded and went away again.

Elrond gathered some notes, but in the hall outside his rooms he hesitated a moment and turned towards Elrohir's room rather than to his office. He would look in on his son first before spending the rest of the afternoon on patrol schedules.

Clutching the bundle of papers, he knocked on Elrohir's door and opened it. "Elrohir, do you mind if I come in for a moment?"

"Father." Elrohir nodded a half-hearted invitation.

All considered, Elrohir was recovering well, at least physically, Elrond thought as he looked at his son. He was no longer as gaunt as when he had first come back, though still thinner than he should be. Though he still suffered occasional headaches and flashes of temper, those were not unexpected as it always took time for the effects of head wounds to wear off.  

"Did you go outside for sword practice this morning?" Elrond asked.

"Yes," Elrohir said.

"Any light-headedness or headaches?"

"No," Elrohir shook his head.

"Any fatigue?"

"Normal for sparring, I would say," Elrohir replied.

"Very well. Keep it up then," Elrond said. "It is not good for you to sit in here all the time."

Elrohir looked away. "I know," he said, "But as long as I cannot go on patrol…"

Shedding his stern healer's mien, Elrond quickly moved over to put his arm around his son's shoulder. Elrohir tensed briefly, but did not draw away, despite his objection. "Father, truly, I am well, and I do not need you to watch over me every moment of the day."

"No, that is true," Elrond said. It is what I need…

After some time Elrohir, sounding hesitant, asked. "Father? Did you, did you feel it when… when uncle Elros…, did you know?"

"I knew." Elrond closed his eyes as he remembered that day. He also noted Elrohir's unexpected use of the word ‘uncle' for Elros – neither of the twins had referred to him as such since they were children. "It had been over four hundred years since we had seen each other, and there was close to two thousand miles between us, but I knew when he died."

"I did not, or I did not want to admit the truth," Elrohir said. "Not at first." He raised his hand to touch the scar on his head. "Did you ever regret your Choice?" he went on.

"No," Elrond answered, perhaps too quickly, for his son looked at him sharply."No, I never regretted it," Elrond went on, "And I do not think Elros did either. We both knew we were choosing what was right for us." As Elrond spoke, Elrohir flinched and looked away, leaving an uncomfortable silence between them.

I do not regret it, and yet I wonder… Should I have taken my brother's lead instead? Arwen chose for love of one who is as dear to me as a son himself – though I always knew that Estel would one day die – and Elrohir for the sake of his brother. But why did Elladan choose mortality? For Arwen? For Estel? Or was it always his inclination? Elrond sighed, and quickly glanced at his son, but Elrohir was still deep within his own thoughts. Oh, this is pointless. Had I Chosen otherwise, none of my children would even have been. Celebrían… He had been without her for so long, and now he feared the grief he could only bring her should they ever be reunited.

"We used to talk about it," Elrohir eventually said. "But only when Ar… only recently did we think about it again. Perhaps, had I been first, we might…" He shook his head. "I could do no other than follow Elladan's Choice, but I do not regret doing so."

Truly? Elrond thought. If not for me, then not even for your mother's sake? He knew better than to say it, though. But Celebrían was always the absence not spoken of, and even now Elrond could not bring himself to do so.

Eventually, as the silence lengthened, Elrond realised that Elrohir had fallen asleep leaning against him. There was no possibility for him to stand up now without waking his son. Would Glorfindel still be waiting? Perhaps he should let him know that he would be delayed, Elrond thought. He looked again at Elrohir. Sleep well, my son.

~*~

"I understand," Arwen said. "Truly. There is nothing for you to apologise over."

Arwen shook her head as soon as she was alone again in the library's scriptorium. Elwen was the fourth of her maidens to announce she was going West in the last few weeks. Nor were they the only ones. There had already been an increase in Elves leaving since the spring, but in the weeks since Elrohir's return it seemed as if there were people going every day.

Three weeks. Three weeks since they had heard of Elladan's death. Arwen clenched her hands tightly, ignoring the pain of her nails digging into the palms of her hands. Elladan… Could her brothers not have waited longer before attempting to return? Could not Grandmother have foreseen their path and given them warning?

Again, Arwen shook her head before returning to copying out the final pages of Aranarth's diary. She had not planned to do the work herself, but had found no one who could spare the time – Hallas, the head scribe, had been one of the first to go West. At least so far no warriors had left. Now that her father could not use Vilya to hide Imladris anymore and had to rely solely on his own power, they would need all the strength in arms they could retain.

If only she could use Galadriel's spells to ward Imladris – but though she knew how her grandmother maintained her wards, Galadriel had set them using Nenya's strength. While Elrohir had said that Galadriel still warded Lothlórien, he had not yet told her how their grandmother did so without drawing on Nenya. It was something she would have to ask her brother soon.

Arwen stood up and walked over to the window. Tentatively, she extended her mind to where Eärendil should be in the day sky – something she had not yet done before. She did feel a presence, but drew back again quickly before he might notice her. As she sat down again, she wondered what she could say once she brought herself to speak.

Before long, there was a knock on the door. At first, Arwen did not respond, but the knocking continued, and finally she called, "Come in."

"Lady Arwen." It was Bilbo.

"Bilbo, good afternoon." She set down her pen. The day was turning into a loss for getting anything done, but Bilbo's company was always welcome.

"I expected I would find you in here," he continued, "And since I was looking for a book, I thought I would say hello."

She smiled. "I would offer you tea, but I fear it has gone cold."

"What are you doing?" he asked as he looked at the book she was copying.

"Copying this. I will send the original to Halbarad." She turned the pages until she found the map of the Angle, and showed it to Bilbo. "Did Estel ever tell you about this?" she asked as she pointed out one of the notes in the margin.

"Ancient Hobbit holes near Caras Dirnen!" Bilbo read the words out loud. "Yes, he did. I would have liked to see them. He said he would take me to see Caras Dirnen one day." As Arwen looked away, Bilbo went on. "I am sorry, I did not mean to…" He sighed and fell silent. "How is your brother doing?" he finally asked when the silence became too uncomfortable.

"Better than at first," Arwen replied. In truth, Elrohir was still far from well, no matter that his physical wounds had mostly healed, and she doubted he would ever be fully himself again.

"I am sorry," Bilbo said again as she sighed. "I did not mean to make you sad… sadder, I …"

"Bilbo, it is not you that makes me sad," she replied.

"Oh, good. Oh, that is not what I mea… Oh, drat!"

At the old hobbit's distress, Arwen quickly knelt down to face him, and enfolded his hands in hers. "Bilbo, old friend, naught we say to each other can worsen our griefs. I do know what you meant."

Some while later, after Bilbo had left, Arwen returned to her copying. If I want to send the book any time soon, I ought to finish it now. The next several days she would be working with the other Yavannildi to extend the area where the lembas grain grew. The grain's blessing would serve Imladris well once the Shadow extended its reach. She wondered if she might mingle the lembas meal with common grain to make it go further That was of later concern, though; meanwhile, she could only hope that not too many of the Yavannildi left before harvest time. And right now, all she wanted to do was finish this day's work. Only a few more words. There, done!

Arwen put the last pages she had written down to dry and cleaned her pen; she would see soon to sending the original to the Angle and binding the copy that would remain in Imladris. Casting a glance at the slowly darkening sky outside, she decided to look in on Elrohir.

On her way from the library she ran into Erestor.

"My lady, have you seen Elrond?" he asked.

"No," she replied. "Do you want me to tell him you are looking for him?"

Erestor hesitated, then shook his head. "No, it is no longer important. Glorfindel was looking for him earlier."

When she came to Elrohir's room, Arwen opened the door softly, and stepped in. The room was unlit, but she did not hesitate. It would not be the first time that she had found Elrohir sitting in the dark. As her eyes adapted to the half-light, she saw Elrohir and Elrond. Her father had his arm round Elrohir's shoulder; both fast asleep.

With a smile, Arwen backed out of the room again, and closed the door even more softly than she had opened it. It was just as well that Erestor had left her no message. She doubted she would have had the heart to disturb her father and her brother.

Chapter Text

August 20, 3019

Pelargir, July 30, 1419

Dearest Merry,

As you said, the river does help to keep Pelargir cooler in summer than it would be otherwise, but it is still hotter than I am used to; damper as well. Even the Gondorians from Minas Tirith complain about the moist air, though across the river it is so dry the earth has dried to dust and sand. I envy you the cool wind from the mountains.

Merry snorted at the last sentence as he held Pippin's letter closer to the candle to read it. Pippin could not know it, but the wind from the mountains was anything but cool now with the helm wind blowing hot as a furnace. At first, he had thought that, like Helm's Deep, the wind had been named after the king of old; but he soon learned that the name came from the helmet-shaped clouds that formed over the mountaintops when it blew. Luckily, it never lasted more than a few days, or so Elfhelm had told him.

I am glad we can use the messengers to stay in touch, even if letters are no substitute for an evening in the Dragon. At least I have found an inn where the ale is good; it is near the waterfront. Its proper name is The Smoked Salmon, but because it caught fire and the common room and the whole ground floor burnt out when the Corsairs took Pelargir, everybody calls it The Fried Salmon now. Not that I can go there very often, as I am on duty much of the time. There are no feasts here; perhaps if the Steward's son were to marry, we might have one such as you describe at the Queen's wedding. As he is not even betrothed to anyone yet, there is little chance of that happening, even if some people say that, as the Steward's only heir, he should marry soon. But the festive mood would be lost again the first time anyone looks across the river to the East and Mordor.

Merry smiled; no one could ramble on like Pippin, even on paper. He then grimaced as he went back to reading. Though he did not know the Steward's son, Merry would not wish a marriage of state on him – for all that Éowyn and Elfhelm had been friends beforehand, he doubted there was much happiness in their marriage, no matter how they acted in public.

Everyone here is waiting for the next attack, and it never comes. It is quite harrowing, though still much better than when the attack does come, I fear. There are constant rumours flying about, and a change of sentries at one of the enemy forts near the river Poros will have turned into an army marching on Pelargir by the time the news arrives here.

The anxious waiting was something Merry knew only too well. It was his luck – and Pippin's – that they were close enough to their respective land's ruler to be able to separate fact from rumour.

Sometimes I think of home, but I wonder if I were back there, if I could still fit in. The Shire would seem so sleepy, I imagine, and almost too safe. I do not think I could live there now, in peace, knowing what we know. Even if it is home, I am content to remain here; but it is good to know it is there, and safe.

Frodo had once said something like this too, and it was a sentiment Merry also agreed with, though his reasons for not yet wanting to go back were not entirely the same as Pippin's. Merry glanced over at the room's alcove bed, where Hild lay fast asleep. Perhaps this was rather late to think about propriety, or its appearance, but he would tell Pippin only that they were betrothed and would wed in the autumn.

Hild had her mind set on the harvest feast in a month's time for their wedding. The few distant relatives she had would not be able to come to Edoras before then, and even though the lord of the Westfold, as Hild's liege lord, would still be away in the North, Hild had spoken to him before he left, and had received his blessing. Merry was not certain that that approval extended to the advance they were now taking on their marital vows, but Hild had given him no chance to argue about it.

"I am a widow, not a maid of whom scandal would be spoken," she had said, "And my bed has been cold for long enough. Besides," she had added, "What if war finds us again before then, and the Queen sends you off east or south before we speak our vows?"

Home, though… When Merry thought of home now, the first thing that came to mind was here, the Golden Hall, Edoras, herds of horses roaming on the plains, the mountains in the south, Hild. He had to think before he could see the Brandywine or Brandy Hall in his mind's eye. He was even starting to dream in the speech of the Mark rather than Westron. Treebeard would say that he was taking root in this new soil he found himself in, even though this was not the earth he had grown in before.

Merry folded Pippin's letter and put it away. It must have arrived late the night before, as it had been pushed under his door. Whatever other news the messengers from Gondor had brought, it would not have been too dire, for he had not been called to attend the Queen, which also meant that he could enjoy his day off duty without worry.

He quietly gathered his clothes and put them on. Hild would be out of sorts if he made a noise and woke her; though she was now one of the Queen's ladies, she did not have to attend Éowyn until the afternoon, and would wake up of her own accord well before. He would come back to say good morning after he had eaten breakfast.

By the time Merry had eaten, the wind had died down slightly and the sky was blue, with only a few clouds dotted around. It would be a good morning to put Stybba through his paces, he thought. First, though, he should go back to see if Hild was awake yet.

When he again opened the door of their small room – once more glad that he did not have to sleep in the hall like many of Éowyn's retainers – Hild was awake, and sitting on a stool combing out her hair.

"How is the weather?" she asked.

"Good, not as windy as yesterday," Merry replied.

"About time," she said. "This weather always gives me a headache. Will you be going to the market?"

"I might. Is there anything you need?" If he was going to run an errand for Hild, he might as well get himself a pie for his luncheon.

"Not need, but if you could find some plain hairpins for me?"

Merry nodded. "I will have a look."

The market was at the bottom of the hill, outside the town gates, and while Merry made his way down, the wind died away completely. Now of course it was too hot, he grumbled to himself, then immediately had to laugh at sounding like some old gaffer complaining about everything.

As he passed the gate, Merry saw some Riders coming up the road from the west in the distance, raising small clouds of dust from the hard, dry ground. He wondered if there might be news already from Erkenbrand and the others who had gone north, but whatever brought the Riders here, they were not riding at speed, so if they had any news it was unlikely to be urgent. He would find out tomorrow, no doubt. Now he was free to pay attention to hairpins and luncheon, and not think about statecraft, or war, or news from afar.

"Freda, what is in your pies today?" he asked when he came to the stall of his favourite pie-seller, a stout old woman from the Westfold. She seemed to think he needed feeding up and often gave him something extra. Partly, Merry suspected, she enjoyed seeing him take to her wares – which were excellent – with a hobbit's dedication to food; but he also provided a patient ear for her stories of village life in the Westfold.

"Mostly mutton, and a bit of horse," she said, greeting him with a smile.

"Good," Merry said. "Can you keep one for me? I will come back later."

"Of course," she said as he walked off again.

The market was busy and it took a while before Merry had found a stall that sold metalware and simple jewellery. He bought six pins for Hild, walking on slowly afterwards. If he saw anything that appealed to him, he might also buy her a bracelet or a necklace. There was nothing that caught his eye, though, and he eventually came back past Freda's stall to collect his luncheon.

He ate his pie as he walked back up the hill. Perhaps he should start his reply to Pippin's letter this afternoon; there was no knowing when the next messenger would be going to Pelargir, and he could keep on adding to the letter in the meantime.

Merry gave a cheerful wave to the Rider on duty at Meduseld's great door as he headed for a side entrance, when to his surprise the man called him over.

"The Queen asked if you could come in to see her," the sentry said.

"Of course," Merry replied. There must have been something important in the dispatches brought by the Riders he had seen arriving before, he thought.

"My lady," Merry said as he entered Éowyn's workroom.

"Ah, Master Holbytla, there you are." Éowyn smiled as she spoke, so whatever she wanted to see him for was unlikely to be bad news. "There were messengers from the Westfold this morning, and beside some small news from there, they also brought a letter that had come from Tharbad. I think it is from your home." She held out a letter to him.

"Yes, it is from my father," Merry confirmed.

"Then go and read it," Éowyn said. "I will see you in the morning, and if there is anything in it that you are willing to share, I will be glad to hear it then."

~*~

Hild had gone out when Merry returned, and he sat down still holding the letter in his hand, torn between eagerness to hear news from home, and fear of what he might read. For this letter to be here already, Saradoc must have written his reply immediately upon receiving Merry's letter. That did not necessarily bode well for the mood in which it had been written, although at least his father had used his personal seal rather than his official one. The letter was fairly short, and clearly written in haste, Merry saw as soon as he opened it.

Brandy Hall, July 24, 1419

My dear son,

Bilbo Baggins sent word already back in May on your whereabouts, including the death of the Gamgee lad. What he did not do was give a good explanation of why you went off into the wilderness in the first place. I cannot help but notice that you did not do so either. All I can do is guess, and my guess can only be that it is in some way connected to Bilbo's ridiculous ‘adventure', not to mention that old meddler, Gandalf.

I will not bother telling you to return to the Shire or else… We both know that when you return it will be in your own time, and for your own reasons. All I will say is: do not wait until the roads become too dangerous for travel.

At least I am not disinherited on the spot, Merry thought. That was something. As he considered how his father would react when he heard about Hild, it struck him that it was unlikely that he would go home again, and marrying Hild only made it more so.

You see, I have been thinking about the news from afar that you write about, and about recent happenings in the Shire and the Bree-land. It would seem that we are heading for days that are as dark as the end of the old kingdom, and I have to question whether the Shire will escape with only the loss of a company of archers this time.

I suppose our trouble started shortly after the turn of the year, when some ruffians near Sarn Ford tried to talk their way into the Shire, claiming they had been invited in by that Lotho Sackville-Baggins. When the Bounders turned them away, they tried to sneak in, and about fifteen Bounders were killed and some of the ruffians as well. After that, we were ready for them, and we kept them out of the Shire.

Lotho of course denies he had anything to do with them, and still attempts to lord it over the four Farthings. Luckily he has little influence near the border, or I do not doubt we would be overrun with ruffians. He is neither trusted nor loved, except by his mother – though I doubt even she trusts him; Lobelia may be many things, but she is not a fool, even where her beloved offspring is involved – but money smoothens much, and he has plenty of that. The news that he has been selling pipeweed south through an agent in Bree has done him some harm, especially since much of this year's crop both here and in the Bree-land has gone bad with leaf rot.

Merry thought of the small barrel of pipeweed he had from the ruins of Isengard, and of the man in Bree, Bill Ferny, who must have been Saruman's agent, then went back to reading. Worrying as the connection between the Shire and Isengard had been, it had been cut as soon as it was exposed. Nor was the news of the attack on Bree entirely new to him, as word had come to Rohan through the Rangers at Tharbad; though messages had of course not included the details of how the Shire had been doing under the attacks. It worried him more that Treebeard had decided to let Saruman go free; the wizard might still be capable of mischief somewhere, especially since they could no longer count on Gandalf.

We later found out many of the ruffians had headed for Bree, looking for easy pickings, and even more of them came out of the south. That lasted until the beginning of May, when they were dealt with by the Rangers. I imagine that is not so much of a surprise to you as it was to some, seeing as how you have been travelling with Rangers. There are still many who distrust them, saying they were likely in it along with the ruffians, and it is all a ploy to gain our trust; Lotho encourages that kind of talk. I am inclined to trust the Rangers instead, and so is Paladin.

Enough talk of our troubles, though – as I said, I have been thinking about how what happened to us fits in with many other things, and if you do come home, there will be much that you will have to tell me.

Your father,

Saradoc

Merry folded the letter with a sigh of relief; his father's reaction could have been much worse. Meanwhile, he did still have to write another letter to tell his own parents that he was getting married. Also, his father's guesses as to the reasons behind it all were astute enough; he wished he could tell him that they would definitely have that talk together. He did not expect another opportunity to get a letter to the Shire so quickly, but there were occasional messengers to and from Tharbad, and from there to Bree. Butterbur might be occasionally scatter-brained, but it would likely be a long time before he forgot about a letter again.

Now, though, he might as well start on his next letter to Pippin. After setting out paper and ink, Merry quickly reread Pippin's letter, to see if there was anything that had to be answered first, and wondered whether there was a reply to Pippin's letter home on its way to Gondor as well.

Meduseld, August 20, 1419

Dearest Pip,

Today, I received two letters, yours and one from home…

Chapter Text

August 25 – September 1, 3019

Stars.

Then, water.

At first, it was but the clear water of the Mirror. Then a wind-blown ripple moved across the Mirror's bowl, and the water turned slate grey. Great, lazy deep sea waves, with no more than a hint of foam to mark the tops of the largest waves, filled her sight.

~*~

Imrahil closed the book he had been reading. Fascinating as the Second Age account of the lands of Far Harad undoubtedly was, it could not hold his attention. It had been a gift from Yávien, though, and thus it did not take much to turn his thoughts to home. Yávien had not been happy that he might be gone for several months, but had accepted the inevitable and sent him off with a smile – and a book that she would no doubt ask what he thought of it, so he would have to give it another attempt. He might even be at sea long enough to finish it. At least there had been no signs of any threat to the falas when his patrol left Linhir, but much could change in a month. He wondered how Amrothos was doing in the North; important as the mission itself was, he envied his son the chance to visit Imladris, though he would not wish the company of Húrin of the Keys on anyone.

Still, no point in worrying over things he could do nothing about when he did have more immediate concerns. They were several days west of Umbar by now, and Imrahil could finally believe that they had managed to sneak that rowboat in – and out again – unseen. It had helped that even after forty years he still remembered the lay of the land around the docks. Even so, the Corsairs were wary and he doubted that they would have been able to land unseen; luckily, the night had been foggy – as it had been then – and he did not need to get in close to see what he had come for.

As expected, the Corsairs were hard at work on building new ships. Imrahil had been relieved to find that it would be months yet before they would be able to attack Gondor again in strength, though it was plain also that the work on some of these ships had started before the attack on Pelargir. For one breath, Imrahil found himself wishing that he had a store of the Fire that they had used in Thorongil's raid on Umbar. But no... Denethor had once said that the Fire was onesecret of Númenor that should have remained lost; it came from the rule of Ar-Pharazôn, and was accursed. Imrahil could only concur; even now, he shuddered to remember the very water in Umbar's harbour aflame, and the screams of those caught in its burning.

With a shake of his head he returned to leafing through the book in front of him.

"Sir?"

Imrahil looked up. "What is it, Soronto?" he asked.

"The lookout signals a ship on the horizon," the Master of the Watch replied.

"South or east?" Imrahil asked. Pursuit...

"Northeast, sir," Soronto said.

"North?" Imrahil repeated as he stood up. It may be nothing then; fishermen or traders heading for Umbar, he thought as Soronto nodded in confirmation. It was unlikely, but as the wind had been in the north for some time it could even be a ship out of Dol Amroth that had strayed too far south.

On deck, Imrahil headed for the main mast's rigging; he could wait for the lookout to come down, but it was just as quick to go up.

The lookout lowered his spyglass to give him a nod before returning his attention to the sea. Then, he abruptly handed Imrahil the spyglass.

"Look," he said.

Imrahil soon spotted what the lookout had seen. Those are not fishermen.

"Signal when you have their heading and number." He handed back the spyglass.

Back on deck, he immediately called over a nearby sailor. "Warn the other ships that we have an enemy sighting to the northeast."

Even with the enemy over twenty miles away, that night there were no lights on deck or bells for changing the watch on the Gondorian ships.

Pursuit or invasion? If so, how many ships, how are they manned, where are they going? Are the unfinished ships we saw in the docks merely the next wave of attack for Dol Amroth or Pelargir? Eventually Imrahil fell asleep, only to wake up at each change of the watch on deck, something which normally never bothered him.

~*~

"Halbarad!" Elrohir reined his horse in and dismounted as the other turned around.

"Elrohir, welcome! What brings you here?" Halbarad asked as they clasped hands.

"Running errands," Elrohir replied. "I have some reports from the Ranger patrols near the Misty Mountains for you."

"Nothing bad that I know of," Elrohir added belatedly at Halbarad's worried expression. "No attacks in weeks. Also, the Beornings too will come to Imladris."

"That is good news," Halbarad said. "I have not yet heard from the Dwarves in the Blue Mountains, but even if they do not come, I will be in Imladris with the envoys in a week or two at the latest."

From Halbarad's slight grimace at the mention of the envoys Elrohir suspected the talks were not going well. He would ask later. It did not matter much; all this alliance could gain them was some small amount of time before the inevitable end.

"I would guess you did not come here just to bring reports and messages?" Halbarad went on.

"Indeed not. There is one other matter," Elrohir replied. Halbarad nodded, but did not ask further.

"Will you rest here or do you want to start back today?" Halbarad asked as they entered the Keep's outer bailey.

"I am in no rush to return," Elrohir said, ignoring Halbarad's puzzled look. Halbarad did not follow him in when he led his horse into the stable. A look at the lone stable lad on duty was enough to stop the lad from following as well. The horse settled, Elrohir leant against a support beam in an attempt to settle himself also. He did not look forward to enduring anyone's expressions of sympathy or grief, but many of the Rangers here had patrolled with him and Elladan and he could not brush them off.

Elrohir took his pack and went outside again, following Halbarad to the Chieftain's office. Once they were both seated, he handed Halbarad a bundle of messages from the Ranger captains. He waited for Halbarad to look through the messages before handing him the book Arwen had asked him to bring.

"Arwen asked me to give you this as a remembrance of Aragorn," he said as he handed it to Halbarad.

"A rem…" Halbarad took the book out of its protective cloth wrapping. "Aranarth's diary?"

"Yes," Elrohir said. "Ell... we called it the Chieftains' notebook. She thought you might find it interesting."

"Please when you return, thank her for me," Halbarad said as he opened the book to leaf through it.

"You can do so yourself," Elrohir said, "I doubt I will return to Imladris before you go there. I was hoping you…"

"Not return?" Halbarad looked up and closed the book.

"I need something to do other than sit in the Hall of Fire or stroll in the gardens. Father says I no longer need to rest, but Glorfindel will not take me along on patrol," Elladan replied, trying not to make his dissatisfaction sound like a childish complaint. Nor will Father give me aught useful to do.

Halbarad gave him a considering look. "Does not your father want you in Rivendell for the meeting with the envoys?" he asked.

"Want perhaps, but need?" Elrohir shrugged. "I am sure Arwen can aid Father if needed." She seems to have found some purpose at least, and I should be glad for it. I am glad for it. Yet Father does not cosset her, while he would barely allow me to come here.

Halbarad waited, but at last went on when he did not elaborate. "There is something that you might do," he said. "Are you willing to go to Tharbad to bring messages and report back on the work there?"

"If that is a… Yes, I suppose so," Elrohir replied.         

"Thank you," Halbarad said. "Can I offer you a bite to eat for lunch?"

"Yes, please." He nodded his appreciation when Halbarad set out bread, cold meat and some wine, then raised a questioning eyebrow when the other did not join him.

"I have already eaten," Halbarad replied.

"Very well, then tell me how the talks with the envoys are going while I eat," Elrohir said.

"Not too bad," Halbarad said.

"But…?" Elrohir asked between two bites of bread.

Halbarad sighed. "Lord Erkenbrand asked that Rohan can move some of its herds north of Mitheithel for safety, but in truth, there is little to negotiate on with either Gondor or Rohan. What grain we can spare will be sent to aid Gondor, and the Gondorians and the Rohirrim will talk with the Bree-landers and the Dwarves about trading south as well… but that much you knew. The Council too has accepted the agreement, so we are now down to discussing amounts and whether to use barges or wains to carry grain to Tharbad."

"It all seems so little, now…" Elrohir said.

"It is," Halbarad replied grimly. "Yet even if we sent all our strength in arms south, Men and Elves both, it would not be enough."

"Perhaps we should," Elrohir said, his tone light. "Gather all our armies in one place, and even if we cannot win, at least our fall will be glorious." He paused, swirling around the last drops of wine in his glass. "Not that it matters. Live, die, fight, give up; we die anyway."

"Elrohir…"

"You know it is true," Elrohir said. He laughed sharply, then shrugged as he met Halbarad's gaze. "But I will go to Tharbad for you."

~*~

She did not seek foresight in the Mirror – what glimpses she had were of little use, if she even could see how they might come about or what they might portend – but her mastery of it to see in the now was greater than before. And in truth, that is of more use than to see what might be. She turned her gaze towards the East. No new troops had come from Dol Guldur since the attack they had beaten back nearly three months ago, and only the occasional patrol that crossed the river.

Can He sense me if I use the Mirror? Her touch was light, and she did not attempt to look inside the fortress on its dark hill. Yet even if the Enemy did not know, he would assume she was watching, just as she assumed that the Eye was on Lothlórien. She refused as the Mirror attempted to draw her away. Not yet, I am not yet done, and she turned her vision north, towards the Vale of Anduin. If the High Pass was still in the hands of the Beornings, they should send messengers to Imladris soon. The thought of Elladan was nearly enough to break her hold on the Mirror, and she gritted her teeth as she made the Mirror show her what she needed to see. Yes, the Beornings were still in control of the pass. That at least is something. Now show me, she thought and let the Mirror take her where it would – despite her reluctance, such urgings were always important whether they came from her own mind, or were a form of foresight,– to find she was directed towards the Grey Havens.

She quickly looked over a place she had not seen since Celebri… What did the Mirror… Ah, there; Mithrandir, Círdan. She watched as the two spoke together, and wondered why Mithrandir had gone to the Havens. Alas that she could not discern of what they spoke.

Almost, she drew her hand across the Mirror to end the vision, but stopped when a third figure came into view. Curunír!

Her sight wavered, and she tried to hold the Mirror's focus, but she abruptly found herself gazing into clear water. Almost shaking with fatigue, as she turned from the Mirror she wondered what it might mean that these two had come together, and what they might come up with – not that she trusted Curunír, or was certain that Mithrandir could be trusted, either.

~*~

They had lost sight of the Umbarite ships overnight, and Imrahil wondered again where they were going. He could not count on their enemy not having seen them the previous day, so if they were being ignored, it meant that their mission was more important than a chance encounter on the seas. He resisted the temptation to go up into the rigging – the lookout would signal when there was anything to see. The day was already close to noon when the fleet was seen again, further to the west now.

Another hour passed before all captains were aboard Imrahil's ship for a council.              

"They could still go anywhere," Soronto, tracing the currents on the map, said, "But I am willing to bet they are for the falas."

"No," Meldoron, the captain of Wilwarin objected. "They can sail unseen right up to the Anduin delta to hit Pelargir from here."

"Why?" asked Windrunner's Perchalf. "They would not gain anything from the manoeuver, only lose time."

"The wind..." Meldoron started.

"The wind has barely shifted of late," Imrahil interrupted. "I agree with Soronto that it is unlikely that this fleet is heading for Anduin, but there may be another force underway. We must send warning. Perchalf, you will take Windrunner, Moth and Dragonfly to warn Pelargir, Linhir and Dol Amroth. The wind is against you, but make what speed you can."

"And what do we do?" Meldoron asked.

"We follow them until we are certain of their course," Imrahil said.

"And then? Are you so certain we can outrun them?" Soronto now asked.

"The Falcon is faster than any ship in the Umbarite fleet," Imrahil replied

"The Falcon may be, but my ship is not," Meldoron pointed out glumly. "I suppose you are certain also that they will chase you, if chase they do give?"

Imrahil smiled grimly. "I do hope so. Most of their captains should know the Falcon." He was glad now that he had decided to command the captured fleet from his own ship.

Later in the day, with the three smallest of his ships changing course towards the northeast, Imrahil climbed up to the lookout post again to see for himself whether the Umbarites were going to respond. As soon as he had the fleet in his sight, he did a quick count. The number of ships they could see varied; the most had been twelve. This time he saw eight, but Imrahil wished he was certain of their number; it would be easier to spot whether ships were sent off to carry messages to Umbar, or to follow his patrol. He was taking a risk by splitting up, but even with five ships they would not have withstood an attack.

To Imrahil's relief the Corsairs did as he had hoped, and did not chase his ships that sailed east; of course this also confirmed their mission was urgent and that it did not matter if Gondor was forewarned. He was starting to wonder… but it was too soon to guess.

~*~

The sun was barely up when Halbarad stepped outside. Dineth had still been asleep when he got up, though she would likely wake up soon. Anyway, she was used to his early waking habit and would not be alarmed to find him gone. It was odd how quiet the house was with just the two of them, but Halmir was at Tharbad and Haldan at the training camp. Even so, good as it was to spend time at home, Halbarad missed the Wild. He shook his head as he walked off; he had not forgotten whyhe was at home rather than out on patrol, and this peace was no more than the silence before the next storm.

As he passed the town gate, Halbarad waved a greeting to some townspeople who were heading out to help with the grain harvest – I am not the only early bird this morning, he thought andhe wondered if he should put in some work before he went to Rivendell with the envoys; harvest time required the help of all, as did the sowing of the winter grain afterwards. He could go this afternoon, though it would be hot in the fields, and he would rather spend some time in sword practice – perhaps even a match with Elrohir, if the peredhel was so inclined; but hard work with a scythe held some appeal as well.                                                                       

Perhaps he should ask Elrohir to join him at the harvest. His mood… No wonder Glorfindel would not take him on patrol. Halbarad was uncertain whether sending Elrohir to Tharbad was wise, although it was clear that inaction was not good for him either. Would that I could do more for him. Elladan had made him pull himself together on the ride back from Gondor. Halbarad doubted there was anything he could do now for Elrohir to repay that debt. I also wish I could ride there in his stead. It was nearly three weeks since the envoys had arrived in Caras Dirnen, and close to another week before they would travel on to Rivendell. The day could not come soon enough. Halbarad had to admit that the Steward had made a good choice in the envoys he had sent. Only had Denethor sent his own son and the Prince of Dol Amroth could he have sent a higher-ranking delegation. Only had he come himself would this delegation have been more difficult to deal with. Oh, the Lord of the Keys' attitude and demands in their negotiations had been reasonable, to the point of insult; it was obvious that he did not ask much because he did not expect Gondor could gain anything here. How it must gall the man that he had been sent to seek favours from the North when everything he saw so clearly filled him with contempt. He seemed to take offense at their very speech, if his pointedly Gondorian pronunciation and pained expressions whenever anyone spoke Elvish were anything to go by.

But enough of the Gondorians – what of the news that both Saruman and Gandalf had been seen near the Shire some while back, heading towards the Havens? Likely they wanted to consult with Círdan, but where would they go afterwards? And could he trust Gandalf, if the Wizard were to take some part in events again?

It has been a strange summer. The Rangers' dealing with the ruffians around Bree and the Shire had been followed by the quietest summer in years. The main mountain passes were secured, for now – though peace there had come too late for Elladan. After a wet and miserable spring, the weather had been excellent too, with harvests looking good. For many, even the shock of Aragorn's loss – along with the War in the South and the fall of Minas Tirith – had been pushed to the backs of their minds by the demands of daily life. Yet it took very little to bring the threat to the fore again, as he had seen when nervous townspeople believed the arrival of the envoys from the south meant that war would follow them; and as he had seen even the previous afternoon, when the stable lad on duty at the Keep had asked him whether the arrival of a messenger from Rivendell meant that battle would follow soon. The lad had seemed unsure of whether he wanted it to or not, but had appeared satisfied with Halbarad's denial. Thus do rumours start. Be that as it may, though, no one can deny the Elves are leaving.

Not all, not by far, but enough that there were nearly always Elves on the Road, going West. Halbarad could not fault them, for were that road open to the Dúnedain, many would take it. But they did not have that choice, and rather than envy the Elves their escape, Halbarad put it out of mind apart from wondering how many – and who – would remain. With the mountain passes open, could we, the Beornings and Lothlórien together, hold back the Enemy beyond Anduin? Perhaps, but only if Thranduil and the Dwarves still hold out. Even then, we still would not have the numbers to hold him back long…

Deep in thought Halbarad walked on, until he looked up and realised that he had headed up the path to Aragorn's house. He slowed, wondering whether to go on. He might as well, though, and with a shake of his head, he went on. Curse it, I miss him. Looking through the copy of Aranarth's diary that Elrohir had brought, and finding the notes Aragorn had written had only made it worse.

Of course, Aragorn had only rarely lived in the house; the last time it had seen regular use was when Gilraen was alive. It had been hers and Arathorn's, and she had dwelt here again after she returned to the Dúnedain. Halbarad remembered when he had shown it to Aragorn just after he had come to Caras Dirnen from Rivendell. Were we truly ever so young?

I should do something with the place; not leave it empty, Halbarad thought. What, though… Halmir! Of course… He would see if Lossiel was agreeable to the idea. And it would please Aragorn if he knew, Halbarad thought as he turned to go back. Yes, it is a good idea. He cast a final glance at the house, and his mood fell. And yet… How long will they have there? Here I am making plans for my son when we may all be dead before the next harvest.

~*~

The morning found Imrahil studying the most westerly maps of the Bay of Belfalas, occasionally pacing the few steps along the table on which the maps were rolled out, until he shook his head and went on deck. There was little point in looking at maps until another sighting of the Umbarite ships confirmed or denied his suspicions.

Outside he found the wind had shifted towards the east, and he turned to Soronto. "What news of the Corsairs?"

"They turned further towards the north when the wind changed," Soronto replied. "If they mean to attack the falas, they will come upon the coast from the west. Few will expect an attack from there."

Imrahil was suddenly sure. "Not the falas. Eriador," he answered.

"Are you certain?" Soronto did not look particularly concerned.

"No," Imrahil said. "But certain enough to act on."

Soronto gave him a sharp look before nodding in acquiescence. "Then what? Do we try to outrun them?"

"No," Imrahil said again. "We turn towards Dol Amroth. They have a long way to sail, and a rider can beat them to Tharbad."

~*~

"My lord!"

Celeborn halted.

"There is a messenger for you," the elf who had called him said, indicating that the messenger was waiting below.

"Thank you. I will go to him," Celeborn said. He was on his way down anyway to speak to Galadriel.

"I am Gaerion, from Celegir's company," the messenger said as Celeborn came up to him. "Two days ago, one of our patrols found a group of about thirty Men and Dwarves, who had just crossed the river on rafts. They escaped when Erebor fell, and they walked for three months to get to Anduin."

"Do you know anything more beyond that?" Celeborn asked.

"No, but they were too weary to ask many questions of them," the messenger replied.

"Any enemy activity?" Celeborn asked.

"No more than there has been lately," the messenger said, and went on as Celeborn nodded. "What do we do about these Men and the Dwarves?"

"Go and tell your captain to guide them here, and send out patrols to watch beyond the river," Celeborn said.

As Celeborn descended the steps to the Mirror, Galadriel was still at the pedestal, her hands clutched around the edge of the Mirror's bowl.

He sat down quietly, leaning against a tree. It was not long before she relaxed her stance and drew back from the Mirror. She did not look at him, but acknowledged his presence in mind before kneeling down next to the stream to drink deeply from her cupped hands.

"What did you see?" Celeborn asked a bit later as she sat down beside him.

"I do not know," she replied, "Or rather, I do not know what make of it."

Tell me.

I saw both Mithrandir and Curunír at the Grey Havens again. At first I thought it was their arrival, but then Curunír boarded a small boat.

At that, Celeborn looked at her sharply. "Leaving? And Mithrandir?" When is this? Could you tell?

She held up her hand to slow down his questions. I could not tell; it may have happened already or it may never come to pass. And – at least from what I saw – only Curunír leaves. Mithrandir stays, though I felt some turmoil in him. I would say that this may never happen, perhaps even that we can dismiss it, except for one thing. She fell silent, and Celeborn waited for her to gather her thoughts. I could not see clearly, but I felt a presence there. As if… From her thoughts, Celeborn caught a glimpse of dark seas under the stars, sea spray in the air, the wind in her face and the exhilaration of racing her Telerin cousins in their sailboats. … as if Ulmo himself had come to Mithlond. I am left pondering what it may mean.

Perhaps the Istari are being recalled –Celeborn started.

Nay, ‘tis not that, Galadriel said, or Mithrandir would have gone as well. I do wonder why I saw it, though. Perhaps, it is because Mithrandir… Her hand moved towards the finger that had been bare since the day the Enemy had regained the One, but stopped before she touched it. I do not know, she added. I will think more on this, but I am still ill at ease. Our enemy is too quiet.

"No longer," Celeborn said. "Erebor has fallen."

"Not unexpected," Galadriel replied as she looked at him closely. "Is there more news yet?"

Celeborn shook his head. "Those who brought the news should arrive here in a few days. Then we may learn more."

Chapter Text

September 11 – 20, 3019

Can you go to Tharbad and report back on the work there? And deliver some letters as well.

Elrohir had felt some resentment over being given such an undemanding task at first, yet as he rode towards Tharbad the resentment soon faded. It may be unimportant, but it is better than being cooped up at home with Father hovering over me for fear that I might break apart at the slightest touch.

Without the need for haste, Elrohir had taken his leisure on the journey, even taking a long cut from the Forsaken Inn towards the South Downs, avoiding both Bree and the Barrow-downs. He would miss Elladan more if he was by himself, yet he also found it was easier to bear than when he had been surrounded by everybody's constant concerns in Imladris. He had much to think about as well – not that he would go back on his Choice, even if he could. They had never made a final decision, postponing it for as long as they could, but it had always been understood between Elladan and him that if one brother were to die first, the other would follow his Choice; and thus it did go for us. Had it been Elrohir's decision, he would have Chosen Elfkind. Father, I am sorry, but I could not do otherwise. He shook his head. Either Choice would have brought grief.

Now, though, at last the ruined town came into view. Relieved to put his thoughts aside again, Elrohir looked to where he knew a sentry post was usually placed.

The sentry raised a hand in greeting as soon as Elrohir caught his eye. "What news of the road?" he called out.

"Greetings, Halmir. All is quiet," Elrohir replied as he recognised Halbarad's son. "And how are things here?"

"Quiet also," said Halmir, turning back to keep an eye on the road as he spoke. "What brings you here? I hope no bad news?"

"I merely carry messages and letters," Elrohir replied, "and your father asked me to see how the work on the river goes."

"Go on into town," Halmir said. "We can speak later when I am off duty."

Once in town, Elrohir saw to handing out the letters and messages to the Rangers. Though they were pleased to see him – and the news from home he brought – the initial worry that he had brought news of war coming to Eriador from beyond the Misty Mountains was easy to see.

~*~

In the morning, Elrohir took his mare to be reshod, intending to go for a walk along the river for a first look at the work after that. From what Daeron had said the evening before, the work was coming along well.

Halbarad should be pleased. With the work on schedule, the grain for Gondor can be taken across the river without problem, once they decide how to get it here. It was not a message that had to be delivered without delay, so there was no need to rush back. Nor does sitting around at home hold much appeal. I must find something useful to do, though – other than running messages for the Rangers. Still, a few more days before I start back... Even by himself, it felt good to be back among the Rangers. The time spent here might even help him to put to rest some of his doubts over his Choice. At least he did not feel less at ease among Men than among Elves.

As he kept his horse standing steady while the smith worked, Elrohir considered that she had done well so far; she was still young, and though she had both speed and endurance, he did not yet know her limits, and neither did she.

"Elrohir!" someone called him from outside the smithy's courtyard.

"Hunthor. What is it?"

"There is a messenger from Gondor, and the captain said to call you," the Ranger said.

"Do you know what his news is?" Elrohir asked.

Hunthor nodded grimly. "Yes. There is a Corsair fleet coming north."

Not much later the Rangers were gathered in the old inn's common room; Daeron called everybody who had no other duty in to attend. The messenger, who had ridden all the way from Dol Amroth, opened the meeting, telling them what he knew of where the fleet had been seen, how large it was and its general course.

"We cannot know where they will attack," Daeron said, "However, we do know that there may be a thousand Corsairs coming to land somewhere along the coast, and we must consider all options."

"What about the Isen?" Elrohir said.

Daeron looked thoughtful. "You are thinking of the Long Winter?" he asked

Elrohir nodded.

"I passed the warning to the Rohirrim also, so they are on their guard," said the Dol Amroth man. "Unlikely though it is, as the Isen no longer runs deep enough for the Corsair ships to get far upriver."

"Then what about us?" one of the Rangers said. "Did not Tharbad take large ships once?"

"The Greyflood also runs shallower than it once did," Daeron said. "Our concern now is to prepare as best we can, and sending messengers comes first, since we do notknow that they will strike here. Hunthor, you will go to Bree and Fornost…" He looked around searchingly.

Elrohir raised a hand. "I will go to the Grey Havens," he said.

Daeron nodded. "Good. Bring warning to Sarn Ford also. Gilor, you will bring the news to Caras Dirnen, and Thelion will ride with you to the Last Bridge, and go on to Rivendell."

"Should not Elrohir go to Rivendell?" Hunthor said.

Daeron looked at Elrohir questioningly.

"Mithlond is most urgent, and my horse is fastest," Elrohir replied.

The meeting concluded quickly, and after some brief time to prepare, the messengers set off. There were still hours of daylight left, and they rode on even after sunset, until it was too dark to see.

~*~

"I wonder about the Corsairs," Hunthor said the next morning as he stirred their breakfast porridge.

"How is that?" Thelion said, not sounding too interested.

"Well," Hunthor went on, "First, the King's Men from Númenor settled in Umbar, and then Umbar was part of Gondor for so long; do you think there are still some with Dúnedain blood among the Corsairs?"

"So if there are?" Thelion said. "Do you think they are any the less our enemy?"

"I suppose not," Hunthor admitted. He then turned to Elrohir. "Have you ever been there, that far south, I mean?

"No," Elrohir, in no mood for talk, replied.

"Mind you do not burn our breakfast," Gilor spoke for the first time.

Hunthor shot him an offended glare, but went back to stirring their porridge, and did not continue his line of inquiry.

The silence continued for most of the day, all of them deep in their own thought. Elrohir wondered what the others were thinking. Hunthor was probably still thinking about the history of Umbar, ancient or otherwise, and Thelion and Gilor Elrohir did not know well enough to hazard a guess. As for himself, his doubts about whether he had made the right Choice already gave him second thoughts about going to the Havens. Still, he had taken on the task and his horse was fastest. Even so, it would be hard to see the Havens again, and know he would never set sail from there.

The day's journey was steady and uneventful, and by the time they stopped Elrohir reckoned they were not far from the crossroads. Rather than dwelling on what he could not – and would not – change, he had spent much of the day thinking about Hunthor's questions, trying to remember everything he knew of the Corsairs.

Unfortunately he did not remember all that much; all he had was what Estel had said of his attack on Umbar as Thorongil, and of his journeys among the common people of the Harad. At first, upon his return, they had been more concerned with his betrothal to Arwen than with his deeds in Gondor. Later, it had been clear that Estel would rather not talk about Umbar. He had spoken to Elladan about the attack on the harbour and the destruction of the fleet, but his brother had told Elrohir that the tale was not his to share.

The four messengers reached the crossroads after only a few hours riding the next day. After a quick exchange of well-wishes for the road, Elrohir nudged his horse to turn to the western road, and after a final wave, they were off on their respective courses.

~*~

Elrohir woke around sunrise the next day; he had only taken a few hours rest after riding swiftly until well past dark. He had to reach Sarn Ford today, and the earlier he got there, the better. It was almost a week to Mithlond and there was no time to waste. Now that he rode alone, he had to be on his guard more than before, yet he rode undisturbed until he was stopped about a mile from the ford.

"Halt! Who goes there?" A sentry stepped out on to the road with another Ranger further away raising a bow. Elrohir quickly pulled up his horse and dismounted.

"Hands away from your sword, stranger," the sentry warned as he approached. "State your business."

"Elrohir of Rivendell," Elrohir replied, wondering that the Ranger had not recognised him. "I have urgent tidings for your commander."

"Then you had best go on to our camp," the Ranger replied after a moment of thought; as he waved him on, he gave a sharp whistle to warn that a friend was coming.

While Elrohir led his horse on towards the camp, he tried to remember the Ranger's name. He looked very young, and Elrohir wondered how long he had had his Star. Then he remembered that most of the experienced men who had been posted at Sarn Ford had been slain by the Nazgûl almost exactly a year past. What good will a warning do when there is not even half a company stationed here? And too many of them little more than recruits too.

The lieutenant who was in command of the camp was young also, and unfamiliar to Elrohir, having been promoted only after the Nazgûl attack. He blanched at Elrohir's warning that half a thousand enemies might come marching north along the Baranduin, but after he recovered his aplomb, he warned Elrohir against the mood in the Shire.

"The hobbits are still suspicious of strangers after the trouble with the ruffians; until word came that we are on their side, they were ready to chase us out of the Shire along with the ruffians, and some of my men were threatened by archers in the Tookland."

"If the Corsairs are going to attack the Grey Havens, I do not have time to go around the Shire," Elrohir replied, "but my route does not take me near the Tookland."

~*~

The next day, Elrohir was up before daybreak again. This had been the last night that he could rest in safety and some comfort, but now he must be on his way; he wanted to reach the borders of the Shire before evening. To save time, he only took a cup of tea from the sentry, who had a small fire going and a kettle over it. He would break his fast from his own supplies later on.

The weather had turned cold and windy overnight. By early afternoon it started to rain, softly at first, but turning to a downpour towards dusk, so that Elrohir was glad of the meagre shelter of a tree when he finally stopped. As welcome as the rest was, he was reluctant to stop as well; the wind that lashed him with rain would also speed the Corsair ships to their destination.

It was only a few miles more to Sackville, and Elrohir was mildly surprised that he had not encountered any hobbits yet. Even with the Ranger lieutenant's warning it was still best to take the main road, rather than slow himself down on back roads, he thought, then shrugged. Most likely he would have no trouble from vigilant hobbits.

~*~

In the morning, as he led his horse out from under the tree, it was still overcast, though it had stopped raining. He could see farm sheds and such near the road, and occasionally smoke from a chimney sticking out of a hillside. He breathed in deeply; the air had that lovely after-rain scent.

It was not long until he passed the first hobbit on the road, a farmer on a two-wheeled farm cart. The fellow gave him a wary look and did not respond to his greeting, other than by a silent nod, and lowering one hand from the reins to where Elrohir suspected he kept a cudgel or some such weapon. Elrohir did not look back as he outpaced him easily. By now there were hobbits at work in the fields around, and he could see people watching as he rode past.

Just before Sackville, he stopped to let his horse drink from a brook running along the road. As he dismounted, a hobbit riding a pony approached.

"Good day to you," the newcomer said, eyeing him suspiciously.

As he returned the greeting, Elrohir noted the other bore a feather in his cap. A Shirriff then; one of the hobbits he had seen at work in the fields must have raised the alarm.

"Where are you heading, stranger?" the Shirriff asked next.

Recalling the warning he had been given at Sarn Ford, Elrohir answered readily. "Today, I hope to get past Hardbottle, and I will be riding to Michel Delving and out of the Shire after that."

"See that you do," the Shirriff acknowledged his reply with a sceptical expression. "And stick to the road. People do not take kindly to strangers wandering about these days."

Even if he doubted he was in much danger unless he himself were to threaten anyone, Elrohir looked around warily as he rode on – not something he was used to within the Shire. Still two days to go until the border... He wondered what Bilbo would make of the encounter – and I hope I will have the chance to tell him.

Within Sackville, he had to slow to a walk; there were plenty of onlookers as he passed through, and he saw several Shirriffs among the crowd. Once outside the village, he nudged his horse into a trot again. Though he now passed quite a few hobbits going about their business he rode undisturbed except for suspicious looks, throughout the day, passing Hardbottle by the end of the afternoon. As he still was close to three days from the Havens, he did not stop for rest until dark.

The reproachful look his horse gave him as he finally led her to a strip of grass in the bit of wood he had stopped in almost made him laugh. So far she was holding up well, though, and he hoped his luck would last. Wish I knew where the Corsairs are…

~*~

He would see how far he got, Elrohir thought the next morning. In the distance the White Downs rose already, and even here the land was slowly starting to climb.

Just beyond Michel Delving he spied some hobbit children playing a ball game in a field. His imagination providing him with the prospect of a band of Corsairs descending on them, Elrohir urged his horse to a burst of speed – all the Shirriffs and Took archers and other defenders of the Shire would be no match for Corsairs on the rampage.

Not wishing to risk his horse unnecessarily when he was still so far from the Havens, he almost immediately slowed down again to a steady trot, but he still felt unsettled, as if he was being watched.

The horse, no doubt sensing his anxious mood, broke into a run again, and he reluctantly reined her back to a trot. Not too fast, we still have miles to go. Miles, indeed; over a hundred still... Another day and a half.

Finally, long after dark, and after he reached the Far Downs, he had to stop. Going on was risking a fall in the dark; already his horse had stumbled a few times. Too much was at stake to take unnecessary risks for a few miles gained. I am almost outside the Shire, further than I thought to come today. I will make it up tomorrow.

~*~

To his chagrin he woke up late the following day – a clear sign that he was as tired as his horse. Still over a day to go… He quickly ran his hands over his horse's legs, and found them sound despite her stumbles the day before. He apologised as he placed a hand on her head and tickled the soft skin on her nose. One more day, brave one.

Elrohir could just about make out the tops of the Blue Mountains in the morning sunlight. He recalled how he and Elladan had seen the Misty Mountains in the same way on their return from Lothlórien. He turned his gaze away, and mounted his horse.

After a while, it struck him that he had not yet encountered any Dwarves travelling east or west along the Road; but there was little reason for them to travel now. Even with the High Pass open, where would they go once they came into Wilderland? The Beornings might be willing to buy from them, but they had little coin, and with the road to Erebor closed – if the Mountain even still stood – there was no reason to go that far for so little return. Only once the Dwarves reached agreement with Gondor would there be point in travel for them. Elrohir realised that he had also not encountered any of the groups of Elves he knew were on their way to the Havens, but that too was easy to explain, since he had turned south towards Tharbad, and thus missed part of the East Road.

It would still take some hours to reach them, but Elrohir could see the White Towers in the distance. Not that far now… So many times he and Elladan had ridden this road together, always with the understanding that one day they might ride it to take ship at last. Mother… please understand. I had to choose. He shook his head. There was no point in wishing for what might have been.

After another hour or so, he stopped to rest the horse for a while. There was a rivulet running along the road, so he took his water-bottle from his saddle and walked over to fill it. The water was cool and fast-moving, and somehow washed away his weariness along with the small ripples that formed on the surface as he moved his hand.

With a sigh, he finished refilling his water-bottle, and made ready to remount. Onwards now, he thought as he placed his hand on the horse's withers.

Elrohir! You must hurry.

Eärendil… Grandfather? Elrohir looked up.

The Corsairs are heading for Mithlond. I only just saw them.

Can you not give warning yourself? Círdan will heed you.

I may not. Already, by warning you I am close to overstepping… Ride! Go!

Spurred into new and sharper urgency by the frustrated anguish in Eärendil's thought, Elrohir swung into the saddle, remembering at the last moment to secure his water-bottle.

With the sun well on its way towards the horizon, the White Towers were less than two hours away, and the Road was starting to climb up more steeply into the Tower Hills. Elrohir stopped to let his horse rest and eat a few bites of grass. He would have preferred to push on, but she was starting to get weary and he could not risk her going lame if she stumbled on the rocky road.

After about half an hour he rode on again; one more stop near the White Towers, and then on to the Havens. He reckoned he should make it there halfway through the night, and his warning would be in time.

Looking west from near the base of the westernmost tower a while later, he could see the Sea – or rather the Gulf of Lune – far in the distance. As Elrohir's glance passed over the water, he blinked against the westering sun. There were black spots in his vision. Had he stared into the light too long, or were those the Corsair ships, still far out to sea?

Another blink, and he saw nothing untoward. Or… No… perhaps… He could not be sure.

With a muttered curse of frustration, he mounted again. Everything in him cried out for haste, and against his better judgement, he nudged the horse into a gallop. Alas that what farmland Círdan's people maintained was all on the northern side of the water, or he might have borrowed a fresh horse. On this side, at most he would encounter a lone hunter or a patrol on foot.

Reluctantly, he slowed down again. The horse was weary, and starting to falter. Even at a trot, she felt unsteady now, and he was still too far from Mithlond.

Suddenly, he felt her pulling with her left rear leg. With another muttered curse, he stopped, and after he had dismounted, he watched closely as he let her walk unencumbered. Even now, she was limping, and the leg felt warm to the touch.

Even if I stop now, this will not be better by tomorrow. Elrohir realised with a sinking feeling in his stomach. And I cannot wait that long. I will have to run.

Elrohir took off his sword belt and adjusted it so he could hang the blade over his shoulder rather than have it on his waist. He was loath to leave the horse here, as she was too inexperienced to find a place of safety if he did not come for her again. It was the least bad choice, though, and he quickly led her further back from the road to a small field shielded from sight by a stand of trees along a rocky ridge, asking her to stay there until he came for her.

Hoping she would be safe, he set off, alternating running and walking. The chalky surface of the road gleamed palely under the stars, though the moon had already set some hours before. Of course in the dark he could not see the Gulf of Lune, far in the distance, other than as a faint shine hinting at water. The black-sailed Corsair ships would not have been visible even under the brightest full moon; besides, his own anxious thoughts were enough to drive him on, distant specks on the water or not.

He had to stop regularly to catch his breath – and to ease the headache that worsened each time he pushed himself to his limits; clearly he was not in as good shape as he had thought. Even so, close to dawn at last the gates of Mithlond came into view. Good enough to make it here though…

"Halt! Who goes there?" a challenge rang out from the wall.

"Elrohir of Imladris. Corsairs are coming… Sound the alarm!" Elrohir gasped, trying to give warning and catch his breath at the same time.

Almost immediately a wicket gate opened.

"Elrohir! Enter!" a guard called him in. "What? When? How do you know?"

"No time! Just sound the alarm!" Elrohir repeated as he entered. "I will go warn Círdan," and on he ran towards Círdan's residence.

He had not gone far when he heard a bell starting to peal, but it was not the bell from the gate.

The harbour bell! I am too late!

Elrohir quickly changed direction to head down to the harbour – he would find the Shipwright there soon enough. At least the streets were still quiet, and he ran as fast as he could, soon reaching the broad stairs that led to the lower part of town and the quays. Panting and with another headache starting to throb, he descended as far as the sea defences. As he paused to regain his breath, he saw that by now there were archers up on the ramparts, gazing out to sea, and there was Círdan!

Obviously, the lord of Mithlond had rushed to make it here, for he was dressed in no more than a pair of light trousers, and was hastily putting on an undershirt, while someone stood by holding his mail and sword.

"Elrohir!" Círdan called as the peredhel came over. "Why are y…"

"I bring warning," Elrohir replied quickly. "The attackers are Corsairs out of Umbar. I had hoped to be here before the atta…"

"Yes, yes," Círdan said. "How many ships, and what else can you tell?"

"At least twelve ships; they may carry a thousand men, Imrahil of Dol Amroth thinks." At Círdan's questioning look, Elrohir added, "He spied them at sea, and sent warning north."

Círdan nodded and turned his attention to the harbourmaster, who had come up and stood waiting.

"Twelve ships, and the scouts further down the Gulf report that none have set men ashore yet," the harbourmaster said. "They are all coming here. I have told the archers to use fire arrows on the ships."

"Good," Círdan said, "Let me know if any do try to make landing further out. Our task is to stop them from entering the harbour."

"There they are!" the shout went up from further down the wall.

Elrohir could see ships still some distance from the harbour, and still out of range. They were being rowed, their sails down – that will make it harder for our archers once they come into range, Elrohir thought. If they want to land with boats from that far off, they have no chance. Mithlond was not heavily fortified, but Círdan did have some defences on the seawall. Once our catapults are set up, we can pick off any ship that enters the harbour, and the quays are within range of the archers on the wall.

As it grew lighter, he saw the men on one of the three nearest ships were loading small catapults. Behind him Elrohir heard an order to ready a ballista, but he kept watching the ships. Until the Corsairs landed watching was all he could do.

The first attempt saw the catapults' loads splash down harmlessly into the middle of the harbour.

Already, the Corsairs were readying a second load – depending on how well they had calibrated their catapult, it would strike the wall, or it would go high and the third attempt would strike the wall. However, the seawall was strong, and the catapults on the ships did not look like they could launch much of a load.

There it comes.

The catapult had been aimed near the ballista. Small objects scattered and broke, splashing their content over the top of the wall and the ballista.

Elrohir waited.

Fire flared up, setting off the ballista and everything nearby. Some of the defenders had run far enough, but others were caught in the flame.

Fire casks! Elrohir cursed inwardly.

A second load of casks struck the wall just as Elrohir and others started to run towards the fire. The heat drove them back, and Elrohir retreated reluctantly as the screams of those caught in the first fire stopped or faded to moans.

This is no ordinary pitch. Elrohir fought a coughing spell as he breathed thick oily smoke. It burns too hot, and too fast.

"Abandon the wall!" someone called.

"Not yet!" others shouted back.

Casks continued to hit the wall near where the ballista had been.

The other two ships were rowed closer, and their catapults were also being readied now. The first load went high over the wall, landing somewhere in the lower part of town. For the second attempt, the trajectory the catapults' loads followed was very high. As far as Elrohir could see, all landed high above, in the upper part of the town.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, a muted thump! followed immediately by several more, and a dull red glow, quickly brightening into orange flames.

Near the middle of the wall, Círdan stood, also watching the casks striking the town. He stepped back, hesitating, then returned to look out from the parapet. Elrohir ran over to see what was happening.

Another ship approached. The rowers would be slaves – Elrohir could not help but think of the men they had freed in Pelargir – whipped and beaten to force them to greater speed. At the top of the mast, a black and red and gold banner blew in the wind. On deck, there was only one man, at the helm.

Fire ship, Elrohir realised in horror.

The helmsman blew a horn, then fell back, pierced with arrows.

Too late, the signal is given and the ship is set on its course.

Smoke billowed from the hold.

Sudden flame burst from the fire ship, and even as he heard the slaves below deck screaming, Elrohir saw the ship was going to hit the ships waiting to Sail. People were running away from them. Without further thought, Elrohir dived to the ground, pulling Círdan down with him.

No explosion. Just the roar of flames, and more screams, cut short.

Slowly, Elrohir got up again to look over the parapet, belatedly offering a hand to Círdan. The fire ship had hit the first ship along the quay broadside on, and was just a blackened, burned hulk. The moored ships though… not just the first one was afire, but the others had also caught. Along the quay, further fires burned. Even the water near the ships seemed to be on fire.

Do they even mean to land, or is their sole intent the destruction of Mithlond?

"Find Mithrandir!" Círdan shouted.

So this is where Mithrandir has been hiding, Elrohir thought.

Círdan turned to him. "You must go," he said. "Bring word to the Rangers, and to Imladris."

Elrohir reluctantly headed back towards the higher part of town – he hated the thought of abandoning the defence, but there was naught he could do, and word should be ... The thump! of casks striking their targets continued. He was about halfway up the stairs when he turned around.

Around the harbour, buildings were burning. It will be a long time before ships are built here again. Behind the seawall… the guesthouses for those waiting to Sail were burning also. Elrohir hesitated; should he go and try to help?

The three ships that had been involved in the attack so far raised oar and moved back. As they did so, other ships moved in to take their place, and with a shudder at the realisation that they would continue to lob fire at Mithlond until they had run out, Elrohir turned away again and continued up the stairs. There were small groups of people huddled to the side of the stair, trying to shelter. They were too shocked to take much notice of his passage, even as he shouted at them to go on up, and he doubted he would get answers to anything he could ask.

Elrohir already knew that what he would find in the town itself would be bad. Though from below the first row of buildings appeared undamaged, he could hear the screams and moans of the wounded already on the stairs. The air was grey with smoke, and even here he could barely stop coughing.

"Are the defences holding?" an Elf in the uniform of the town guard asked as Elrohir reached the top of the stair.

"For now," Elrohir replied. "How are things here?"

The guard just shook his head, and flinched as another load of casks flew overhead.

Elrohir repeated his question, but the guard turned away, heading down the stairs.

The fires in the upper part of town burned high, the flames drawing in the air, feeding on their own strength. The town is lost, Elrohir thought. Many houses still stood, but only as burnt-out shells. Elrohir could only hope the inhabitants had escaped, but from the burnt and blackened corpses he saw in the street he knew that hope was idle. There would be no survivors here, except for those who could still run, and he quickly went on, stopping only to catch his breath even as the oily smoke and the stench of burnt flesh made him retch.

Further on, there was less damage, but still no living people either. As the air improved, Elrohir ran on to the town gate.

Outside the gate, there were about a hundred Elves milling around. One, a woman, was attempting to impose some order, and after she had finished speaking to someone Elrohir recognised as a healer, he walked up to her.

"Are you in charge?" he asked.

"And who are you?" was her return question.

"Elrohir of Imladris," he replied.

"Yes, with the soot wiped off your face, you might be," she replied drily. "I would ask your aid with the wounded, but you will be of more use if you go and ask for help from the Rangers."

"That is why Círdan sent me up here," Elrohir replied.

"Is our lord unscathed yet?" she asked sharply, adding, "Are the attackers in the town?"

"He was when he sent me away. The enemy appear only interested in destruction, not invasion," Elrohir replied, "But if you can…"

BOOM!

He was cut short by an explosion that made the ground shake.

"Some of the enemy ships blew up!" someone shouted from the top of the gate's bell tower.

"All of them?" the woman asked, sudden hope in her eyes.

"No," was the answer. "The attack goes on."

The woman drew in a sharp breath and turned to Elrohir again. "If you are to fetch help, go!"

~*~

Elrohir was about halfway to where he had left his horse – and it was not even noon, he thought numbly – when he heard hoof beats on the road behind him. With nowhere to take cover, he reached over his shoulder to draw his sword.

The horse was white, and on his back…

"Mithrandir!"

The wizard rode on.

Chapter Text

September 22, 3019

Above anything, Halbarad thought, I want these talks over with and the envoys on their way home. They had found agreement on the grain shipments, and had spent the last few days speculating about the Enemy's next moves. Now, though, the Beornings and the Dwarves had both requested a day of rest, as each group wished to talk over things among themselves. No more than another day or so anyway before we are done. There had been messengers from Caras Dirnen and from the Rangers, so Halbarad knew there were no urgent problems waiting at home. He stifled a yawn. Over the last few days his sleep had been disturbed by dreams he could not remember upon waking, but which he still felt might be important. I need to be outside today, go riding perhaps. Even if it is raining still, I am too restless to stay indoors.

The talks had been more fraught than Halbarad had expected. It had started with Elrond's anger at him over sending Elrohir to Tharbad – they were now reconciled again, though Halbarad was certain the Master of Rivendell still disagreed with him sending off Elrohir. He was also certain that Glorfindel had had words with Elrond over the matter; Glorfindel's words to Halbarad had certainly been plain – Elrond looks at him with a father's eyes, not a captain's. You must have seen why I will not let Elrohir out on patrol, though his skill with a sword is sorely missed; and in all honesty, I hoped you would set him some simple but long task. He needs time to find who he is – alone – and this may have given him that.

And then Erestor had wondered whether the long frost in the Misty Mountains might forewarn of a winter as deadly as the Long Winter or the Fell Winter; and if so, whether it was wise to send so much food south. Perhaps not wise, Halbarad thought, but necessary nonetheless. Gondor had lost enough of its harvest that it needed what the North could spare, or many would go hungry that winter. And the longer Gondor stands in strength... That was not his only concern about the weather, though. He would not speak of it with anyone except perhaps Glorfindel or Arwen – for he doubted Elrond would answer what questions he might have on this –, but he had noticed that Rivendell's usually mild weather had been much the same as outside the valley, and he could only ascribe that to it no longer being shielded by Elrond's Ring. The valley was open to more than just the weather, though, and it was only its strength in arms and its hidden location that would now protect it.

~*~

They had been in Imladris for weeks, and Amrothos still caught himself looking in wonder at the place and its inhabitants. At home, he had of course explored the ruins of Elvish buildings along the coast, but those had been abandoned for a thousand years or more. Here there were Elves – and except for the companion of the Northern King who had briefly travelled with them on the flight from Minas Tirith, and the Elves he had seen in Rohan, he had never met any before, or half-Elves for that matter.

It had been unsettling to find himself as much under their scrutiny as they were under his. And what did they see? he wondered. Back home he was often taken to be younger than he was due to his lack of beard, even if it was not uncommon among those of Númenorean blood to have their beard come in late; and he doubted that having the odd foresighted dream would leave a discernible mark, even to the keen eyes of the Elves. Most disturbing had been the long look the messenger from the land of Lothlórien had given him when Master Elrond mentioned his name and lineage during the talks. Later Amrothos had learned that Mithrellas had been a kinswoman of the messenger. There had been no opportunity for them to speak further, though, even if they had had more than a few words of Westron in common.

Imladris itself… The age and history of the place were tangible, and some of the craftwork he saw was so beautiful it almost took his breath away. Yet neither its age nor its beauty were how Imladris spoke to him; he felt at ease here as he did at sea, or at home in Dol Amroth. It was indeed, as he had heard it called, the Last Homely Home.

He had tried to put it into words for the other envoys. Both Erkenbrand and Wídfara had nodded in agreement, but Húrin had given a contemptuous little laugh and told him to keep his mind on the negotiations. Amrothos had shrugged off the admonition. He certainly did not need to spend his every waking hour on the talks, and perhaps Húrin should not either. Besides, by now they were finished talking about grain shipments and Dwarvish trade, and gone on to consider future threats and alliances.

Agreement had been reached also on the north taking in refugees from the south once the Enemy started to move deeper into Gondor and Rohan. The Northern Chieftain had said they would help their southern kin and the Rohirrim as much as possible once it came to it, but he could not make detailed promises. Amrothos thought that was perfectly reasonable, but Húrin seemed willing to read a slight of Gondor into it. Of course, Húrin could find insult in anything – as he had when they arrived in Imladris, and Master Elrond first welcomed Erkenbrand and Wídfara in Rohirric, before speaking to the others in their party in Elvish. Húrin's expression when he realised that what he had derided as the rustic Elvish accent of the Northern Dúnedain was in fact much closer to true Elvish than Gondorian speech was had been priceless.

Amrothos was relieved to have a day to himself, especially this day, which would have been Erchirion's birthday. Ah, my brother, you would have liked Imladris… Erchirion had always liked the land more than Amrothos did, and he would have loved to go exploring the hidden reaches of the valley, even in today's rain. Amrothos had allowed the rain to stop him from further exploring the many waterfalls he could see further on in the valley. Maybe later. Instead, he had decided on the library, as he was curious what books there were about Gondor and about Dol Amroth in particular. An Elf had pointed him in the right direction when he asked. When he found the shelves he was looking for, he was slightly disappointed, though, for there were only a few he recognised, and the others were mostly annals or books of maps.

At the end of the bookcase stood a glass display case and he walked over to see what was in it. He expected to find perhaps some things that had been brought here from the south – as he had noticed items from other lands on display elsewhere in the library – but inside were more books, and they clearly were very old. Much of the lettering on the covers was so worn and faded that he could not even guess at the titles, but there were a few he recognised, such as two volumes of Silmarien's Discourses.

Wondering how old the books in this case were, Amrothos turned around to see what else of interest he might find – perhaps something to read, and a quiet corner to sit down in. He should also try to remember as many titles of books as he could; Mother would want to know everything he could tell her about the library.

He started as he realised there was someone watching him. A Halfling. He had heard there was one living here, but he had not yet met him.

~*~

"The Númenorean collection is impressive, is it not?" Bilbo said, giving the strange Man a friendly nod in greeting.

"The Númenorean collection? Those are from Númenor?" the Man asked, "I mean, they are not copies?"

"They are really from Númenor," Bilbo replied. He remembered his own first impressions of Master Elrond's library, and added, "The library can be a bit overwhelming at first. Were you looking for anything in particular?"

"Yes, I was, but I found it; I was curious what books there were about my home, and I found them before I looked at these," the other replied, turning his head to look at the books in amazement again.

"Oh, you must be one of the envoys from Gondor then. I had taken you for a Ranger at first. And I apologise for forgetting my manners; I should have introduced myself. I am Bilbo, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire, but currently of Rivendell." He really ought to pay more attention to what was going on in Rivendell, Bilbo thought; although on the rare evenings that he went down to the Hall of Fire – hoping anyone might be in a mood for singing or poetry – the envoys had not been there, so he could be excused for not recognising the young man.

"Pleased to meet you, Master Baggins," the Man now said. "I am Amrothos of Dol Amroth."

"Dol Amroth?" Bilbo asked; Dol Amroth… there is something I should remember about it…

"Yes," Amrothos said. "It is on the southern coast of Gondor."

Of course, Bilbo thought. Uncle Isengar! "I have heard of it. In fact, an uncle of mine went there once."

"Really?" Amrothos looked doubtful.

"Really," said Bilbo. "Oh, it was more than a hundred years ago, but he did go to Gondor and he visited Dol Amroth as well, and he went to sea." Or at least, so he said. Up until his own adventure, Bilbo had always been doubtful about his uncle's tall tales. I would have loved to follow in his footsteps and go south. Alas for these evil days we live in.

When Amrothos did not reply immediately, Bilbo sighed. "I suppose it was a long time ago…"

Amrothos was silent for a bit again before he went on. "That is not it. I just remembered that my father has a letter written by my great-grandfather to his father in which he mentions having met a perian in Minas Tirith. I cannot quite remember his name, but it was something with an 'i'. So he did make it to Dol Amroth as well, after that."

"Yes," Bilbo said, "Or at least so Uncle Isengar told me, and I later looked up Dol Amroth on a map. He did not like to talk much about his journeys after he came home again, though; probably because no one would believe him. But I would have liked to see Gondor myself one day."

Amrothos nodded at Bilbo's words, but then he fell silent, with a deeply sad expression on his face.

"What is it?" Bilbo asked.

"Nothing," Amrothos said, then added at the Halfling's look, "Well, nothing I would want to burden you with."

"I am sure it would be no burden, but I do not wish to pry; it is just that you suddenly looked so sad."

Amrothos looked away briefly, then shrugged and plunged on. "Today would have been my brother Erchirion's birthday. He died in the fall of Minas Tirith." He looked down, then continued speaking. "I do not even know how he died. He had been wounded and when the city was abandoned he had to stay behind. We had to leave via a narrow mountain path, and…" He stopped, his expression troubled.

"I am sorry," Bilbo said. "Were you close to each other?"

"Yes," Amrothos said. He managed a smile. "When we were children, he thought I was a pest, and I thought he was stuck up, and envied him that he was allowed to do everything Father said I was too young for. But all brothers have those rivalries, and when those few years between us no longer mattered, we became good friends as well as brothers."

"That is good, that you were good friends. You must miss him terribly."

"Yes, I do," Amrothos said. "But what has happened cannot be undone." He gave Bilbo a rather wan smile. "I should go now; it has been a pleasure to speak with you, Master Baggins, and I hope we shall have opportunity to speak again soon."

"I would love to hear more about your home," Bilbo said. Birthdays! On a less sad day, he would try to find a chance to talk to the young man again; imagine that he had even heard of uncle Isengar! Then he sighed, and shook his head, wondering what he might do the rest of the afternoon. In the rain, the gardens held little appeal. The Hall of Fire, even if there was anyone there, only reminded him of better days and cheerful company. Stay in his room and try to read? No, the company of his own thoughts was even less appealing, especially as he was unable to forget that today was his, and Frodo's, birthday. There was no one who could do anything for Frodo – unless perhaps Gandalf; but what could even Gandalf do? Yet even a foolish hope was better than no hope... Even so, if all he could do for Frodo was sit here and think of him, then that was what he would do.

So far, everybody hadforgotten that it was his – their – birthday. It was a lonely feeling, and somehow it made him feel old and weary in a way he had not felt before. Then he shook his head and considered that with luck next year he would overtake the Old Took.

Bilbo shook his head again as he left the library. Perhaps I will take a walk in the gardens after all, if it is not raining too badly. He stopped to check on the weather when he passed a window. To his pleasant surprise, it was not only dry, but there was even some blue sky to be seen. It also appeared that he would not be the only one taking to the gardens; even Master Elrond was outside, along with Arwen. They seemed to be deep in conversation, though, enough so that Bilbo wondered whether they even noticed the weather.

~*~

It was close to dusk by the time Halbarad returned from his ride. He was glad he had gone out, as unpleasant as the rain he had started out in had been. He should probably pay Bilbo a visit later in the evening – it was the old hobbit's birthday, and he might appreciate some company.

As Halbarad dismounted, an Elf hurriedly came up to him. "Master Elrond asks that you come to the council room immediately."

Halbarad wondered what ill news Elrond had heard. Was there early snow in the mountains, Orcs on the march, the fall of Lothlórien...?

He was one of the first to arrive; only Glorfindel and the Rohirric envoys were already there. A quick glance at Glorfindel made it clear the Elf did not know either why they had been called together.

The next to enter was a bemused-looking Erestor. The Beornings, the Dwarves and the Gondorians soon came in as well, followed by several Elves of Elrond's household.

Finally, Elrond himself arrived. He walked to the chair at the head of the table and sat down.

"I have received word…" he started, but before he could say more the door opened again, and Arwen, a determined look on her face, entered.

As she crossed the room to sit down next to Glorfindel, a shiver ran along Halbarad's back and for a moment he saw a clear light around her, and he knew he saw with the sight of vision. The light disappeared almost immediately, and Halbarad was left wondering what it meant. Perhaps it was no more than the sense of purpose he had already noted in her these last few weeks.

Halbarad quickly returned his attention to Elrond, as the Master of Rivendell cleared his throat and continued speaking.

"As I started to say, I have received word that the Grey Havens were attacked," Elrond said. "The docks and the ships being prepared to Sail are all lost, as is much of the town."

The Havens? How had the Enemy… it had to have been by ship, and that meant Umbar; no army could have come so far over land unseen. And was it only a raid, or an invasion? But how did Elrond know? There had been no messenger that Halbarad knew of. An unwelcome thought crossed his mind. Had Elrond used the palantír? But no, Elrond said that he had received word, not that he had seen the attack or its aftermath.  

"When? And dead and wounded?" Erestor asked.

"Two days ago. I do not know yet how many victims there are, nor Círdan's fate," Elrond replied.  

Glorfindel was the next to speak. "Who carried out the attack? Do you know how many landed?"

"Corsairs of Umbar," Elrond said.

"Corsairs?" Amrothos spoke up. "If the Corsairs are raiding here in the North…"

He was interrupted by a knock on the door. The door was opened, and a weary-looking Ranger entered. The Ranger nodded briefly at Halbarad, but turned immediately to Elrond.

"I am Thelion of the Tharbad Company. We were warned that a fleet out of Umbar is sailing north. We do not know where they are going, but word has been sent to the Havens and elsewhere."

"Alas," Elrond said, "The warning to the Havens was in vain." At Thelion's stricken look he gestured the Ranger to sit down and quickly repeated his earlier announcement.

"Tharbad received warning?" Halbarad asked the Ranger once he was seated and Elrond had finished speaking.

"Yes, sir," Thelion replied. "A rider from Dol Amroth; a patrol at sea had seen these ships heading north."

"When?" Elrond asked.

"Ten days ago," the Ranger replied. "The captain sent us out the same day; Gilor went to Caras Dirnen, and Hunthor to Bree and Fornost." He turned to Elrond again. "Master Elrond, your son said he would go to the Havens, since he had the fastest horse."

~*~

Later, after the meeting had concluded, and they had both sent messages to be wary of sudden attack to the Misty Mountains patrols, Glorfindel and Halbarad joined Elrond in his study. Arwen was already there.

"How did you learn of the raid?" Glorfindel asked Elrond.

Elrond was slow to answer, leaving Arwen to speak. "Eärendil told us."

Glorfindel nodded. He had suspected as much.

"Eärendil." Halbarad looked shocked as he turned to Glorfindel. "You knew?"

"No," Glorfindel answered, "Or at least not that he had taken this active a hand in things." He quickly explained to Halbarad all that he knew of Eärendil's help so far.

"I see," Halbarad said when Glorfindel had finished his tale. "How much can or will he do?"

"Not much," Elrond replied, his expression neutral. "He was only allowed to tell us what he saw because of Elrohir's involvement." At Halbarad's questioning look he added, "My son lives and is unhurt."

Before either could say more, Glorfindel shifted the subject to avoid the still sore point of how Elrohir had come to be at Mithlond. "In truth, even were Eärendil allowed to aid us by espying the Enemy's advances from the skies, there would be little advantage in it. His path is set, and he cannot see all."

From Halbarad's look at Glorfindel it was clear that he had been thinking along such lines.

"Nor should we come to rely on such aid; already we have been complacent by not expecting this assault. Now, though," Glorfindel continued, ignoring irritated looks from both Elrond and Halbarad, "We should give further thought to the defence of Imladris."

Halbarad nodded in agreement, but Elrond surreptitiously tapped his finger as he glanced at Glorfindel.

Halbarad already knows about the Three, Glorfindel replied in mind. Out loud he said, "I expect the Enemy will want to deal with Lothlórien before he crosses the Misty Mountains."

"I have been trying to find a way to shield the valley that does not rely on …" Arwen gestured to indicate her father's Ring, "Both from what Elrohir has been able to tell me of Grandmother's new defensive working and from the library."

Glorfindel had not been there when Idril had told Turgon about the secret escape tunnel from Gondolin she had devised without him finding out. Now when he looked at Elrond, he suspected that he had just learned how Turgon had looked when she told him. Itarillë, your great-granddaughter is truly worthy of you.

Chapter Text

September 23-27, 3019  

"I wish I could come with you beyond Mering." Éowyn glanced longingly at the land beyond the river. "I know I cannot, even if the road is safe well beyond. My Councillors would faint in unison, and besides, Merry would not forgive me if I missed his wedding." She smiled ruefully as she went on. "So you will not need to keep an eye out for an extra Rider in Éothain's éored." No matter how much I want to just keep on riding…

~*~

As Elfhelm watched Éowyn and her guardsmen ride back, he could not help smiling himself. Not that Éowyn's jest had been all that worthy of mirth, but it was good to see her truly cheerful, rather than the guarded expression she wore at home. He wished… but before he finished the thought, he shook his head and turned Blackfoot around to signal the éored to ride on.

~*~

Three days later, they were encamped near the beacon at Eilenach, the last stop along the road to Mundburg before they turned towards Anduin. The leisurely speed the éored rode at meant there was ample time to send out scouts not just ahead, but also into the lands along the road. So far, they all reported what he expected; no recent signs of their enemies anywhere.  

"Empty?" Elfhelm asked the man who had just returned from Drúadan Forest.

The Rider nodded, and Elfhelm ran his hand through his hair in frustration. Only two more men still had to report, and they had gone as far as Amon Din, so would not be back until evening. He had hoped to perhaps enlist the help of the Drúedain in spying out what their enemy was doing near Mundburg, but so far none of the men he had sent had found any trace of Ghân-buri-Ghân's people. The Wild Men were stealthier than any Rider, so either they did not wish to be found, or they had fled their forest.

After he had dismissed the scout, Elfhelm paced as he thought – the men who held the last beacon at Amon Din already kept an eye on Mundburg, and while it was unfortunate that they would not have the help of the Wild Men, they did not need it.

~*~

"Treachery, I tell you," Éothain muttered darkly once he and Elfhelm were out of earshot of the scouts who had confirmed that the woods near Amon Din were also empty of Drúedain.

"Unlikely," Elfhelm replied. "The Wild Men took no oath to defend the land for us, but they are no friends of the Orcs, and I think that rather they have sought safety in the mountains. I like it as little as you do, but save your anger for where it belongs: with our enemies."

Éothain, though still glowering, remained silent, and after a brief pause Elfhelm went on. "Also, it changes nothing; in the morning we will leave the Road and head towards Anduin."

~*~

That evening as he waited for sleep to come, Elfhelm considered their road from here. The men he rode with would relieve the éored now guarding the stretch of the river near Cair Andros, and he would return with the others, past the marshlands around the mouths of Entwash to inspect the defences there. It would be good for Éothain to have such an important command as Anduin's defences in Anórien. Elfhelm had high expectations of him – Éothain might not agree with him over the Drúedain, but Elfhelm had been pleased that the younger man had kept his temper under control when he would not have only a few months before.

Of course, there had been no real need for him to come out here himself – both Éothain and Rathwine who commanded the other éored, were well able to ride to and from the River without him –, but he needed to dosomething other than sit in Edoras and bed the Queen. And from Éowyn's mood on the road from Edoras to Aldburg, clearly she felt much the same. He had had to argue hard with the Council, for with Éowyn still not with child, they had been set against him being away from Edoras even for a few weeks. And there might be no need for him to come out here now, with the recent news from Dwimordene that both Dale and the kingdom of the Dwarves had fallen some months before, his need to do more than wait was greater than ever – it could not be long before war came to the Mark.

~*~

The next day, peaceful as Anórien's farmlands seemed, Elfhelm felt ill at ease. It would be too easy for Orcs, whether from Mundburg or from across the river, to set an ambush for them among the narrow winding lanes that ran between fields and villages; before, while the year's grain was being harvested, that danger had been constant, and they had lost both Riders and workers to raids.

The last of the grain had been taken west some weeks before, and the farms and villages that dotted the landscape were truly abandoned, even if people had dwelt here recently enough that from a distance houses still looked lived in. There would be no harvest from Anórien next year, no matter how much some of those who had lived closest to Mering had wanted to return home. Even with the help of the Ents, the Riders were strained guarding this much more land, and to protect villages rather than chase down raiders would take more men than Elfhelm was prepared to assign to Anórien, certainly while Anduin's shore north of the East Emnet and Emyn Muil needed defending also.

Even with the scouts finding no sign of recent enemy incursions, Elfhelm could not escape the feeling that the very land was marking their passage. It might be no more than the abandoned houses along with having found Drúadan Forest empty getting to him, or – as he had learned was all too possible – it could be their enemy's Eye on them.

Elfhelm wished he could just shrug off the feeling – he did not wish to go looking for trouble which was either not there or unavoidable – but Blackfoot was as tense as he was, and whether the horse responded to his mood, or whether there really…

~*~

The last farm lay miles behind, and the road had narrowed to a trail that ran between high rocks on either side, descending towards the high reeds and sedge along the banks of the river no more than a mile beyond.

"It is almost the perfect place for an ambush," Éothain observed as he halted his horse next to Elfhelm.

"It is," Elfhelm said, considering the deep shadows from the setting sun behind them. "Yet the scouts report that the road appears safe, and the ones who rode to the river say the reeds are undisturbed for miles both north and south of here. We can go around, and arrive at the garrison half a day later or we risk it, and sleep in comfort tonight." He waited; it should be for Éothain to decide.

"We go around," the other said, immediately raising his hand to signal to the waiting Riders.

Elfhelm had been here a few times before, both as a young errand-rider and as one of the Riders who had helped strengthen Gondor's river defences. As he knew the road well, he allowed his thoughts to run ahead beyond the copses of low trees and dense bushes through which they rode, onwards to the camp ahead and a night's sleep uninterrupted by sentry duty. This road was used but rarely, but it was wider than the trail along the rocks and the Riders could go three or four abreast. Ahead a narrow brook ran towards Anduin, and the road narrowed slightly, causing the éored to bunch up more in the fading light.

As Elfhelm pulled up Blackfoot and started to back him up slightly to stay out of the worst of the melee at the brook's fording, he caught a glimpse of the last sunlight reflecting on metal from the trees on the other side.

"Spread out! Ambush!" he called, but the trap had already been sprung, and arrows, some of them set alight, rained down among the men milling around near the water.

As Elfhelm tried to turn Blackfoot, the horse reared as a fire arrow struck Elfhelm's leg. Frantically batting at the flames, he tore out the arrow and cast it away, not caring what damage a barbed arrowhead might do. It will be worse to let it bu... Ai! His shoulder... Dizzy from the pain, he tried to hang on to Blackfoot's mane. If he could stay mounted, the horse would...

~*~

Half-asleep, Éowyn smiled as she turned over in bed, her hand, almost with a will of its own, moving to her still flat belly. She had not been sure yet when she rode to Aldburg with Elfhelm, but today the midwife had confirmed it. She was indeed – at last – with child.

Chapter Text

September 30 – October 2, 3019

Gandalf rubbed in frustration at an ashy smear on his once-clean robes. And so I am become the Grey Wanderer again.

He wondered about the Elves from Rivendell going to the Havens to bring aid that he had already encountered on the Road. Clearly, his news had outrun him, but how? Perhaps, Elrond was still using Vilya, and he had sensed the attack or the death of Círdan; or someone had used the Orthanc palantír that Halbarad must have brought north – but who would risk that, surrounded with warning as the palantíri now were? Either way, with his news no longer urgent, was there any point left in his going to Rivendell? Not that I have anywhere else to go this side of the mountains, but what if Elrond is still using Vilya? Rivendell should be the last place I should go. He sighed and signalled Shadowfax to walk faster. Even if it were the last place I should go, it is also the only place I can go.

Even more surprising than being told his own news had been the group of Gondorians and Rohirrim he had encountered along the road the day before, and finding out that both Rohan and Gondor had sent envoys to the Rangers and the Elves. Éowyn he did not know well and thus it was hard to judge what she might do, but for Denethor to unbend so far… Of course, the Steward would do whatever was necessary for Gondor's defence, and Gandalf wondered whether this was what he and Aragorn had spoken of. But even that thought, and its implications, did not drive the Havens from his mind. Wish that I could be free of the stench of charred flesh, and the oily smoke of the Corsairs' fire casks.

~*~

Perhaps, if I put it better, Bilbo will see sense…

A knock on the door, and Elrond immediately called, "Enter."

Glorfindel came in.

"My news can wait if…" he started, but both Bilbo and Elrond waved away his apology.

"No need," Bilbo said immediately, looking as relieved as Elrond felt. "I was just going. I hope you do not bring more bad news, though."

"That remains to be seen," Glorfindel replied, adding at the hobbit's look, "Whether or not it is bad, I mean."

"Well, do not tell me," Bilbo said as he stood up and headed for the door, giving Elrond a barely polite nod in farewell. "I am sure Master Elrond prefers that I do not worry about things I cannot do anything about."

Glorfindel blinked in surprise as the door clicked shut behind Bilbo. "What was that about?"

Elrond shook his head. "He has not been feeling well. I suggested that he try to not overexert himself, or wear himself out from worrying; I fear my advice offended him."

"How old is he now?" Glorfindel asked.

"One hundred and twenty-nine," Elrond replied, looking troubled. "A venerable age for one of his kind, but I do not know whether it is only age that ails him, or some effect of having borne the One Ring for many years. But what is your news?"

"Mithrandir is on his way; he should be here by tomorrow."

"Mithrandir?" was all Elrond said. Will he have more news of the attack? Or of Elrohir? I know my son lives, but where is he? And why is Mithrandir coming here now?

~*~

Gandalf would not have been surprised if he had been stopped and turned away as he approached the Ford of Bruinen, but the only sign that he had even been seen was a whistled signal in the distance. Nor did the waters rise up against him as he crossed the river, and as at last he came to the stables and an Elf appeared to lead Shadowfax to a stall, he finally felt more at ease.

Despite his worries, he had half-expected Elrond to be waiting when he came to the house; instead he was met by one of Elrond's assistants who told him his quarters had been made ready, and that Master Elrond would see him as soon as possible, but that it would likely be at least the next day.

"Does he truly have no time?" Gandalf attempted to argue, but with his news no longer urgent, his heart was not in it, and he grumblingly followed the Elf who had picked up his bags. The day was still young, and he had to admit that after the hard ride from the Havens a chance to make himself comfortable, or at least presentable, was welcome.

Shortly after, as he prepared his pipe, Gandalf considered whether he should go to see Bilbo. The only leaf to be had in Bree had been Southlinch, and there had not been much of that, either; perhaps his old friend had something better. But no; he felt a sudden reluctance to face Bilbo, and he put the pipe down again. Instead, perhaps he could try to find Erestor or Glorfindel; they might tell him where Elrond was.

~*~

Arwen opened the door of the storeroom that held Rivendell's healing supplies. Luckily, no one had died in the mudslide in the north of the valley that Elrond had ridden out for. There were several wounded, though, and so her father had sent word that he would stay in the makeshift camp that had been set up until the wounded could be moved. He had also sent her a list of things he needed.

As she gathered items from her father's list, Arwen wondered whether the mudslide had been caused by the valley no longer being protected from the weather in the mountains. Not that that protection had ever wholly shielded them from the weather, but it had been enough that the difference was noticeable. Rain, wind and cold would also affect plants, and she had already had some trouble with pests and diseases striking the valley's crops. These could be dealt with, but they were a reminder that Imladris was vulnerable to other things than the weather as well now, as it had not been since before she had even been born. I really need to find a way to protect the valley without Vilya, she thought, even if this was not a deliberate attack. She had gone over all that her grandmother had been willing to teach her of Lothlórien's defences in the past, and Elrohir had told her more still. I understand much of Grandmother's workings, she thought, but whether I know enough to set similar wards without the strength that the Three give, even if Father and I work together… She dared not hope that Elrohir would be able to participate in any working she might weave. Alas; alas, for her brothers. If only she knew more about how Melian's Girdle was set, or even the defences used by Thranduil's folk in Mirkwood. But the library had yielded only hints, and anyone who might tell her aught about them was as out of her reach as Galadriel.

First though, if her father was not back by tomorrow, as Lady of Imladris it would fall to her to greet Mithrandir as a guest to the house. She had always held him in high regard, and she acknowledged that part of her still hoped that he had a reason for abandoning Estel in Minas Tirith, yet the only explanation had to be that he had, somehow, let himself to be subverted through his Ring. And if that was so, should he not be barred from Imladris, rather than welcomed?

Arwen glanced towards the north of the valley where her father was and shuddered – it had not been strength or sight, but sheer luck that he had not been caught in the Enemy's nets. Galadriel had had enough warning not to be caught, and even more than she, the Istar must have knownthe One was again in the Enemy's hands. What had driven Mithrandir to ignore that knowledge, or had the Enemy's touch been so subtle that he was lost before he could know? Or was she onlymaking excuses for him?

Enough of what is done, though. Mithrandir always has reasons within reasons. Why has he come here now, other than to bring news of the attack on the Havens? And, even if he is still true, is it safe to have two of the Three so close together?

~*~

"Why did you come here, Mithrandir?"

"To bring word of the attack on…"

"No! That only determined when you came, but it is not why you came. Or is it?"

Arwen's gaze was stern, searching for Gandalf knew not what. He was hard put to it not to look away, even as he was relieved that she did not press him about Minas Tirith, and the well-prepared defence of his actions withered from his tongue without a word as he met her glance. It was clear she did not want excuses, but answers, and he had those only – barely – for the questions she had spoken out loud.

Why did I come? In truth, he was not sure. Even so, Arwen was right. He had decided to come to Rivendell well before the attack, but he had prevaricated for weeks upon weeks, as uncertain of his purpose as he was of his welcome. Or rather, afraid of his purpose; he thought back to the task the Lord of Waters had set him, to find himself again, with no assurance of safety or success. As for his welcome, he had still not had a chance to speak to Elrond after being in Rivendell for well over a day, and those he had asked did not know where he was or when he might return – if indeed he was even away... It was most frustrating.  

"No," he answered at last.

"Why did you come here?" Arwen asked again.

"For many reasons," Gandalf replied quickly. "Respite, your father's counsel…" Even here, he found himself unwilling to speak of the Three openly, but what their Bearers might yet do against the Enemy if they united was still on his mind.

Arwen's expression darkened. "Did you consider that you might draw the Eye of the Enemy with you?"

Gandalf blinked in surprise. Did you bring this upon us, Mithrandir? Did your Ring draw the Eye of the Enemy to the Havens? Círdan had said as much to him also, the last words they had exchanged. Truly, ill news is an ill guest, and maybe worse than ill. What if the Enemy is following my path? Have I brought the doom of the Havens to Rivendell? But, no…

"You are wise, my lady," he finally replied."But if he can follow me thus closely from so far away, then he already knows what your father keeps hidden, and where."

"I know," Arwen replied, and shook her head. "Well, any harm that might come of your being here has no doubt been done already. So I would bid you to not be overly concerned over what may or may not come of your visit, and be as welcome as you ever were."

Gandalf nodded at Arwen's words, deciding to take them at face value. If there were any reservations in her welcome, he could not discern them.

~*~

Perhaps I should heed Master Elrond's advice after all, Bilbo thought as he went up one of the slender, steep bridges that crossed the small streams that ran towards Bruinen. He could not deny that he was shorter of breath than he should be after so small an exertion – he waited until his racing heart and his breath had calmed again before he went on. I cannot deny that I am old, much as I would like to; and I am just plain weary.

Even if he was almost out of good pipeweed, he had taken his pipe along when he went outside; it gave his fingers something to occupy themselves with while he thought. Unfortunately, Southlinch is all that can be had these days. Maybe Gandalf has been able to find something better.

Bilbo still did not feel fully recovered from the dark mood that had struck him around his – and Frodo's – birthday. Now that Gandalf was at last here, Bilbo meant to ask him what could be done for Frodo. Likely nothing, but if there was anything, Gandalf would know. Perhaps, if he was held captive, even in Mordor, it might still be possible for a small band of warriors to sneak in to free him. And, selfish as he knew it was, Bilbo also missed his chats with Master Elrond and with Arwen – Master Elrond was too distracted by his cares, and while Arwen was always pleased to see him, Bilbo did not want to add to her troubles – and talking to Gandalf would at least ease his loneliness.

Yes, even if we only talk and naught comes of it, I may still feel better for it. But Frodo, my lad, I…

~*~

Still disturbed by Arwen's words, Gandalf wandered outside to the gardens to sit and think unhindered. Arwen's reproach that he might have endangered Elrond as a Ringbearer by simply coming here rang too close to the thoughts that had been running through his own head after the Havens. Had that attack been aimed at him? And if so, was he now putting Rivendell in danger? Unlikely as it was, he could not entirely ignore the possibility. Still, in one thing Arwen had been right: what was done was done. Still, what had drawn Sauron's Eye to the Havens? Even with the One Ring, Sauron was not all-powerful or all-knowing.

No, it might satisfy his vanity to think that he had been followed across all the many weeks of wandering through the western reaches of Eriador, but it was unlikely – perhaps Sauron's interest had been piqued only when both he and Saruman turned up in the Havens, or – and how bitter that would be – it had been the manifestation of the Lord of Waters that had drawn the Eye to the Havens. And even then, from what he knew of ships and sailing speeds, there would almost certainly have had to be a fleet heading north already. Perhaps there would have been an attack on the Havens anyway.

Even so, even under the judgement of Ulmo, in coming here he had given little thought to either how he might redeem his mistakes or to how his presence might endanger others. Gandalf shook his head as he went around a corner, and stopped.

"Bilbo?"

The grey-haired hobbit looked up. "Gandalf? Gandalf!"

"You look well, Bilbo," Gandalf greeted him with a smile.

Bilbo snorted. "You are a terrible liar. I am old, and I look it."

Yes, you have aged, Gandalf thought. And I wonder how much of that comes from losing the Ring you carried for so long…

"If you say so," Gandalf admitted. "Do you mind if I join you?"

"Not at all. Please, sit down." Bilbo gestured at a bench.

Gandalf sat down and took out his pipe, noticing that while Bilbo had his pipe out, it was not lit. He reached for his pipeweed pouch, then reconsidered.

"If I am not imposing, can I borrow some pipeweed? All I have is Southlinch."

"Of course." Bilbo handed him his pouch. "It is Old Toby."

Gandalf drew back his hand when he saw how little there was in the pouch. "I could not possibly…"

"Nonsense," Bilbo said. "It is not that much even if I save it, although perhaps… I should keep it after all."

Gandalf looked at him.

"Despite your flattery – looking well, indeed – I have not been feeling well. Master Elrond told me to save myself undue stress, and there's naught as restful as a pipe-full of good weed." Bilbo looked away, and Gandalf thought he had some idea now of what ailed the old Hobbit.

Gandalf too looked away, his certainty that the decision to send out the Fellowship had been the right one suddenly weighing on him as it had not since the first days after he had left Minas Tirith. Then he had been concerned chiefly with his parting from Aragorn, and had told himself that Aragorn had at least understood their danger before they set off. He had not dared to think about Frodo then, but now he could no longer avoid it. Unlike Aragorn, Frodo had not understood what he had let himself into, not really, not even after Weathertop.

Had Bilbo known what might lie ahead? Certainly more so than Frodo… Still, all had chosen their path freely, and… Bilbo said something, which Gandalf failed to catch.

"I am sorry, Bilbo, I was lost in thought."

"You have been inside Dol Guldur, you must have some idea. The Dark Tower. What is it like?"

As Gandalf remained silent, Bilbo looked at him intently. "Damn it, Gandalf, tell me; in Mordor… what are they doing to Frodo?"

What are they doing to Frodo…? Taken aback by Bilbo's uncharacteristically strong language, Gandalf found himself searching for an answer.

~~

…The deepest dungeon pits are dark, the air stale and clammy. Patches of luminous moulds in corners and along the walls. They do little to relieve the darkness, the unseen threats of the dark only made worse by the sickly green or blue glow from the moulds.

What do those moulds live on? It is certain to be vile, that much I do know. More importantly, how do I get out of here? These pits will only hide me for a little while, and news of my findings is urgent.

On a hunch, he turns right at the next crossing he comes to. He is so deep that he is below the dungeon levels. Here there are only roughly-hacked out corridors with black openings and deep cracks in the walls leading who knows where. In such a place, one corridor is much like the next. Eventually he will need to go back up, for he doubts there is a convenient back door leading to the bottom of Amon Lanc hidden down here.

The corridor seems empty, but he still has a nagging feeling that he is not alone in this place. Foolishness, he chides himself, any prisoners will be chained up in their cells, and there is no reason for guards to come down this low.

~~

Looking back, he still wondered about the chance that had made him stumble upon Thráin in that horrid dank hole, but he had, and that was all that mattered in the end.

The Dwarf had been raving, starting at nothing, then crawling into a corner and attempting to hide. At first he had flinched away from Gandalf, but after some short time he almost seemed to forget the wizard was there, even though he spoke to him at the same time.

~~

I had it once, you know, he says eventually, his tone conversational, oddly normal in this place. He took it.

Had what? Gandalf asks.

One of the Great Rings, and the Dwarf reaches to stroke his ring finger. The last of the Seven. Gandalf says nothing and the Dwarf continues to speak, interrupted by deep, tearing coughs that hurt even to listen to. Take this, give it to my son! He rummages inside his ragged, torn clothes. Finally, triumphantly, he thrusts a scroll of paper and a metal object into Gandalf's hands. For my son.

Gandalf starts to nod, but realises the other cannot see that in the dark, and he draws breath to speak, as the Dwarf draws in a long, shuddering breath, and dies.

~~

"Gandalf!" Bilbo called him.

"I am sorry, I was remembering how I found Thráin," Gandalf answered.

"Thráin? Gandalf, for my peace of mind, what was done to him?"

Gandalf sighed. "I doubt there would be peace of mind in your knowing," he replied and gave Bilbo a long look. "However it was done, whatever tortures he endured while the Enemy got from him what he wanted, in the end it was his mind that was broken, as much as or more than his body."

Bilbo shuddered. "I understand. Or, I think I do," he answered.

Gandalf knelt down beside Bilbo, and put his hand on the hobbit's shoulder. Before he found the words he wanted, Bilbo turned to him.

"Curse the Ring of the Enemy, and curse the day I found it in the dark." He looked and sounded angry, but with a deep sigh all the fight seemed to go out of him. "I think I will go inside again. I have not the peace of mind to sit here and talk. Perhaps another time."

~~

Become again who you were meant to be, the Lord of Waters had told him; and when he had decided to stay in Middle-earth, it had been with the intent of finding redemption, even if only in his own eyes.

Gandalf looked back towards the house. Is this the right choice? He still wished to talk to Elrond, and to leave without even seeing him felt oddly unfinished. Still, if anyone understood, it would be Elrond.

He hesitated as he passed the path to the stables. Could he afford the time lost in walking? No; he needed to leave, and leave quickly, before his resolve failed him. He would not take Shadowfax into Mordor, but for now he would ride.

Chapter Text

October 7, 3019

"You should come inside, my lady," Merry, who had been sitting outside, breathing smoke through that odd pipe of his, said as Éowyn returned from her walk.

"Are the petitioners there already?" Éowyn asked. It would be early by her reckoning, but it would mean also that she would be done sooner. The ride with Elfhelm towards Mering had only whetted her need to be outdoors, away from stuffy, sombre halls and the demands of her role.

"Yes," Merry replied, "Only five or so, though. You should be done quickly."

Smiling at Merry's answer, Éowyn went indoors, wondering what the day's petitions would bring. The custom of allowing people to come directly to their lord with disputes had lapsed during the latter years of Théoden's reign, but she had reinstated it. Of course, most of these cases should have been settled long before being brought to her, but the hearings were popular with the people. And it helps distract me from other things, she admitted.

It was nearly a week now since the news of the attack on Éothain's éored and Elfhelm's injuries had first arrived at Edoras. It could have been much worse, though the latest messenger had brought word that Elfhelm had still not woken up. It was already cursed bad luck that Blackfoot threw him, but then to strike a tree with his head… At least most of the Orcs who had not yet been slain had been chased back across the Great River.

As difficult as it was for them to get along when Elfhelm was here in Edoras, Éowyn missed him. She had done well to see him out on his patrol; it had given her an opportunity to escape Edoras for a while, but more importantly it had reminded them both that they still were friends underneath their marriage of necessity. She wished she could see Elfhelm's face when he heard she was with child – he has to live!

Éowyn both dreaded and needed the next messenger from the Anduin garrison; … I will be glad to hear all the Orcs have been dealt with, but there may be other news too. And what to make of yesterday's message from Tharbad, about the Corsairs attacking the Elvish havens in the North?

Elfhelm is unable to lead the éoreds, Erkenbrand is still in the North – even if he will be back within a few weeks – and Herulf is not experienced enough in the eyes of my counsellors. Should I call them together? I only have Herulf and perhaps Sighere as allies if I do. No, unless there is dire news, it will be best to wait until Erkenbrand is back.

As Merry had said, the petitioners were already waiting in the hall, and there were some few onlookers as well. Éowyn returned their greetings as she walked over to the dais. As she sat down Éowyn wondered how they, and everybody else, would react once she announced that she was with child and that there would be another heir for the House of Eorl.

For now, only she and Emma, the midwife, knew, and all midwives knew how to keep that kind of secret. Still, it would not be that long until her belly would announce itself, and she should give some thought to the best way to make the announcement before that time. Probably she was giving it too much thought – there would be joy among the people, and well-hidden disappointment among at least some of the lords, no matter how she announced it.

It flashed through her mind that now that she was with child, she had fulfilled the Council's demand for an heir, and they had no hold over her even if Elfhelm died. She quickly banished the though again. No matter that they had not wedded for love, Elfhelm was a friend, a loyal ally, and a good man.

A side door opened. Probably more petitioners, Éowyn thought.

Only one man entered. As he emerged from the dark of the hall, Éowyn saw that it was a Rider. News, then, and urgent by the look of him. She nodded at him to speak and sat up straighter to brace herself.

The Rider stopped several paces away and drew breath to speak.

No. Éowyn already knew what the Rider was going to say. Elfhelm is dead. She clenched her fists until she could feel every fingernail imprinting itself on the palms of her hands. Not now. He does not even know about the child. No, no, no.

"My Queen, a host of the Enemy's troops has crossed the Great River near Cair Andros."

The hall went silent, as both onlookers and petitioners turned to her.

"A host." She barely found the words to reply, so unforeseen was this message.

~*~

Éowyn had retreated to her audience chamber; here, she had room to roll out maps, and here she could consider her moves in peace, without interruptions. Merry had insisted on joining her. And how can I do without my esquire? she thought.

"You did not need to give up the last of your furlough," she said to Merry. "We are not yet under siege."

"I could not sit around as if nothing had happened," the hobbit replied. "Besides, Hild agreed."

"Did she, now?" Éowyn replied, forcing herself to levity. "Oh, how long until Herulf is here!" she exclaimed in frustration. She had sent for her Third Marshall as soon as the morning's messenger had given the whole of his news. Close to a thousand of the Enemy's troops, both Orcs and Men, in Anórien… And how many more to follow? I need Elfhelm, or Erkenbrand. Herulf is the next best, but he has not yet the experience to lead a campaign.

"What can we do here?" Merry asked.

"Right now? Not much," Éowyn replied. "You saw the orders I gave to check our supplies, both here in Edoras, and what we need for a Muster."

"Are we going to retreat to Helm's Deep again?" the Hobbit asked next.

"Not yet." That I am certain of. To retreat now is to give up the entire Eastfold.

The door of the audience chamber opened and Éowyn turned, hoping to see Herulf.

Instead, there was a grim-faced and road-dusty Rider.

"Éowyn Queen. Lord Elfhelm has died."

Chapter Text

October 10-28, 3019

Shadowfax gingerly took the final few steps of the slippery path that ran beside the Dimrill Stair. As soon as the horse had found a level place to stand, Gandalf looked east towards Lothlórien, shivering in the rain that had left not a dry thread of clothing on his body. Even Shadowfax looked miserable, water running off him in small rivulets.

More chilling than the weather was the memory of his death, Gandalf thought as he looked south towards the eastern gate of Moria. And the task that has been set me is likely to claim my life a second time.

This time, there was no shelter for him in Lothlórien, nor an Eagle to bear him to his destination, he considered regretfully as he turned back to look north. He had lost the right to make demands on Gwaihir's – or anyone's – friendship.

Enough of that! On with the journey! He did not want to stay within reach of Lothlórien's patrols for too long – even if he had expected to be welcomed there, the risk of drawing the Enemy's attention by bringing two of the Three together was too great; I should not have gone to Rivendell either – so he would have to travel straight on and not stop until the next day.

Going straight south upon leaving the Dimrill Dale, staying close to the mountains, he would avoid the watchful eyes of both Lothlórien and the Enemy. Getting past Fangorn and Rohan's northernmost patrols was of later concern, as was crossing Anduin. And after that, Mordor… Much better to think about food. He still had several days' worth of cram, but he should keep that in reserve in case he did make it to Mordor. Here, he could get by on what he found or caught. In Mordor, speed would be more important, nor did he expect to find anything edible there.

~*~

He found no suitable place to rest until the next evening, by which time both he and Shadowfax were too weary and cold to care much about whether the cave they sheltered in was safe or not. Even so, he checked the walls in the back for hidden passages before he lit a fire and hung out most of his clothes to dry on an improvised rack. He looked at the miserably wet horse. That will not do. Perhaps… A rumble through his pack revealed a not-quite soaked-through rag of fabric that would do. "I will have you feeling a bit less bad soon, old friend," he said, as he started to thoroughly wipe down the horse. By the time he was done, Shadowfax stood half-sleeping already, head drooping, eyes nearly closed, and a veritable image of a contented horse. His own clothes were still damp, but the exercise had warmed him up thoroughly, so he curled up next to the fire in his still damp cloak, comfortable for the first time in days.

The next several days at least it did not rain so hard, though after a while the constant drizzle that came down instead was little better. By the time the northern eaves of Fangorn emerged from the grey distance, Gandalf was heartily sick of grey, leaden skies, and grey, featureless landscapes. The trees of Fangorn were already losing their leaves and would offer little shelter against rain or watchful eyes, so again Gandalf turned towards the mountains for the shelter of a cave.

In the morning Gandalf went out to gather what nuts and roots he could find quickly, and returned to his cave to eat and consider his road for the next few days. He could cross the Limlight without trouble near its source, and then follow it until it left the forest. The river ran on east past the Wold, towards the field of Celebrant and Anduin, but he would travel south under the eaves of Fangorn until the Wold ran down towards the plains of Rohan. The downs in the south were easier to cross on horseback and offered reasonable shelter and cover to a lone horseman. South of Rauros he would finally be able to cross the river. He was not yet sure how he would do that; probably by building a raft. He did no yet want to think too closely about how he would get into Mordor or achieve his goal once he got there.

One thing is certain, I will not get there by sitting here thinking about the road ahead. With a sigh, he pushed himself to his feet. "Time to be on our way, Shadowfax."

The horse gave a snort, which Gandalf chose to interpret as agreement.

The weather improved; it even stopped raining. Of course, the trees that they now rode under were still dripping and the air, even here on the eaves of Fangorn, was heavy with moisture, so they were scarcely drier than they had been the previous day.

He soon found the rapid but narrow streamlet that would eventually become the Limlight, and crossed it, but kept following it, as it would be an easy source of fresh water as well as his guide for the next few days. All day, even when his path took him further from the river he tried to keep the water within earshot, as much for the comfort of the sound as for guidance. The next day was much the same, except that the terrain further away from the mountains sloped less. As he lay down on the forest floor huddled in his cloak that night, Gandalf considered that the following day he would reach the edge of Fangorn forest. His road should be easier for some time now, though also more dangerous as he might encounter Riders – or others – travelling between the Forest and the Wold.

The next morning, for the first time in weeks it was sunny, and Gandalf felt almost light-hearted as he turned south. Do not become careless, his more cautious side warned, but both the weather and his luck held, and when on the third day Shadowfax warned him of a rider coming up behind them, they found cover well in time. The rider was a man of Rohan, riding north to south. Gandalf wondered whether he was a scout, or perhaps – since he had heard of the unlikely alliance between Rohan and Lothlórien – a messenger. If the latter, what had his message been, and would it affect his own journey south?

Over the next several days, he turned east following the edge of the Downs, always keeping a watchful eye out. It is a fine jest that I feel more concerned about being seen by the Rohirrim than by Orcs, even if Shadowfax could outrun both, and news of my passage would likely no longer be important by the time either could deliver it. He shrugged and went back to being on the lookout for whatever dangers hid in the Downs.

Finally, after another week or so, he was nearing the river. The rocky heights of the East Wall of Rohan still rose on his left, but ahead the ground was becoming marshy as the land ran towards the river. He wondered whether to try to cross the river near here. It would mean that on the eastern side he would have to make his way through the Wetwang or go the longer road around, but that would – probably – still be better than crossing the many river channels of the Mouths of the Entwash.

Either way, though, I will soon have to say farewell to Shadowfax. Gandalf sighed. It is hardly the first time I am sending him home, but this can only be the last time. Not quite yet, though.

By now he could clearly hear the roar of Rauros as it fell from the heights of Nen Hithoel. Suddenly it came to him that on the western side of the lake was Amon Hen, the Hill of Sight. Before he made his attempt to cross the river, he would go up the North Stair and visit it. Perhaps the Seat of Seeing would grant him some much-needed clarity. I have come this far, and I still have no idea of how to proceed beyond Anduin.

By the time he reached the river it was already dark, so he made camp in the shelter of a small copse of trees. Tomorrow, he thought as Shadowfax wandered off in search of the best grass, tomorrow we must part company. He suppressed a sigh at the thought and pulled his cloak closer around him. He had no way to disguise the great horse's white coat, even if there had been a way to bring him across the river, nor would he lead Shadowfax into the danger he was now entering. None will I lead to their doom this time, not even those who are willing.

It was still before dawn when Gandalf woke up, and as soon as he opened his eyes, Shadowfax came over and nudged his shoulder with his head.

"Time to get up, is it?" Gandalf half-grumbled as the horse nudged him again. "Yes, yes; I am getting up. I guess you do not like drawn-out goodbyes either…" Shadowfax snorted in reply as Gandalf stood up and shook out his cloak.

Shadowfax lowered his head as Gandalf stood beside him, and nudged his hand.

"Alas, had I an apple, it would be yours," Gandalf said softly. He put his hand on Shadowfax's forehead. "Go now in freedom, and take with you what blessing I may yet have to give."

Shadowfax leant his head into Gandalf's hand, then he stepped back, and after another moment he turned and sprang away, heading west and south.

Gandalf briefly watched, then picked up his pack and turned north, to where he thought the North Stair ended. He quickly found the ancient portage-way and started on his way up to Parth Galen and Amon Hen. As he climbed the steep and winding path, he considered that this had been where the disastrous course the Quest for the Ring had taken had begun. Or had it? In truth, the Quest had been a desperate gamble from the start, and even if Boromir had not attempted to take the Ring and driven Frodo away, some other mishap would have occurred. What is done is done, though, and now all I can do is pick up the pieces. Gandalf paused to catch his breath on the steep path and wondered how the Gondorians of old had managed to move even small boats up and down this route. Certainly the work would have been eased with ropes and pulleys, but if so, no trace now remained of them. Though I doubt not that there are drawings and schematics hidden somewhere in Minas Tirith's library, but Gondorian engineering has never been one of my interests. He laughed softly to himself. I doubt not that Saruman would know.

At last, well past the middle of the morning, he reached the top of the path. From here, he could not see the waterfall, but he could feel its noise in his very bones; the sound was deafening. Not far now to Amon Hen.

After another few hundred yards, the path emerged upon the southern edge of Parth Galen, next to the Hill of Seeing. Gandalf glanced up at the crumbling battlements that crowned the hill, and recalled his fear when he had discerned Frodo on there, wearing the One Ring and about to be discovered by Sauron. That time he had managed to avert disaster, even from afar. Should I even go up there? Or will it be like lighting a beacon for Sauron? He had not considered that danger before. I certainly should not take Narya up on the height, even though I will not use it, but dare I leave it unguarded? Lake and shore seem peaceful enough now, and I have seen no signs that I am hunted, but the risk may be too great.

As he walked further along the lakeshore he thought back again to what he knew of the day the Fellowship had fallen apart. The peace of his surroundings had certainly been disturbed by Orcs then, driving Frodo and Sam to flee in one of the boats that had been given them by the Galadhrim. Boats! Gandalf stopped abruptly. Boats! Frodo and Sam took one, and one was sent over Rauros bearing Boromir, but what of the third boat? He tried to remember whether Aragorn or any of the others had mentioned what they had done with it, but could not recall anything. It may still be here, unless it was found by the Orcs and set adrift or sunk. But where? He walked on northward along the shore, hoping to find any signs of where the Fellowship had camped. It was over half a year ago, so it would take luck or the skill of a Ranger to find it.

The day was already moving towards evening when, luck having failed him so far, he turned away from the grass, intending to look for shelter for the night among the trees. Ahead the ground inclined slightly and when he came to the edge of a small dell he gasped in delight. There it is! The boat was upside down, and a quick inspection suggested that it was sound. It would be hard work to turn it over and return it to the water, but he might manage it. Underneath left behind baggage had been stored. He felt like a scavenger going through the bags, but doubted any of the members of the Fellowship would begrudge him a blanket, a coil of Lórien rope, spare bootlaces, or… a forgotten packet of lembas! He unwrapped one corner to see if it was still dry, then carefully stowed it in his own pack.

In the morning he would drag the boat to the water and cross Nen Hithoel. It did mean he would have to make his way across the Emyn Muil, but he saved time by not having to build a raft or risk swimming.

Yes, luck is at last with me. I will need it. Frodo will need it. His good mood evaporated as he looked towards the south-east and his destination.

Chapter Text

October 12 – 16, 3019

Would that I had one of the palantíri, Galadriel thought, not for the first time. The Mirror had finally settled down to being used as little more than a scrying bowl, but to look in the now still required more effort than letting it show her its usual dreams and visions. Yet might-be's are of less use to me now than are's. I wish it were easier to send scouts across the river to spy on Dol Guldur. But scouts can be lost and their news is old, and the Mirror works well enough, Galadriel thought, even if getting it to respond can be like swimming in treacle.

She took a deep breath and bent the whole of her will towards what lay beyond Anduin. Even under the midday sun the pine forest around Dol Guldur was black, impenetrable. Luckily those I am looking for do not go under those branches if they can avoid it. Large swathes of forest had already been cleared around Dol Guldur, and lately there had been work done to ready one such area for what could only be more troops arriving. All that is missing are the armies that will fill these encampments. She had kept an eye on the roads from Mordor and Rhûn, but so far she had seen no new troops going to Dol Guldur; she had seen Orcs and Easterlings both heading towards Ithilien. There are a few thousand at Dol Guldur now; not yet enough for a decisive attack on Lórien.

~*~

Nothing again today. Galadriel drew a sharp snort of breath as she withdrew from her watch of Dol Guldur. I do not know whether to feel relief or frustration. She was about to move her hand across the Mirror, but hesitated. And yet… On an impulse she drew in her concentration again, and turned her gaze to look south beyond the dark hill. A darkening of the horizon caught her eye. Some kind of glamour? She took a closer look. No… a dust cloud. There are the armies I expected.

Galadriel passed her hand over the Mirror's surface, and after pouring out the water into the stream that ran past the clearing, she went back up the stairs to where Celeborn was waiting.

~*~

"Easterlings. Five hundred at most," she said. "It makes no sense though to march these troops north to Dol Guldur, unless they are intended for Lothlórien or Mirkwood."

Celeborn nodded. It may also still be a feint, so that we keep watching Dol Guldur while the Enemy attacks Rohan. It is ill luck that their First Marshal is wounded.

Ill indeed. And the Enemy's goal may well be Rohan, Galadriel agreed. Yet for now we can only wait. There is no news yet from there?

"Not from Rohan," Celeborn replied. "But the leaders of the Men and Dwarves on the southern bank of Celebrant wished to speak to me."

"What do they want?" Galadriel asked on the way up to Caras Galadhon.

"To leave," Celeborn replied.

"Not wholly surprising. Did they say where they would go?" After the first group, more had come, and there were now around three hundred Men and Dwarves camped in tents along the southern bank of Celebrant. While their guests themselves gave little trouble, the encampment was a muddy mess after weeks of rain, and some Elves looked askance at the intrusion of Mortals into the realm.

"The Dwarves intend to join their kinsmen in the Blue Mountains," Celeborn said. "They hope to leave within the next few days, while the Dimrill Stair is still open. The men of Dale want to either join the Beornings or journey on into Eriador by the High Pass." I wonder when we will see survivors from Mirkwood, he added in mind. Four months since Erebor fell, and no sign that Thranduil is under attack yet.

It may happen soon, Galadriel replied. The Enemy knows where Nenya is bestowed, and the attack on Mithlond was as much a strike at Narya as at the Havens themselves. He may suspect where Vilya resides, though I believe he is not yet certain of it. Perhaps he even thought that Círdan or Curunír… Even so, he knows at least the general location of Imladris, and he knows also that he cannot move troops west by the Old Ford without risking attack from the Beornings. She looked north briefly, then turned back to Celeborn. Hopefully the Beornings are working together with the Elves of Mirkwood. And so, the Enemy's next target in Wilderland might be Thranduil or it might be the Beornings.

Or it might be Lothlórien, Celeborn replied. Alas, I cannot foresee the Enemy's plans, nor, I reckon, can you.

No, she admitted. Yet I deem he still fears to attack Lothlórien, and he fears the Bearers of the Three uniting against him.

Celeborn gave her a long look.

She shook her head. I cannot deny that the thought calls to me. Perhaps the Three together might provide strength beyond Sauron's measure. His eagerness to gain Narya does indicate he may fear it is so. Yet the Three are bound to the One, and we would but expend that greater strength in resisting that bond… If one of us faltered at such a time we would all fall under the influence of the Enemy. And... She hesitated. Already Mithrandir has come close to the edge. Nor am I entirely certain that this is not how the Enemy seeks to defeat us at one stroke. Whether or not he knows yet who holds Vilya, if he can draw us into the open…

~*~

"Lady Galadriel," one of her maidens said as she entered the room where Galadriel sat weaving, "There is word from the river; a messenger from Rohan has come."

"Inform Lord Celeborn," the Lady replied, and added, "Tell him to meet me at the southern path. We will both go to meet this messenger. And send word back to welcome the Man as a guest and to provide all comforts he and his horse may need."

Did I overlook aught in the Mirror yesterday? Galadriel wondered as they made their way from Caras Galadhon to the river. Perhaps I should have taken another look… but no, Celeborn had reminded her already that she could not see everything, much as she might wish it. But this waiting… not just for this news, but for the Enemy's next move, it wears on me more every day.

Several hours later, she and Celeborn neared the river Celebrant where the messenger waited. He sat talking with a few of the marchwardens and stood quickly when the Lord and Lady crossed the rope bridge over the river. Galadriel recognised him as one of the regular messengers. Clearly he has lost much of his fear of Elves. The first time he rode here he barely dared to speak to deliver his message.

"Welcome back to Lothlórien, Walda" Celeborn greeted the messenger in the Common Speech. "What news do you bring?"

The man shook his head and fidgeted slightly before answering. "Ill news, alas. Eleven days ago, the lord Elfhelm died from his wounds."

"That is ill indeed," Celeborn replied. "What happens now in Rohan?"

"I do not know," Walda said. "The Queen sent me and the other messengers out from Edoras almost as soon as the news came in, but the defence of the Eastfold is in experienced hands."

At least her immediate actions were decisive, Galadriel considered. But whether her Council will support or thwart her, and whether she is able to rule alone… Rohan is truly on the brink now, even if it yet stands.

~*~

Galadriel shifted slightly to make herself comfortable on the fallen tree she was sitting on and looked around the clearing. Only four patrol leaders had been able to come to Caras Galadhon for the impromptu council she and Celeborn had called.

"Will Rohan stand?" Haldir asked.

"Yes," Celeborn replied. "For now. The Enemy's troops are not enough yet to defeat them, and on the plains the Riders have the advantage over foot soldiers."

Galadriel said nothing. Celeborn was right; Rohan would likely withstand this attack, as long as it did not become a full-scale invasion, but what would come after? She had spoken long with the survivors of Dale and Erebor – both had fallen to starvation after a long siege. That would only happen in Rohan once the Rohirrim were in the end driven back to Dunharrow. But once they are, the Enemy does not even need to starve out Dunharrow's defenders. As long as he keeps them bottled up, the road into Eriador will lie open, and he can pass Dunharrow by until it suits him to take it. At least Lothlórien is not vulnerable to that tactic; the forest feeds us for most of the year, and the lembas grain will grow under most conditions.

"Then I do not see why we should aid the Horse-lords now," Laegel interjected.

"Other than that they are our allies, and that it is in our own interest to have Rohan stand as long as possible?" Haldir replied.

"Perhaps," Bellas now spoke. "We offered succour to the survivors of Dale and Erebor even though many of our people disagreed with letting these Mortals almost into Lothlórien; then the Havens burned, with no aid offered them, and we merely wait until we see smoke rise over Mirkwood as a sign that Thranduil's kingdom has fallen. Now you wish to aid the Rohirrim, again, but what will Lothlórien do to aid Thranduil? Or will you generously allow the survivors from Mirkwood to set up camp along the banks of Celebrant?"

"We allied ourselves with Rohan, our neighbours, when their emissaries came here," Celeborn replied. His expression and thoughts both were guarded as he went on. "Had Thranduil asked for our help, we would also have given it. And I deem that, were we to send our warriors to Mirkwood in strength even now, he would accept our assistance, whether gladly or grudgingly. Yet any number that would be effective in Mirkwood would as good as assure Lothlórien's fall. Should I send a thousand archers to Mirkwood only to have them return to a charred wasteland?" He sighed. "No, though I would gladly aid Thranduil, the truth is that we cannot."

Bellas started to shake his head in denial of Celeborn's argument, but stopped and looked at his lord. "Then what can we do? If we cannot send a thousand to aid Thranduil, what can we do for Rohan, if as you say defending Rohan is what we must do?"

Laegel spoke again. "I do not see why we should help either Mirkwood or Rochand, unless it directly benefits the defence of Lorinand."

"But aiding Rohan does directly benefit us," Galadriel said. "Nor should we send a thousand there now, unless the Enemy starts pouring more troops into Rohan." Laegel was about to interrupt again, but he fell silent when Galadriel gestured at him to stop. "Rohan is our ally and has already aided us; also, remember that the road to the Havens is not the only road that leads to the Sea. And while the road south is precarious, it is still there. I will not abandon Lothlórien, but for those who wish to go, there is still a chance at escape."

"The boats of Lothlórien are fair and well-made, but I doubt they would carry us across the Sea," Laegel replied. 

Indeed, they will not, Galadriel thought. But, the Sea… Alas, I will not see fair Belfalas again, not unless I forsake the defence of Lothlórien and all who depend on us. But I will not keep any here against their will, and any who wish to attempt the road south should at least have the chance.

Bellas laughed at something Haldir had said, and Galadriel returned her attention to the debate.

"I have seen the Sea," Bellas now said in reply to Haldir, "and I would not make the attempt, though all the armies of Mordor were in front of me."

Haldir shrugged and turned to Celeborn and Galadriel. "So, we aid the Rohirrim, and after…? What happens once they and we drive back this invasion?"

Neither Galadriel nor Celeborn replied, and eventually Haldir sighed. "Then… we wait until the next attack, and the one after, until at last we are defeated? That is your intent?"

Galadriel smiled grimly. "It was not at first so, but if there is to be any hope left anywhere on this side of the Sea it can only come from delaying the Enemy's victory. And that is all we can do; that is all anyone can do." And not even the Three united could change that. Even if that idea is no temptation of the Enemy, to bring the Three together would benefit only him, even if we managed some small victories.

"Did you See that," Laegel asked, "or is there some deeper plan behind it? Is this plan built on hope or on despair?"

"Hope," Celeborn replied firmly, "but not for ourselves. As long as Lothlórien is defended, the Enemy will hesitate, and as long as Rohan stands we are both, Elves and Men, the stronger for it. Once Lórien falls, even if Rohan still holds out, the Enemy's armies can too easily sweep into Eriador across the Misty Mountains. Not unopposed on either side of the mountains, but in the end the valour of Imladris and the Beornings and Dúnedain will be for naught, and Darkness will reign."

"We can delay that victory," Galadriel took over, repeating her previous words. "We cannot stop it, yet delay may be enough to allow others to find a way to stop it. Fifty mounted archers will be sent to the aid of Rohan."

Chapter Text

October 14 – 26, 3019

Erkenbrand signalled his horse to stop and leant back slightly in the saddle, waiting for the others to catch up. Smudge had been restless all morning, probably from last night's thunderstorms; their run just now might calm the animal down enough that he would not be fighting the bit the rest of the day.

The terrain ahead was half-open, heathland dotted with clumps of trees; far on his left the Misty Mountains running towards Methedras, and further south Isengard and the Gap of Rohan. Erkenbrand did not expect trouble, but if there was a Dunlending ambush anywhere, this was the most likely stretch of road for it. He did see two riders far ahead on the road, heading their way.

Erkenbrand loosened his sword in its scabbard as he awaited the strangers. As the two came closer, he relaxed. Riders! Errand riders for Tharbad? It will be good to hear what news they carry. We have been away too long. He nudged Smudge to a slow walk; the other riders would have seen him by now, and it was only a matter of time for them to meet.

"Hail, Riders of the Mark," Erkenbrand called out as soon as the two were within hearing. "What news do you have?"

The first Rider raised a hand in acknowledgement of his greeting, but did not reply until they were closer.

"Lord Erkenbrand, we are Aesc and Wulfric, riding for Tharbad," he said, "I am relieved to find you here! We thought you were still in the North. I bring ill news. Lord Elfhelm has been slain near Anduin, and the Enemy is sending troops across the river."

Elfhelm, dead! And the Enemy attacking… "That is ill news indeed," Erkenbrand replied, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. And worse will come of it; of that I have little doubt. "Who commands the defence, and how many invaders?"

"Close to half a thousand Orcs and some fifty Warg riders have crossed the Great River. When we left Edoras, they were still being held back near the river. Éothain and Rathwine are in command," Aesc replied. He lowered his voice to add, "And I would not say this to many, Lord Erkenbrand, but the question of whether it is Queen or Council who commands them has no easy answer. Your return to the Mark is more than welcome."

"How fares the Queen?" Erkenbrand asked.  

"We were sent as soon as the news came to Edoras," Aesc said. "When the Queen sent us out, she was pale and it was clear she was grieving, but she showed no tears in the Hall."

"Thank you," Erkenbrand said. It seemed that he was only returning in the nick of time. She has good control of herself, but some will call it coldness rather than calm. And whether that is to her… our advantage remains to be seen. Before, together with him and Elfhelm, the Queen had had the upper hand over the Council, but now there was no telling what might happen. "What news of the Westfold, and how is the road from here to Edoras?"

"All is well in the west, and the roads are clear," the other replied. "And to the north?"

"Clear also," Erkenbrand said.

"Then we must ride on," the messenger said. "May your journey to Edoras be swift!"

Erkenbrand raised a hand in farewell, and waited for Wídfara and the others to catch up so he could give them the news.

"Ill news." Erkenbrand told them and quickly repeated in Westron for the Gondorians what he had heard. Not that Húrin needs the translation, and Amrothos has picked up a lot of our speech too, but courtesy requires it.

"Ill indeed," Húrin said, "Perhaps we should come to Edoras first after all, rather than ride for the Paths and Gondor immediately; the Steward will appreciate hearing the very latest news I can bring him."

A flash of annoyance passed over Amrothos' face, but the younger Gondorian said nothing. Is he irritated over the detour or over Húrin's plans to find further favour with the Steward so openly? No one who spent an hour in Húrin's company liked the man as far as Erkenbrand could see. Amrothos was the son of the Prince of Dol Amroth, though, and Erkenbrand had heard rumours of some tension within Gondor before the lords had again wholeheartedly supported the Steward, now that he ruled from Pelargir rather than Minas Tirith. Who was to say that there was no trouble between the Steward and the greatest of his lords, and thus between the Steward's man and that lord's son? Not that I have seen much sign of more than normal dislike between these two.

"You are welcome to come to Edoras," Erkenbrand said at last, "But it is still five days' riding whichever way you decide to go, so let us ride on." As anxious as I am to get there, even if we rode our horses to exhaustion it would be hard to make it less than that. The rest of the day they rode in silence and at speed, only stopping to rest the horses.

~*~

On the morning of the fifth day the Gondorians at last chose their road. To Erkenbrand's surprise, Húrin and Amrothos argued about it openly, even if they did still do so where they could not be overheard, though they could be seen arguing. To his relief, the two decided to continue on their way immediately.

"Yes, I will make sure that errand riders are sent immediately whenever news of the attackers comes to Edoras," Erkenbrand told Húrin yet again as the Gondorians got ready to turn south and head for Dunharrow and the Paths of the Dead.

Erkenbrand waited until the Gondorians were gone from sight before he nudged Smudge to move forward again. Not that I expect them to come back, but it does no harm to gather my thoughts a bit before we go on. What we may find at court worries me more than this invasion. The number of enemies is still small. Rohan's task was keeping the enemy back close to Anduin without revealing too much of their own strength, or their lack of it – his own task lay closer to home; to forestall conflict over who ruled Rohan after Elfhelm's death. It may well be hardest of the two to accomplish.

Once they reached Edoras, Erkenbrand took the road up to Meduseld alone. Wídfara would join him there later, but his horse was stabled before the gate, along with the horses of the Riders with them.

At the top of the hill Erkenbrand hesitated whether to head for the stables first and take care of his horse himself, or go to the Golden Hall immediately. Not that anyone but Smudge would blame me for the latter. It may be better to appear unconcerned, though. The stables it is then. It was not long before he had a guest – which was not entirely unexpected either, although he had not anticipated this particular guest.

~*~

"Greetings, Master Holbytla," Erkenbrand said and turned around.

I thought I had been quiet, Merry thought. "How did you know? But welcome home, Lord Erkenbrand," he said. "It is good that you are back."

"Thank you." Erkenbrand's smile looked tired. "As quietly as you walk, you forgot that Smudge would still notice you. It is not that easy to sneak up on a horse."

"I will keep it in mind," Merry said. "How did your journey go?"

"Well enough; I will tell the Queen later, and after that the Council too," Erkenbrand replied.

Merry shuffled his feet, but said nothing. I hope he knows about Elfhelm already.

Clearly mistaking Merry's silence, Erkenbrand smiled again and added, "I made sure that your letter was sent off to the Shire as you had asked, and from what I heard from Rangers, the Shire is still safe and at peace."

"I have letters back already via Tharbad," Merry said. "And I want to thank you again for taking care of our letters."

"It was my pleasure," Erkenbrand said. "Speaking of Tharbad," he went on, "We encountered messengers riding there some days ago, so I already know about Elfhelm's death and the Orcs invading Anórien. Is there anything else that I need to know before I speak to the Queen?"

Merry rubbed the white patch on Smudge's nose while he considered his answer. At least he has heard of Elfhelm already, and it is not my news to tell that the Queen is with child. "She is grieving and mostly stays in her rooms," he said eventually. "She meets with her councillors when there is news from Anórien, but she has not yet said anything about who should become First Marshal." And I like it not that she stays cooped up inside; I would expect her to want to ride out, roam far abroad, not huddle indoors.

Erkenbrand nodded, looking thoughtful. "Anything else?" he asked.

Merry nodded. "I know that it may be for the good of the Mark, but the Council is already suggesting that she must remarry soon."

Erkenbrand drew a sharp breath. "Thank you, Master Meriadoc. I had best see our lady today."

"She will be glad to see you," Merry said as Erkenbrand picked up his gear and headed for the guestrooms.

~*~

When Hild came in to ask whether she was willing to receive a visitor, Éowyn's first impulse had been to say no. I cannot bear Folcwine or Déorlaf wringing their hands in fake grief and trying to bend my will towards accepting a quick remarriage. And though they as yet refuse to name any suitors, I do not doubt that they have someone in mind. And in times as dangerous as these, the Queen's consort almost has to be a Rider, someone who can command the Muster. Yet they would also want someone who is on their side, who would whisper their counsels in my ears at night. She shook her head angrily. Enough! I will speak with Erkenbrand first. Her hand went to her belly. He should know also …

"Lord Erkenbrand. Welcome home." Éowyn was standing near the window, and against the light she knew Erkenbrand would not be able to see her face until he stood next to her.

"My lady, I share your grief," Erkenbrand offered, looking and sounding uncertain of how to proceed as he tried to read her expression. "How are you?" he finally asked.

"As you see," she replied. "Please, sit down," she said, indicating the chairs behind him. "Can I offer you any refreshment?" she added as he sat.

"Just water, my lady," Erkenbrand replied.

"How was your journey?" Éowyn asked as soon as she had poured him some water and sat down opposite him.

"The alliance with the North has been strengthened. The Dúnedain and the Elves can do little to aid us in battle directly, though they will continue to lend us their strength to keep the Dunlendings in check. And, should we lose the Eastfold and the Wold, there is good land for our herds north of Greyflood, for a season, or three, or four. Dwarvish steel and weapons, in trade."

"I see," she replied. It is less than what is needed, she thought. But what we need is an army out of legend to march to our aid, and I doubt there are many of those around. No, we will have to make do with what we can have. Aloud she only said, "Those are what we expected. Have you any thought about what the burning of the Elvish Havens will bring?"

"I do not know," Erkenbrand admitted. "The Elves may fight the fiercer for it, or they may lose heart."

"We will see," Éowyn replied. "I would think they will fight the fiercer for it; these folk are not that different from mortals, I deem." Briefly seeking refuge in small talk, she went on, "But there will be time later to speak of these matters. What about the lands you saw? Are the northern Dúnedain like their kin in Gondor? And what of the Elves? And the hobbit folk?"

"We did not see the Shire itself," Erkenbrand said. "Hobbits do live in Bree though. But even there they are a merry folk, though there is strength untested in them I think. The Dúnedain in the North? They are much like the Gondorians, and yet not. They have as strong a sense of who they are, but though they must needs live cloaked in secrecy, they have not become aloof. The northern lands are wild, and they have good, sturdy horses that they treat kindly and that bear their riders much love, as we saw with their Chieftain's company. These fade next to the Elvish horses, though…" He sighed. "The least of those is the equal of any horse of the Mark."

"Truly?" Éowyn asked.

"Truly," Erkenbrand confirmed. "Unless they had only the best ones out and kept the nags hidden away while we were there."

Éowyn smiled slightly before sitting up straight, ignoring the stab of pain that followed the movement. "Enough of the north for now, though," she said, and at Erkenbrand's nod she proceeded to tell him all of Elfhelm's fall and the Orc incursions that he would not have heard from the messengers. She took a deep breath. "And as I returned from Aldburg, the midwife confirmed that I am with child. I would have told Elfhelm after he returned from his patrol."

Erkenbrand was silent for some time after her announcement, and Éowyn wondered what he was thinking.

"Meriadoc told me that you have had meetings with members of the Council," he said at last, "and that they want you to remarry sooner rather than later. Are they aware of your condition?"

"Not yet," Éowyn said. "The midwife is discreet, and with Hild as my lady-in-waiting, she can visit us both with none being the wiser. You know now, and I will tell the rest of the Council soon. Now that you are back from the North, I will call them together within a few more days to hear your news, and to decide the ordering of the Marshals."

"Is it wise to wait that long?" Erkenbrand asked. "I can lead a Muster as Second Marshal, but to have no Marshal in the Eastfold, closest to our enemies…?"

"If it comes to a Muster before the Marshals are ordered, I will trust you to lead it, dear friend," Éowyn replied. "But, unless there is further news from Rathwine and Éothain, there is no need to call all the Council together sooner."

"Perhaps not," Erkenbrand said, "but the longer you wait, the greater the chance that your secret will out. While it is yours to reveal it gives you some advantage in the Council, but once it is spoken as rumour… Who else knows now?"

"Beside the midwife, only Hild and Meriadoc know," Éowyn replied. "I trust that they will keep the secret."

~*~

At least they showed some patience before coming to me, Erkenbrand thought when Folcwine, Déorlaf and Sighere came to see him several days later.

"Lord Erkenbrand, my old friend," Folcwine started. "I am glad that you are back from your journey. Even had the recent tragedy not happened, looking back it was most unwise of the Council to allow you to be away from the Mark for so long." Before Erkenbrand could reply, Folcwine had already moved on. "Perhaps, had you been here, our Lady might have been better able to set aside her grief and act in the best interest of the Mark. Have you spoken to the Queen yet?"

As if you do not already know the answer to that question, Erkenbrand thought. "And the best interest of the Mark would be…?"

"She… We had hoped that the Queen would accept the guidance of the Council in this matter. People are still uneasy about her rule, and without an heir, they will remain so," Folcwine replied.

"And for that you would tell a widow to remarry when her husband is not even one month dead?" Erkenbrand asked, and at least Sighere had the grace to look uncomfortable at his words. Were she not with child now, they would be right in that it is necessary that she remarry… And until she tells all the Council that she is with child, this will continue. "I will consider your words," he added.

~*~

"Lord Erkenbrand!"

Erkenbrand pulled his blanket over his head.

"Lord Erkenbrand!"

Go away, he thought.

"Lord Erkenbrand! Please wake up!"

The hobbit… what… "I am awake," he yelled as he quickly put on trousers, boots and a shirt. "What is it?" he asked as he opened the door.

"I..., Lady Éowyn… she is losing the child!" a frightened looking Meriadoc gasped. "The midwife is with her, but... please come!"

Chapter Text

November 3, 3019

“A farthing for your thoughts, Master Peregrin!”

Pippin gave Beregond a confused glance, until he realised the Man meant the Gondorian coin, not one of the quarters of the Shire. “I don’t think they’re worth that much.”

“I can only judge that if I know them,” Beregond answered with a quick grin. “I know you thought you would have today off, but you seemed to drift off somewhere else entirely.”

“I suppose I did.” Pippin did not elaborate. “But what was that about some of our company getting into a fight last night?”

Beregond nodded, his expression turning serious. “Indeed. Targon, Aelred, and Egnor. They had gone to The Fried Salmon for a pint. From what Targon told me, some sailors were calling all Minas Tirith soldiers cowards for giving up the city, and when he took offence, they were set upon.”

“That’s… are they unhurt?”

“No more than a few bruises on either side, but all three are off duty for now. But it bothers me that it happened at all.”

“Yes, of course.” The waterfront pubs and inns could be rough, but soldiers were usually left in peace.

“And that is why we are here now,” Beregond said, “as the Steward likes having someone at hand to run errands if any of the Council needs anything.”

“I know,” Pippin said. “But I wish he had remembered that I am also his squire.”

Beregond gave him a questioning look.

Pippin looked down for a moment. “So that I would be on the other side of that door,” he clarified. “Not that meetings are always interesting, but Húrin of the Keys and Amrothos of Dol Amroth are giving their report of the North to the Council.”

“Oh, of course, they returned yesterday. So that is what had you so deep in thought?”

“No.” Pippin answered quickly, but immediately went on, as he knew Beregond would ask again until he had a satisfactory answer. I may as well tell him. “Or yes, I guess. I have been thinking. When I talked to Amrothos yesterday, he said that he had spoken to a kinsman of mine in the North.”

“You miss your home,” Beregond said sympathetically.

“Yes,” Pippin replied. But even if I did go home, will I see Bilbo again? he did not say. Rohan at least is near enough that I can have some hope that Merry and I will see each other again. “Do you know if there’s been a messenger from Rohan? One I may have missed?”

“Maybe in another few days,” Beregond said. “Any news before then will be ill news. Orcs have been crossing the river at Osgiliath, and I heard they were gathering at Minas Tirith.”

“You’re right, of course. But…”

“But what?”

“There was no letter from Merry with last week’s dispatches and there usually is. I worry about him, but I can’t do anything about it. Just as I can’t do a thing about anything else.” He looked for more to say, but knew he should not repeat any of what he had heard from the Steward, or even what Amrothos had said beyond what he had already mentioned. He wished he could just sit and chat with Beregond and be as carefree with his words as he would have been among hobbits. Not that the Shire or Bree are safe in these times, even if they are still peaceful.

“None of us can,” Beregond said “Maybe the Steward can, or Faramir. But no, they too have to wait until he…” He stopped for a moment, then went on with a shake of his head, “… makes his next move. And it is putting people on edge. I fear more trouble this winter.”

~*~

“What is Rivendell like?” Amrothos repeated Faramir’s question. “You remember visiting those small Elvish harbours along the coast?” Faramir nodded. “Older even than those, but alive and lived in all that time. The library has books that are older than… I’ve seen books that came from Númenor itself!”

Before either Amrothos or Faramir went on, Húrin interrupted them with a contemptuous snort.

“Books! Old books are no help against the Enemy! The rest of Rivendell will do us little good either,” Húrin said sharply. “They do not have the strength in arms. The Breeland is just a few farms and an inn on a crossroads, and the only thing that distinguishes the capital of the Dúnedain from other villages is that most of its streets are paved.” He snorted again. “Eriador is sparsely populated, poor, and useless. The only thing that made this whole journey worthwhile is the promise of weapons from the Dwarves.”

Húrin had said most of this to Denethor already when he delivered his first report, though he had hidden his contempt for the north better then. The Steward remained silent, waiting for the other members of his Council to speak. He wanted them to speak unguided by what he himself had said, especially Amrothos. The tension between Imrahil’s son and Húrin was obvious enough that he should get to the bottom of it.

“What of the grain our kinsmen are sending? That is generous, and we will need it before the winter is out,” Forweg of Lossarnach said.

“Perhaps, though it barely makes up for what we lose from giving the Anórien harvest to Rohan,” Húrin acknowledged sourly.

“Barely is better than not at all,” Amrothos said calmly, while Indor of Lebennin nodded in agreement. “We did not achieve as much as we might have hoped, but you cannot say that it was nothing.”

“Nor will what we achieved, if you wish to call it that, keep the Enemy out of Gondor a day longer.” Húrin did not quite raise his voice, but his frustration was plain to see.

“You are right, yet so is Amrothos,” Denethor said soothingly. Perhaps there is no more to it than the tensions of travelling together for months. Húrin is not a subtle man unless he wants to be, and Amrothos is yet inexperienced. “Both grain and Dwarf-forged weapons will be welcome. I will discuss Tharbad later with the Captain-General. First, though, we will hear the reports from our spies near Minas Tirith and in Ithilien.” He nodded at Faramir to speak.

“North Ithilien seems quiet, and no more troops have crossed the river at Osgiliath in the last week. Most of those who crossed earlier have gone on into Anórien. There are around a thousand Orcs and perhaps five hundred Men left in Minas Tirith.”

“Where do you think they’re going?” Húrin asked.

“Most likely westwards.” Faramir said. “But we won’t know for certain until we hear from Rohan.” He turned to Forweg. “Have any of the volunteers who attempted to cross the White Mountains from Lossarnach made it back?”

Forweg looked worried. “Not yet, but the mountains are dangerous at the best of times, and it is already winter on the heights.”

Forweg had been bolder than the Steward had expected in suggesting the venture in the first place, but Denethor had little hope that it would succeed. Even if it did, he thought, like all news, from Rohan or Eriador or his spies in Ithilien and near Minas Tirith, whatever word came to him would already be weeks old. Would that I dared risk using the palantír, but even just looking West and North would be too great a risk. And how the Enemy would laugh were I to give in to that desire. A shudder ran along his back. No, I must make do with what I have. I also wish I had the full Council here, but Imrahil is at sea with the fleet, and will be away most of the winter, and Angbor is in Lamedon for another month. So there too, I must make do with what I have.

“It’s plain that the Enemy’s target is Rohan,” Húrin said. “After the fall of their First Marshall, what else could it be? And after that? A defeat of Rohan opens a road into Eriador, but no sensible captain would rely on such a long and vulnerable supply line with undefeated enemies on both sides. Yet with Rohan out of the way, its Elvish allies – Rohan! Elves! Denethor thought as Húrin went on. If anything proves the danger of predictions it is that! – are also vulnerable. As we will be, even more than now.”

“Should we not send help to Rohan?” Amrothos asked.

“Should we do that before we know what happens with…” Indor asked, trailing off as Húrin stirred to interrupt him.

“Worry not, Indor. They won’t come to Pelargir,” Húrin snorted. “Not yet anyway. You can deal with sailors brawling in inns all this winter. That at least will not exceed your ab–”

“Amrothos is right,” Faramir interrupted sharply. To Denethor’s surprise Húrin kept silent. “It does look as if these troops are going west towards Edoras,” Faramir added, “but they might still turn north to attack the Elves first. But we cannot wait with our own next move until we have certainty.” He looked at Denethor. “We should see what help we can send to Rohan.”

“I agree, and that is the course I will take,” Denethor said, adding to Faramir, “We will look at what is possible this afternoon when we discuss Tharbad.” He looked around the room. “This ends today’s meeting of the Council.”

At a sign from Denethor, Faramir stayed back when the others left.

Lately, Denethor had been thinking much about the long-ago attack on Umbar, when the city’s fleet had burned in the same Fire that the Corsairs had now used in Eriador. He had even considered whether he might repeat the feat before Umbar finished rebuilding its fleet, but… no, he would not, even were he able to gather again all that went into the Fire’s making. Once had been too much. And that was Thorongil’s hour, not mine. Nor mine to repeat even if I would. The days of the Kings were gone. He would never know why Thorongil had not taken what had been within his grasp then, and, truly, even if he could not put it from his mind, it mattered no more. Unlike all that had happened since then… The Corsairs will come to Gondor, they have hated us too much for too long not to – but where and when? Linhir could drop chains across the river to protect its harbour, but Dol Amroth was vulnerable to a large enough attack, as were all smaller towns and villages along the coast… But yes, Rohan first…

They sat in silence for some time, until at last Faramir spoke. “Father, what make you of Húrin’s news from the North?”

Denethor glanced at Faramir. “More than I expected, less than I might have hoped. But you were here, you knew that before you asked. Nor was Húrin wrong to say that there was little point to what he achieved.”

There had been some news for Denethor in the details of Húrin’s report, but he had known already, before he sent his envoys, that there was no strength in arms to be had from the poor and thinly-populated lands that had once been Arnor. Thorongil had even admitted as much on his deathbed. Yet he had also said that what resources the North had would buy time and the hope of escape, for however long it would last, for those who survived Gondor’s fall when it came. And curse it, he will have been right. But it is a bitter hope to rely on, if it can even be called hope. It also raised an important question for Denethor – how long would the North stand? He should talk to Amrothos later, and to his squire. His nephew might have noticed things that Húrin would have been blinded to by his disdain for what remained of the Dúnedain in Eriador, and the Halfling knew the North better than any in Gondor. Although that may not be very well, yet he may know enough.

As poor as the northern Dúnedain are, they did what we could not, and kept the Line of Kings unbroken. Even, perhaps, if only because of the involvement of the Elves. Had it just been that Elrond would not see his brother’s line fail? Yet now the Line of Kings has failed, and all Elrond’s plans with it…

He stood up abruptly, causing Faramir to rise also. “Come, walk with me to the waterside. I need some air before we spend the afternoon inside again.”  

“Of course,” Faramir replied and walked over to the door of the meeting room to ask one of the guards on duty to fetch their cloaks.

~*~

Denethor looked east across the water, shaking his head at the rain dripping into his eyes.

The weather matched his mood. Had it not been for Húrin’s report of the North, this morning’s Council would have been entirely pointless. Forweg tries, but he is not his grandfather, and Indor jumps at his own shadow the moment there is talk of war, for all that he knows the river and the city. Though he is right, the city is getting restless. But I might as well talk over what needs doing with just Faramir and inform them after.

The river was empty and the docks quiet. Denethor watched the choppy waves for some time, letting his thoughts run where they would. As Denethor looked over at Faramir, who was watching the river as well, he could not help but wonder how Boromir would have handled—when Faramir spoke again.

“I wish we could know which way the Enemy will turn after Rohan falls. We only heard about the fall of Dale and Erebor a few weeks ago, and that happened months ago. We could have a council every morning and we still won’t know the Enemy’s plans until he puts them into action. What, then, is wisdom?”

“Wisdom!” Denethor snorted. “It is the counsel of the so-called Wise that brought us to this pass.” Faramir would have protested that not so long ago, but now he only nodded as Denethor went on. “And, for all his lore, Elrond Half-Elven sits in his hidden vale, waiting, while others hold the Enemy from his door. Does he still hold on to some hidden hope, or are we all – Gondor, Rohan, Rivendell, the Northern Dúnedain, the people of Wilderland – only united by despair, and no matter what we do, it matters not? Perhaps waiting is the only wisdom to be found now, even if in the end it will not keep the Enemy from our door or anyone else’s.”

“But start looking for a few companies to send to Rohan,” he said as he stood up. “None of what Húrin negotiated will reach us if the Enemy takes Tharbad.”

Chapter Text

November 3 – 4, 3019

“Do you know when Master Elrond will be back?” Bilbo craned his neck to look up at Erestor.

“No,” the Elf replied, “but it will be several weeks, I think.” He shifted the tall stack of papers he was holding, and did not wait for Bilbo to answer again before going on. “But if you wished to see him because you haven’t been feeling well, you know you can speak to any of the healers. Now, if you will pardon me, I would like to put these somewhere before I drop them.”

“Of course,” Bilbo replied to Erestor’s rapidly disappearing back. “…don’t mind me…”  The number of times Elrond had left Rivendell since Bilbo had moved there could be counted on the fingers of one hand. But these are strange times, and dark ones.

But that’s what you get for not wanting to bother Master Elrond again, Bilbo, he told himself. And you knew you should have listened when he first told you to take it easier than you had been doing. Yet ’m sure he would have told me he’d be away if I had gone to see him before he left, even if he did leave again almost as soon as he returned from that mudslide in the valley. He had not been really ill – not really, and not enough to disturb any of the healers over, but under the weather enough that he had mostly been keeping to his room, and enough for Erestor to notice.

At least I have tried to follow Master Elrond’s advice to take some exercise every day – well, every day that I felt up to it. Bilbo had made a leisurely round of the gardens that morning, and when he ran into Arwen for the first time in weeks, she had quickly made her excuses for not sitting down and chatting with him. Only now did he realise that she had been dressed for walking and carried a pack. Also, the path she had taken did not lead back to the house, but further into the valley. I’ll have to ask Glorfindel if he knows what she’s up to. Unlike Erestor, he might even tell me.

~*~

Once she was beyond the buildings of the Last Homely House, Arwen headed down an overgrown track along one of the valley’s many streams. After a few hours of walking, she knelt down near the edge of the water and cupped her hands for a swift sip. Her thirst slaked, she sat down more comfortably. Alone at last, and a chance to work on those wards without interruption. Erestor was more than capable of running Imladris for a few days, and its borders were safe enough that she could take some time off from her tasks, even with her father away. If she were needed, Glorfindel or Erestor could easily call her back, and neither would do so unless it was truly necessary.

We do need better wards than the remnants of the old warding that Father is using still. That is more urgent than the daily running of Imladris. It drains him to maintain them, and the wards are now too weak. Grandmother rebuilt Lothlórien’s wards, and used what she learnt from Melian, but Father and I can draw on Melian’s blood and may perhaps try workings that grandmother cannot, even if neither of us comes near Melian’s strength.

=~*~=

She had walked into her father’s study without knocking, expecting it to be empty, then noticed the room was occupied after all. Elrond had been sitting in one of the chairs by the hearth. He only looked up when she apologised for barging in.

“Please sit down,” he said, indicating the chair opposite his. Though he smiled as she did, it was obvious that her father was tired to the bone. He had only returned from investigating that mudslide and tending to those who had been hurt in it a few hours before.

Arwen doubted he had rested since he came back, or during the days he was away.

“Have you inventoried our healing supplies after what I took with me?” He only nodded when Arwen confirmed it. “Of course, you have. I am too weary to think straight,” he apologised, gazing into the cold hearth.

After a long silence, he sighed and looked at her. “The mudslide happened because the wards around the valley have been weakening. At least it was only rain that caused it, and none died. Still, it should not have happened, and a year ago it wouldn’t have.”

Another silence. “I cannot get the wards to work the way Elrohir said Galadriel is shielding Lothlórien now. Perhaps I’m too used to doing it the old way. Yet I also feel Vilya when I attempt the new workings, telling me it wants to be used instead, that that is the easier way. But behind Vilya there is the Enemy. Waiting. Hoping I will make a mistake. And the more tired I become the worse the sense of pressure becomes.” He smiled wryly as she gave him a worried look. “I know better than to give in to the temptation.”

“I’m still working on the wards,” Arwen said, “but I cannot yet stop them from unravelling.”

“I will look at the working again. Find another way.”

She did not say that he should rest for a few days before he went off again.

=~*~=

The land felt peaceful at least, sleepy almost. Yet there was also an underlying disquiet – if it is not my own unease I’m sensing. She knew where the patrols that had gone out the day before were, the guards around the rim of the valley, and the scattered hunters out towards the mountains. And once, somewhere, there would have been another familiar prese... No. There is no point in dwelling in memory, and yet, memories are so easily recalled. We walked along this stream so often. I should not have come here.

She took a deep breath to regain her focus.

Closer to home, her women tending the lembas grain, and Bilbo and Glorfindel in the library – she had been glad to see the old hobbit out and about earlier, even if she had been too rushed to stay and talk to him. Many others were going about their daily business around the house and the valley. Westward, her father was still at the camp that had been set up near Lake Nenuial for the wounded from the attack on the Havens. Elrond’s thoughts were closed and all she felt from him was utter weariness. I hope his journey isn’t in vain and he can help those who were hurt worst. So many had been lost at the Havens, and now the Elves were cut off from fleeing West.

But I am not for the West, even if that road were still open. I’ll not look upon the Sea again.

The first time Arwen had been to the Havens, she was still a child, maybe twenty-five or so, and her parents had taken her along when they visited there. Likely they had had matters to discuss with Círdan, but she had only been interested in the adventure of the journey, and in exploring their destination and all its new sights and sounds and smells.

She had been fascinated by Círdan’s beard, as she had only seen a beard once or twice before on Dwarves passing through Imladris. She had certainly never seen one on an Elf. Arwen almost smiled now as she remembered the gentle patience with which Círdan had let her study his face. Then there had been the time she and her brothers were taken on a fishing boat for a trip along the coast. And…

Arwen muttered a curse her mother would have washed out her mouth with soap for. And that is a trip to the Havens I do not wish to remember at all. She ruthlessly pushed the memories away and returned her attention to her task. Alas that keeping watch on Imladris’s borders was not so taxing that it kept her thoughts from wandering. The Sea…

Water.

Water goes everywhere, but it is hard to bind in a warding spell. Nor would Bruinen hold the Nazgûl back a second time if they take to the air as they did elsewhere. Yet I fear we will face worse than Nazgûl ere the end.

Arwen closed her eyes and sought the larger river this one flowed into. She had learned how to scry using Galadriel’s Mirror many years ago, and that would help, but what she going to try depended as much on what she knew of Galadriel’s warding of Lothlórien and of Melian’s Girdle.

There were many things, living things, in the water. Fish, insects, a – rather annoyed – duck that flew up with an indignant quack! when she brushed past its mind.

Drawing back her attention from the water for a moment, Arwen stirred some loose soil with her hand. If she added air and threaded them together, she might raise a small whirlwind. But sand in their eyes will not stop Sauron’s armies when they come. Nor, alas, can I make the earth open up under their feet.

Earth will not do it. Nor water. But fear may.

What do fish fear? She immersed her thoughts in the water again and wove a barrier of sharp teeth and hunger, biting cold and burning heat and gasping for breath. The tiniest things that lived in the water passed through her barrier with ease – but these do not have enough mind to know fear.

Now, there was a fish coming… it too swam straight at her barrier, but darted aside as if it had nearly swum into a wall.

Arwen looked at the sky and stood up, and the barrier she had made dissolved as soon as her attention turned elsewhere. Again. I should be able to tie it off and keep it going. What am I overlooking?

It would soon be dark. Eärendil was already out of sight far towards the West, though she still felt his watchful presence in the sky. She dried her hands on her shirt and sat down again to eat some of the bread and cheese she had brought. It was not cold enough for a fire, nor would she need one for protection.

Only a few faint stars were visible in the gaps between the clouds. A clear night would have been nice, even if I’m here to gaze at the land rather than the stars. Arwen sighed and pulled her cloak tighter around her as she moved beyond the valley’s edge in thought, staying well clear of the distraction and noise of the Last Homely House.

South of the road was the Angle, at rest save for bright points of watchfulness where sentries stood guard. Not what she was looking for. The road itself was empty from the Last Bridge all the way to the Ford. She moved north and then slowly back home, passing through the wild hills north of the road. The land was empty of people to distract her, but it was still hard to maintain so close a watch at this distance.

Even so, she sensed wolves and foxes on the prowl, owls, martens, but also the small creatures that were their prey warily foraging for their meals. After a while, when her focus started to waver too much, she moved closer to home, for a last look at the borders of the valley. Then back into the valley itself. All still seems well, even outside Imladris – yet the news from the South and from Wilderland, when we have any, only turns darker. But here, the night is still ours, and we still have time.

She pulled her cloak tighter around her and lay down with a yawn. How to tie off the ward spells properly though? I’ll not solve that by staring into the night.

~*~

When Arwen woke up, it was still dark, though the dawn was not far off. Her dreams had been a muddle of unravelling weaves and fraying knots, but she was no closer to solving the problem of how to tie off a ward without it coming apart.

She yawned and sleepily reached for her pack and the remaining bread. Now a fire would have been nice, if only for toasted bread and perhaps some fresh-caught fish, but it’s not worth lighting one just for that. By the time she had eaten, it was starting to get light, and she quickly erased all traces of her presence before starting on her way back. Being out here in the woods, sleeping under the sky, even within the borders of Imladris, brought to mind visiting Lothlórien and all the woodcraft she had learned there. I could wish I were there, wandering the woods with Grandfather. But Lothlórien is already under siege, and its woods, like the Sea, I doubt I will see again.

The morning was damp and foggy, and dewdrops clung to every surface. Arwen paused when the first rays of sunlight played across a delicate spiderweb, its threads outlined in tiny droplets, glistening in the early light. How fair your home, little weaver, she thought as she spotted the web’s maker sheltering – or perhaps waiting for an unwary bug – under a brown leaf still clinging on to its branch.

A web. Of course! Netting to support the ward! Or like a wattle and daub wall, perhaps… I must try this! She quickly cast about in mind for a suitable place.

Not too far away, there was a small waterfall, fed by a fast-flowing stretch of water. Arwen considered it for a moment, then moved her attention further upstream to where the river was slower  and there was a small shoal of fish grazing among the plants on the river bottom.

Water itself may be hard to bind in wards, but at least I won’t have to wait long for something to wander into my net. Now that she might have the answer to the unravelling problem that had beset her, she did not have the patience to set a ward along a forest path and wait for what wildlife might wander by.

Quickly, she set up a barrier. It was much like the one she had made the previous day, except for weaving in the delicate ribbons of netting that ran through the structure strengthening it. The ward looked and felt strong when she was done and prodded it to test it, but so had the ones that had fallen apart.

She let go of the weave. The ward stretched and shuddered as soon as she released it, but it held as it settled.

It holds! Can it be that simple? Arwen let go a breath she had not realised she was holding. But wait. She cast her attention back to the nearby fish. Does it work? She tried nudging the fish towards the ward, but with no effect. At last, though, the shoal left the stretch of river where they had been feeding, and followed the current towards the ward. Unlike the fish from the previous day, these moved slowly, and so it was not until the first few fish were nearly in the ward that they darted away, back from the unseen threat in front of them.

Fish suddenly went in every direction, some dashing straight into the ward. Arwen was relieved when they were only stunned. The final wards must be able to slay those who attempt to cross them with evil intent, but I bear these fish no ill will, and would not kill them merely to test this ward. It held on its own, and that is what matters now.

~*~

Arwen left the path back to the house before she would have come back into the gardens. Down here and across the steppingstones. Her elation at her success had still not faded entirely. Much remains to be done before these wards can protect Imladris. Father and I can work on that together, though, now that the wards at least hold. If only Elrohir would come back. The three of us working together would be stronger than two. She shook her head. She dared not hope that her brother would be able to join in any weaving even when – if – he returned home. Father and I grieve for Elladan also, but Elrohir has lost part of himself with his death.

And yet, I still hold to hope that Elrohir may come to meet Father if he can do so away from home. Maybe he will come to Lake Nenuial. Arwen had not felt more than a general sense of her brother at any time, not enough to know where he was, except – once – a quick, unguarded, image of dark pines high against a mountainside. But that could have been anywhere in Eriador or even Wilderland…

As she emerged near the stables, Arwen saw several riders going out towards the Ford, Glorfindel at their head. Her elation at getting her wards to hold together immediately made way for concern, but before she could ask what was going on, Erestor quickly came over.

“I’m glad you’re back, my lady,” the other said breathlessly. “Glorfindel has ridden out with a patr…there was word that…your father should be here really…“

“What?” she snapped impatiently.

Erestor visibly pulled himself together before he answered. “Your brother has been seen on the road near the Ford.”

Chapter Text

November 6 –9, 3019

“Dearest Pip,”

What to put first? Merry shrugged as he dipped his pen in the inkwell. By the time Pippin got the letter, any news in it would be old. But that was true for any of their letters, nor was exchanging news really why they wrote. Rather, to talk to each other, even as slowly as the exchange of letters across Rohan and Gondor allowed, and know that somewhere if not nearby, but at least nearer than the Shire, there was another Hobbit and a friend… For all that Rohan had become his home and that Hild was here, and a child to come, and he had the friendship of many in Edoras, still he was also Meriadoc Brandybuck, Hobbit of the Shire. I wish I could see Pippin. I should ask Éowyn leave to go to Pelargir in a few months, once the babe is born. Hild wants to see Gondor as well, and letters are only words and no replacement for company.

“It’s been several days now since…”

Merry crossed out ‘several days’ and wrote ‘more than a week’, glad that he had a spare sheet of paper he could use for a neat copy if this one ended up a mess.

“…since the Queen lost her child.”

He had still barely spoken to Éowyn. When Hild had first tried to see her lady, the guard at Éowyn’s door told her the Queen was yet too ill for visitors. Merry had heard that some of her Councillors had seen her, though. With both Erkenbrand and Herulf away, he had not been able to find out what they had talked about. But it makes sense that she would spare her strength for matters of the realm.

He was still staring at a mostly blank page when Hild came in.

“What did the midwife say?” he asked. Even after what had happened to Éowyn, he did not feel worried. Perhaps he should – childbirth was always dangerous, but Hild was not worried, and she would know if there was anything wrong.  

“The babe seems strong, and everything is as it should be.” She laughed at Merry’s sigh of relief. “But I already feel as big as one of those war oliphaunts you told me about.”

Merry pretended to look her over critically and put a hand on the still-small curve of her belly, hoping he would feel the child kick again as he had once before. “You’d make a lovely oliphaunt, I am sure.”

“Oh, away with you!” She swatted at him with her shawl before sitting down opposite him.

“Love, what is bothering you?” Hild asked after he had gone back to brooding over the letter.

Merry looked up to find her giving him a concerned look. “I would say ‘nothing’ if I thought you’d believe me.” Now, she looked annoyed. “I cannot think of what to write,” he added.

“But that is not all, is it?”

“No.” Merry shook his head. “I was thinking this morning that neither of us has yet seen the Queen for more than a few minutes. And her squire may not be all that important a visitor, but you are one of her ladies, and it would make sense for you to help tend her.”

Hild nodded. “It would, yet she has been meeting with her Councillors.” 

“That too worries me,” Merry admitted. “They have also met several times now without her, and I…” After the pressure the Council had put on her before, he did not trust them not to use her misfortune to further their own interests.

“Then perhaps you should go see her,” Hild replied.

“Just like that? But her guard said she was still too ill for visitors.”

“That was three days ago.”

“I suppose so,” Merry said. “I’ll finish this letter later and I’ll go see the Queen.” He might have more to tell Pippin if he put the letter aside for a bit. He should write another letter home soon as well, now that he had told his parents about Hild and the grandchild on the way. His father’s reply had been, again, surprisingly mild in tone, but he had hinted that his mother had been less than happy at the news. All her matchmaking plans are for naught now, and a grandchild she is unlikely to see anytime soon is no compensation for that. And for all that some would joke about the legendary fairy wife a long-ago Took must have taken, Esmeralda might not look kindly on her son’s all too real Mannish wife. But none of it can be helped. And as much as I want to go home with Hild, it would not be fair to take her where she would always be an outsider, even if Mother welcomes her.

~

Aesc, who had been on guard outside Éowyn’s room had not even hesitated to let Merry in. Now, Merry wondered whether he and Hild had been too suspicious. With all that was going on near Rohan’s borders, the Council could not have waited until Éowyn was well enough to join them.

“My Lady?”

“Come in.” Éowyn sounded brittle, almost defeated, in a way that Merry had not heard from her before. And that was worrying.

She was sitting in a chair by the window in the pale winter’s sunlight, huddled in a fur-lined cloak, gazing out. She turned her head only when he stood beside her. He started to say how sorry he was that she had lost the child, but she spoke first.

“Master Meriadoc, I would thank you for your kind words, but I have heard their like too often lately.”

Éowyn had turned away again, but after a few moments she looked back at Merry. She looked as if she would shatter if she breathed too hard, but she sounded angry and desperate. “The Council wants me to remarry before the end of the year and name Folcwine my heir until I bear a living child, or to step down in Folcwine’s favour. I do not know how to refuse them anymore.”

“Do they all agree?”

“I don’t know,” Éowyn replied with an abrupt shake of her head. “It was all Wigmund would tell me of yesterday’s Council meeting. I don’t even know who they want to appoint as First Marshal or how the fighting in Anórien is going. When I asked, Wigmund said I should not worry about anything like that until I am well again.”

Fretting would wear her out more than knowing what was going on. “This is all I know,” Merry said. “Lord Erkenbrand is to be named First Marshal on his return from Anórien. Folcwine and Herulf are to be Second and Third Marshal.”

Éowyn nodded, but then gave him a sharp look. “Erkenbrand has already left again?”

“Yes, the Council sent him east three days ago. They want him in charge of defending Anórien.”

“They want him away from their meetings, more likely,” Éowyn muttered, her expression darkening. “And Herulf?” she added. “Was he there?”

“Only the first meeting,” Merry said, “He left Edoras immediately after to go back to his éored near Entwade.”

“I see,” Éowyn said. “I am sorry, Master Meriadoc. I am not yet as well as I would want. Will you come to see me again tomorrow?”

~*~

The next morning Merry had come by again, and after he left, Éowyn had dozed in her chair for some time. It was good to have one friend who wanted naught but her company from her. She could also trust him to speak honestly of what he knew of the war, but it was tiring to pretend she was feeling better. Not that he believes me. Or that she was willing to go along with what the Council demanded of her. Although I may not have much choice there.

She woke up with a crick in her neck. It would have been more comfortable to return to her bed, but Éowyn immediately dismissed the notion. She had been abed for days and was sick of lying down. It mattered little whether she healed quickly or slowly or not at all – almost all those she cared about were dead, and she herself could not even do what any village woman did effortlessly.

Éowyn shivered and drew her cloak tighter about her. Elfhelm is dead, as is my heir, and what good is a barren queen? It had been too soon to say whether the child would have been a boy or a girl. She sighed, then gritted her teeth. I cannot even feel the grief I should. Or much else. And with Rohan’s enemies on their borders, before long, all would turn to grief. What need for more of it now?

She dozed off again only to be woken up by a knock on her door.

Aesc stuck his head round the door. “Lords Sighere and Déorlaf are here to see you.”

How she wanted to send them away… “Send them in,” she replied instead. If they were here again to talk about her remarrying, she supposed she could pretend to be tired and send them away again. More tired, she corrected herself in thought.

“My lady,” Sighere spoke. “How are you this day? I heard you’ve had visitors.”

“I am well enough, and I thank you for your concern.” Say what you have to say and go.

“Master Sigeric said that you should be careful not to do anything beyond your strength,” Déorlaf said.

“Master Sigeric is too careful. There is no reason my squire or my ladies cannot visit me,” Éowyn replied. “And the midwife says I am able to take up my duties. It has been days since I last bled heavily or had any cramps.”

Both men looked ill at ease at her description of her state, but Déorlaf would not budge. “That may be so, my lady, but you are still not well, and we do not want you to risk your health for the sake of your duties, when...” He stopped, and Éowyn wondered what else he had been about to say.

“How do you expect me to heal in a tiny, airless room?” She gestured at the room around her, which, she granted, was not all that small, and the window did open.

“My lady, I know you yearn to be a-horse, but give it time.” Déorlaf looked at her disapprovingly.

Sighere appeared to consider her words for a few moments more. “But, if Master Sigeric and the midwife agree it can do no harm, you might start taking some short walks outside, in the fresh air. But no riding yet.”

If that was what they thought she craved most… They still think me a child playing at rule. Yet I am queen. If they let me be so. But that they will not do, unless I make them take notice.

~*~

“I’ll get us some more to drink. Give me your mug. You too, Gimli, Strider.”

“I’ll come along and help you carry,” Strider replied. “Another glass of that Old Winyards, Legolas?”

Merry grinned widely as Pippin took charge of their drinks, dragging Strider along with him. They were all sitting together in the pavilion that old Bilbo had put up for his farewell party.

Something is going to happen, Merry thought.

“This is quite a party,” Boromir said. “Have you already packed your gear?”

Oh, yes, of course, Bilbo is going to put on the Ring, and leave– Distracted, Merry turned his head to look at the Gondorian, who had somehow managed to fold himself on to a hobbit-sized bench. “Just wait, and keep an eye on Bilbo,” he replied. “It’s going to get better.” But how do I know that? We didn’t leave with Bilbo! And why is the Fellowship here?

“Wake up.”

Don’t want to, he thought. I want to be home!

More insistent now. “Wake up!”

~

“Stop that! I’m awake!” I want to go back to my dream!

Hild looked anxious in the flickering light of the candle she held in her hand.

“Is it the babe?” 

She shook her head. “No, don’t worry, but get up. You are going to be late to join the Queen in the hall. I will see you there.”

Merry sat up in bed and tried to work out what time it was. There was light coming through the shutters, so well past sunrise but not so late that the sun was no longer on their window. True to her word, Hild had rushed out. I must be really late then, if she didn’t even wait. He was annoyed that he had overslept, but it was to be expected after he had lain awake for what felt like most of the night after last night’s news that Shadowfax had been seen running wild in the East Emnet. The last news I heard of Gandalf had him near the Havens. How… Did he send Shadowfax back or did something happen to him? And there I was complaining about having nothing for Pippin’s letter.

But that’s for later, first Éowyn! She had said the day before that she would go to the hall at noon to hear any petitioners who might have turned up, and that he was free to spend the morning as he wished. I would not have chosen to spend it asleep, but nothing to be done about it now.

~

Éowyn sat on the throne, Hild and another woman with her, and to one side several members of the Council standing talking among themselves. There were a few small groups of people standing nearby as well.

As Merry continued in, it was obvious to him that Éowyn was still far from well. Yet as ill as she looked, she also looked determined. When she saw him, she nodded at him to come over.

“My lady, you really should not exert yourself without need.” Sighere turned to speak to Éowyn just as Merry came up the steps of the dais. “These arguments over runaway goats and disputed apple trees can surely wait until you are well, and these people’s own lord should not have sent them here.”

“How will I heal if I do not try my strength?” Éowyn snapped. “And so far, what I’ve heard is much more troubling than apple trees and goats. The Mark has been at war a long time and people are suffering.”

Sighere gave her a long look, then nodded and waved another group of petitioners forward. Merry wondered what he was thinking, and what would come of it.

Merry stood next to Hild while Éowyn encouraged the petitioners to present their cases. It was warm and stuffy inside the hall and after a while it was all he could do not to yawn. But at last, Éowyn spoke her judgement of the last case. As she stood up, her attendants quickly moved to her side to lend her support. Merry noted she leant on Hild as the women walked away from the dais and left the hall.

~*~

Éowyn only allowed herself to lean more heavily on Hild once they were out of the hall. I had to do this, and the people needed to see their queen taking an interest in what troubles them. And not just the people, but also my counsellors. Yet I am weary to the bone. At least I can rest this afternoon.

“Éowyn, my lady, you must come back to the hall!” Her  squire ran after her.

“Merry, what is it?”

“Lady, there are messenge…the enemy has taken the river crossing at Entwade!”

Chapter Text

November 7 – 8, 3019

Halbarad waited for the other Rangers to catch up to him, then nudged his horse towards the gate.

“I hope the gatekeeper lets us in,” Gelmir muttered behind him.

“Don’t worry,” Baran, who rode next to Gelmir, answered. “The folk of Bree are glad enough to see us these days. Besides, he’s in no hurry to come out into the rain.”

That is so, Halbarad thought. Both the welcome we’ve been getting and the rain. Even so, for a moment he half expected the gatekeeper to come outside and yell that Rangers were not welcome after dark as they should well know. Instead, the man did no more than give them a quick nod from the shelter of the gatehouse as they rode into the village. Old habits die hard, he thought, acknowledging his own suspicious reaction. Then again, Bree’s change of heart is no more than a few months old.

~*~

“Another round here, if you please, Barley,” Cadman Crackwillow called.

Butterbur waved in the smith’s direction and quickly looked around the common room to see if there was anyone else waiting to be served, then went to draw three pints.

A hobbit came up to the bar. “Four pints please.”

“That’ll be a copper penny for the lot.”

“How much?”

“A copper penny.”

“Well, all right then, but Bree has turned expensive since I was last here,” the hobbit replied as he handed over his coins.

Only now did Butterbur notice that the hobbit was one of the group that had arrived from the Shire the previous day – looking to buy grain and pipe-weed as they said. He shook his head as the hobbit, still grumbling about the cost of beer, returned to his table. Everything costs more these days. What does he expect, especially with so much grain having been sold away south.   

Butterbur would be the last to complain about business being good, but business had also been anything but normal, ever since the ruffians’ siege in the spring. Life had quieted again, but finding out that the Rangers had always been the King’s Men of old had been only the first of many odd happenings. Last month, Elves had come through Bree, though they had only stopped in the village to have one of their horses shod. They were going west to the havens beyond the Shire, one had said.

It had been another shock to find out that those havens, which – like the sea itself – were little more than a rumour in the Bree-land, had been attacked and burned down to the ground by those Corsairs from the furthest south. That news had come from that old wizard Gandalf himself. The Pony had been full for days after he and his tales had come there, though people talked more than they drank. When Bree had not been invaded by marauding Southrons in the week after the news came, life – and the Prancing Pony – grew quiet again.

“Hey Barley, is that round coming or not?”

Butterbur sighed and handed the waiting pints to one of the bar maids for the smith and his fellows.

~*~

The common room of The Pony was busy, though most of the guests seemed to be local, except for a small group of Dwarves in one corner. No one gave the group of Rangers more than a cursory glance as they sat down at a table in a corner near the fire and Nob brought them stew and bread.

“I’ll get the first round,” Gelmir announced once they had eaten and promptly got up to do so.

“I’ll give you a hand.” Enerdhil followed him to the bar.

Halbarad leant back and stretched his legs under the table. It still felt strange and familiar both to be back on the Road after months at home. Sitting down in a warm room was nicer than it should be, even if they had been riding since before dawn. But Rangers pine for home when we are on the Road, and we pine for the Road when we are at home. Even in winter. But Bree… used to be, when I came here all I had to worry about was whether I would be turned away at the gate, but those days are gone. Instead, I worry how long we have until the Enemy turns his gaze North – as hard as he is pressing in Rohan, he may be in Tharbad before the spring.

Once they had their beers, the Rangers sat talking quietly. Halbarad occasionally joined in with a comment or two, but mostly watched the common room. Not that there is much going on. So far at least.

“Mind if I join you for a moment?”

Halbarad looked up to see old Barley pulling up a chair alongside him.

“Of course not,” he replied, and moved his own chair back to make room.

“I’m glad to see you back in Bree,” Butterbur said. “How…” He hesitated. “I hope you are not bringing us ill news? I mean…other than what we have heard from out west and the Elves?”

Halbarad shook his head. “No, no worse than that,” he added. No more ill news, at least not now, he thought. Once Rohan falls, we’ll be fighting to hold Tharbad. Not before the spring though.

“I see,” Butterbur said softly. “Well, we have little skill in fighting, but if there is anything the people of the Bree-land can do to help you Rangers when the time comes, you can count on us.”

“Thank you,” Halbarad replied. And when the time comes, I will have no other choice than to pit farmers and townfolk against Sauron’s armies. “How have things been in Bree?”

“Well enough,” Butterbur said. He nodded at the corner where the Dwarves were sitting. “We’re all glad to have travellers and some trade again.” He stopped talking and shook his head.

Halbarad took a sip of his ale, waiting for the innkeeper to go on. “But…?” he finally prompted him.

“But,” Butterbur echoed, distractedly wiping his brow. “Everything costs more with so much grain having been sold south to Gondor. We don’t begrudge it, the price paid was more than generous, but there are still some grumbles about the cost of a pint or a loaf. Still, no one’s going hungry, so things could be a lot worse.” Butterbur shrugged.

He doesn’t even stumble over the name Gondor, Halbarad thought. A few months ago, he could barely think about anything beyond the Greenway-crossing, and any place beyond that was ‘down south’. Of course, back then, he’d never have sat down in the common room to talk to any Rangers either. Even in all this, there are good changes. But Bree will stand or fall along with the rest of Eriador, and I can only hope that some of the good will make it through the coming storm.

“I know you Rangers like a smoke as much as the next man, but well... One thing that is worse is that there’s barely any pipe-weed to be had for any money. It’s the same in the Shire – most of the harvest lost to some sickness spoiling the plants.” Butterbur looked uncharacteristically pensive as he went on. “These are strange days. There have even been Elves passing through Bree. More than strange. Not that the village is not a good place for a rest or a stay of course, but Elves never used to even…”

“These are strange days,” Halbarad replied when Butterbur trailed off. “Pipe-weed we can do without.”

“We may have to,” the innkeeper said. “There are even hobbits from the Shire here to buy up what pipe-weed we may have to spare.” He snorted. “As I said, strange days. Shire hobbits coming to buy Southlinch! Not that the leaf isn’t good enough for anyone who isn’t-“ He did not finish whatever he was going to say. “But there are things going on in the Shire as well.”

“There are?” Halbarad asked. He had already heard some news about the Shire through Bilbo in Rivendell, though how the hobbit got hold of all he knew…

“Oh yes,” Butterbur replied softly, looking around the common room before he moved his chair closer. “Some in the Southfarthing had dealings with those ruffians and that Bill Ferny for some years, and now the big families are all stomping on each other’s feet.”

Halbarad nodded. He had already heard the first part and some of the second, though he still questioned how goods-laden waggons from the Shire had evaded the Rangers at Sarn Ford and Tharbad on their way to Isengard.

“What happens in the Shire isn’t Bree’s business of course, but it makes me wonder who we can trust. Those hobbits over there say they are from the Tookland, not the Southfarthing, but all we need for trouble is someone accusing them of spying or having been in league with the ruffians.”

Halbarad nodded again. “We will stop anyth-“

“Oh, that’s not what I meant at all, but if you Rangers could have some talks in the Shire as you did here, it can help to bring everybody together.”

Halbarad stared at Butterbur. He had of course given thought to the Shire before, but to have Butterbur say it out loud… “I think you are right, Master Butterbur, and I will see what can be done over the winter, though we may have to rely on your wisdom and that of the mayors of the Bree-land to have the Shire families talk with us. Thank you for letting me know what worries you.”

Butterbur looked both embarrassed and proud at Halbarad’s words, then looked around. “Well, I’d better get back to work. Nob wants me, so enjoy your beers, and we’ll talk again in the morning.”

~*~

“What is it, Nob?” Butterbur asked a flustered-looking Nob. who had been trying to catch his attention from the entrance to the common room.

“Elves have come, Sir!”

“And they want a room? How many are they? Did Bob stable their horses yet? They do have horses, yes?” Breathe, Barley! he told himself sternly. They’re not the first Elves in Bree. “Well, Nob, tell me!”

“If I can get a word in I will! Three Elves and three horses. Yes, Bob is taking care of the horses. And they want to stay one night and travel on tomorrow.”

“Is the Green Room clean?” Butterbur asked in return. “That’s big enough. Or do they want their own rooms each?” Were Elves willing to share rooms when travelling? Most Dwarves did share, but not all of them, so who knew what Elves would do? Elves. Elves in my inn… what is the world coming to?

~*~

Halbarad finished his second pint and yawned. “I’m turning in. Don’t get in any fights, and don’t wake me when you come into the room.”

“Yes mother.” Gelmir grinned as Halbarad gave him a fake scowl.

In the hall outside the common room, Butterbur stood talking with someo-

“Master Elrond!”

“Halbarad,” the other replied. “Well met.”

“You know each other?” Butterbur asked.

“Indeed so, Master Innkeeper,” replied Elrond.

“Well, I am at your service, sir. Did I mention to ring the bell if you are wanting for anything?”

“Yes, you did,” Elrond said. “And I thank you in advance for your good care, Mr Butterbur. I will ring the bell if there is anything we need.”

“As I said just then, the parlour where your supper will be served is right down this hall. Just follow Nob.”

“But what brings YOU here,” both Elrond and Halbarad started to say as the innkeeper left them in the hallway with Nob.

“I’m on my way back from Lake Nenuial where I tended some of the wounded from the Havens.” Elrond’s expression was sombre.

Halbarad had heard descriptions of the horrible wounds many survivors had suffered when he was at Fornost. Yet, Master Elrond could not have been at Nenuial for much more than a week, considering the journey from Rivendell. “Hopefully, you were able to help them while you were there.”

“As much as could be done,” Elrond said gravely. “But I must thank you for the healers who came from Fornost and the food and healing supplies they brought.”

“I wish the Rangers could have done more,” Halbarad said.

Elrond shook his head. “Your men at Tharbad tried, but even my son on an Elvish horse could not outrace the Corsairs. The Rangers could have done no more.”

Halbarad did not reply. His sending Elrohir to Tharbad had still been a sore point with Elrond the last time they talked about it.

Elrond sighed. “Halbarad, I owe you an apology. When we talked in Imladris, I spoke as a father, not a captain, or even as a healer.”

“Thank you.” I wonder where he is now, but I can hardly ask. It would undo-.  

Elrond gave him a shrewd look. “I’m returning to Imladris so soon because Elrohir has returned there.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Halbarad replied.

Elrond simply nodded, then asked, “But what takes you halfway across Eriador this late in the year?”

“Gathering news. We've just come from Fornost, and will be going to Tharbad next.”

“Of course,” Elrond replied, “the work on the river crossing?”

“That, and catching any news from Rohan and further away that hasn’t made it to Caras Dirnen yet. And it seems there’ll be more to do in Bree and the Shire.”

“Bilbo has told me what he heard,” Elrond replied, “But let us not keep our good Nob here waiting. We can talk further while we eat.”

“I have already eaten, but I will gladly join you,” Halbarad replied.

~*~

When they entered the parlour, Halbarad greeted Elrond’s companions, who were both well known to him. Hithaeron and his archers had fought beside the Rangers against the ruffians who had besieged Bree earlier in the year. The other Elf, Alagos, was one of Hithaeron's company.

Halbarad had not thought he would be hungry again, but the smells of hot soup and freshly baked bread immediately set his stomach rumbling.

Elrond handed him a plate and cutlery. “Nob is a proper hobbit. He set out enough of everything for all of us,” he said with a smile.

Halbarad looked at the table laden with food and could only agree. Butterbur had been generous. Along with the soup and bread, there was apple pie, fresh cream, several kinds of cheese, sliced cold meats, a potato salad, and oranges for all of them.

“Wine?” Elrond asked as he poured for the Elves. “Although I am certain Nob will be happy to bring some beer if you prefer.”

“Wine will do,” Halbarad said, meeting the amused glint in Master Elrond’s eyes with a quick grin.

“I daresay it will,” Elrond replied as he took a sip. “It is Dorwinion, and an excellent vintage too.”

“Dorwinion?” Hithaeron said. “Then there will be no more for a long time, and we’d best enjoy it.”

“Indeed,” Elrond said, his face sombre again. With the reminder of their situation, they were silent while they ate. When they were done, Elrond poured them more wine and rang the bell for Nob to take away the dishes.

“I’m surprised the Hobbit managed to serve the meal without dropping anything; he was staring so much,” Alagos said as soon as the door had closed behind Nob. “But at least the food was decent, plain though it was.”

Decent for Mannish food, he means. Halbarad did not speak, but Hithaeron had no such restraint.

“No need to look down on the Bree-land or any of its people,” the archer captain said. “They have been here for much of the Age, perhaps longer. They are as much a part of their land as any Elves, even if their lives don’t reach beyond its borders. It’s true that they could be more openminded, though,” he added, looking at Halbarad. “I remember their suspicions after we broke the ruffians’ siege.”

“The Rangers have hidden who they were for a long time,” Elrond said.

“So we have,” Halbarad responded. Aragorn would not believe me if I could tell him how Butterbur sat down to talk with me in the common room as he did. Nor would I have believed it myself a year ago. He sighed and briefly looked away at the searching look Elrond gave him. “If anything, I’m surprised by how quickly the Bree-landers have cast off their old ideas since the siege.”

He stifled a sudden yawn, then went on, “And we will need to change minds in the Shire as well.” We will need any who will stand with us. I would even bring in any Dunlendings who can be convinced that their best interest is not on the side of the Orcs.  

“Depending on what news from the south you hear in Tharbad, we should take counsel together when you return,” Elrond said.

“I will come to Rivendell as soon as I can when I return,” Halbarad replied.

~*~

Butterbur was busy tallying the previous day’s takings when the bell at the counter was rung. When he came through, one of the Elves was standing there.

“We are ready to depart, and would like to settle our bill,” he said.

“Of course,” Butterbur replied. “Just a moment while I write everything down… I trust you stay was pleasant?”

“It was,” the Elf replied as he took the bill and placed the money on the counter. “We would be glad to stay here if we come this way again.”

~

The Rangers had already left some time before, down the Greenway. And now, in the courtyard, the Elves mounted their horses and rode off. From what they had told Butterbur, they were going home, all the way down the East Road to the mountains.

What happens now? We were holding out against those ruffians, but it took Rangers and Elves to defeat them. And with all that they’re not saying, what happens next? More Southrons sailing up the coast? An army up the Greenway? If the Elves couldn’t stop them, how can we hold out?

Chapter Text

November 9-10, 3019

“Frána, Bryni, what news have you?” Éowyn called the messengers by name as she rushed back into the hall.

“The van of the enemy’s army… they took the river crossing two days ago,” Frána replied, as both men gave her a quick bow.

Bryni went on. “My Lady, we lost thirty men and horses. Herulf tried to retreat in some order, but the men were scattered by the enemy’s Warg riders.”

“How large is the enemy army?” Éowyn asked at the same time that Wigmund asked whether Herulf might retake the crossing.

“Retake the crossing?” Bryni did not quite roll his eyes in response to Wigmund before he answered Éowyn. “Even if Herulf is still alive, the enemy is fortifying their position, and there are about three hundred in the van. The men are ahorse, and the Orcs ride Wargs.”

“Have a chamber made ready for the council to meet in half an hour,” Éowyn ordered Merry. “Frána, Bryni, you will join us there!” The delay would let her rest for a few minutes, but, alas, it would not stop rumours flying around Edoras – bad enough that the initial message was spoken in the hall, no need to make it worse.

~*~

Merry closed the door of the council chamber once Éowyn’s councillors had entered and took up his place next to Éowyn’s chair.

“Three hundred in the van?” Folcwine asked as soon as he sat down. “Then we can retake the Entwade crossing, even if they’re digging in.”

“Perhaps,” Éowyn replied. “We must know first what we will face. Frána, Bryni, what of the rest of their army?”

“There are two parts,” Frána replied. “The first part is about the size of the van. They are close behind and may arrive at Entwade within the day. The latest we know about the greater part, perhaps three or four thousand, is that they were still trying to cross the Great River, where they face Ents and Elves out of Dwimordene. But our news is a week or more old, and now our scouts in the East Emnet are cut off.”

“If we want to retake the Entwade before the main army arrives, we must make haste,” Sighere said. “There’s no point in sending for Erkenbrand now. Our enemies will get here well before him.”

Wigmund spoke next. “We should fall back to Dunharrow, give up the crossing.”

“The people must retreat to Dunharrow,” Éowyn said, “but Erkenbrand must still know what is happening.”

“The Riders should also go,” Déorlaf said abruptly. “We can’t stop that army with the men at Edoras, and we can ill afford to lose three hundred, as we will if you send them out so outnumbered. We should have kept those Elvish archers here, not let them go with Erkenbrand!”

“I will risk no lives needlessly, but unless we delay the enemy at the crossing, the people won’t make it to Dunharrow in safety,” Éowyn added. “Those three hundred must ride in the morning.” Now Déorlaf appreciates the Elves!

“I’d rather retake the crossing, not just delay the enemy, but you should leave with the people of the town, my lady,” Sighere said.

“I will stay until the last,” Éowyn replied. She looked around. “Master Meriadoc! Ah, there you are! Have messengers ready for Erkenbrand. Even if he cannot send aid, he must know what is going on. And scouts for Entwade.”

“No need for new scouts,” Bryni spoke before Merry could answer. “Frána and I will go back.”

~*~

“Lady, you should take some rest. Exhausting yourself standing around dressed as a Rider will do no one any good.” Hild.

“There is too much to do. I have no time for rest,” Éowyn replied. “Everyone must be ready to ride when we leave Edoras.”

“That may be so, but none of it will be done by pretending you are in any state to fight.”

I am. I have to be, Éowyn thought. Does not need rule can? “I can ride and wield a blade well enough to guard those leaving for Dunharrow.”

Hild sighed. “Yet you should still rest.”

“But…” Éowyn started.

“But what, my lady?” Hild snorted. “What would you do? Carry sacks of grain to load the wains?”

“I would if I could,” Éowyn snapped. Better to do anything than just telling others what to do. “I will rest if I start feeling tired. But you should get ready to leave– I want you in the first group leaving Edoras.”

“But…” Hild started.

“I can load no wains, but neither can you,” Éowyn replied sharply. In truth, I can use Hild here, but sending her away is the least I can do for her and for Merry. “You should go early.”

As soon as Hild had left, Éowyn sat down on a bench in a corner of the Hall. She rested her head in her hands for a moment as she felt herself nodding off.

When Éowyn woke up, she remembered dreaming, but not what, only that it had involved her brother and her uncle. What would they have made of me now? But dreams are not real. Now, I must be King and Marshall both, even if it will not be the weight of my sword hand that will decide today’s battle. Though I have little hope for Edoras, if Dunharrow can hold until Erkenbrand comes, there may be some hope for the Mark. For a while.  She shook off the remnant of the dream and walked over to the throne. I can’t have slept very long. It’s still dark, yet by all the noise the whole town is awake …  

“Master Meriadoc, there you are! I need you to run errands. You can begin by finding those of my councillors who aren’t leaving.”

“But Hild, … I thought we would go with one of the first groups,” Merry protested weakly.

“She is,” Éowyn replied, then adding at her squire’s distressed look. “You won’t be that far behind her when we too leave Edoras. We’ll all be gone before noon.” She watched Merry rush off again. I’ll send him to Dunharrow sooner if I can. Until then, he can run errands, and free someone else to load wains or ride guard for one of the groups leaving.

~*~

Hild was ahorse when Merry arrived at the gates of Edoras. There were about twenty people on horseback and five wains in the first group to leave for Dunharrow waiting to go.

“I won’t dismount again,” she said brusquely. “It was enough work to get up here.”

“Are you sure you’d not rather ride in one of the wains?”

“Very sure. Bouncing along over every bump in the road? I’d rather not. And don’t look so worried. It’ll be no more than a day until we see each other again.”

“I suppose, but I can’t–“

“You can. Besides, someone has to look after our lady until she comes to Dunharrow.”

Merry managed a smile. “That, I will do. We’ll join you in Dunharrow within the day, and you’ll barely have time to miss me.”

“I’ll hold you to that. Do not delay.” Hild nudged her horse as the rider at the front of their group called out and raised a staff as a signal. She turned in the saddle once to wave at Merry and he raised his hand in return.

As soon as Hild was out of sight, Merry turned and trudged back up the road to Meduseld, keeping to the side to avoid people rushing up and down the hill.

I wish to be gone from here right now. But the Queen will stay to the last, and I will stay as long as she does.  

~*~

Frána! Why is he back again already?

Éowyn rushed from the dais to meet the Rider halfway down the Hall.

“My lady, the enemy will be at Edoras within the hour.” Frána was gasping for breath, his eyes wild. “Last night, we rode towards Entwade. After around ten leagues… – we ran into the first of the van.” He took another deep breath. “It was too dark to see much, and the densest shadow was around the riders we saw on the road. I should have gone closer to count their number, but it was as if…” He shivered and shook his head. “Then the Wargs with their outriders caught our scent and we were pursued.”

“Only the van?” Éowyn asked.

“I don’t know,” Frána replied, seeming calmer now. “But if the main army, even just the first part, is with them, I don’t know how we can stop them.”

“We will,” Éowyn said. I have to believe it, or… “And Bryni?”

“I-he fell behind. I don’t know.”

Éowyn looked for her squire, then called the doorward over instead. “Leofric! Find messengers. All Riders must gather at the gates ready for battle with the enemy van. And send out scouts immediately. Keep thirty men for the wains going to Dunharrow, and have everyone who is ready leave now! No waiting.” It won’t be enough. Yet it has to be.  

~*~

Merry had not felt as overwhelmed by how big horses were for a long time. I feel so useless cowering here and hoping I won’t be stepped on!

“Master Hobbit! You shouldn’t be down here now. Come up to the top of the wall with me.”

Merry looked up. “Frána! We’ll be in the way. Let’s wait until the Riders have gone, then we can go up.” Archers and other defenders manned the wall, with the Riders waiting for the gates to open. He wondered that Frána was not with them until he noticed the bandage on the Man’s arm.

“You’re right, of course.” Frána shrugged, then winced. “I’ll wait here with you. I’d rather be on a horse, but I’m of little use with my arm like this.”

Earlier, Merry had gone back to fetch his blade that he had carried almost from the beginning of the Quest. It now hung on his belt alongside the short sword of Rohan Éowyn had given him. As he touched the Barrow blade, he remembered Bombadil’s rescue of them from that darkness and hope touched his heart. There has to be sunlight again, even after the darkest night. Wasn’t that in one of the old stories of the First Age we heard in Rivendell? Oh, I should have stayed in the hall, I’m no use here! Or if I’d thought, I’d have found a child’s bow somewhere instead of this old knife, even if Tom Bombadil gave it to me. I would at least be of use on the wall. And I still have that letter for Pippin with me. I should have put that back until I have a chance to finish it.

I hope it won’t rain. He huddled into his cloak and asked himself again why he brought either sword. It is hardly as if I’m about to be spirited off to ride to Gondor – and I did little enough there. Not that it would have made a difference. Then, the Rohirrim had been filled with hope amid the fear that they would be too late.

In the end, the doomsayers were right, and we rode not just to the doom of Minas Tirith, but to our own as well. They had failed to break the siege of the city, both Théoden King and Éomer King had fallen there, and many Riders with them. And now, the doom of Rohan itself had truly become inevitable. At least Hild will be safe at Dunharrow. For a while. And anyone who can shoot a bow, tip over a kettle of boiling oil or throw stones is up there on the walls, and those I’m fairly good at.

~*~

A long line of Men headed for Edoras, with Warg-riding Orcs along the flanks. In the dim light, Éowyn sought their ranks, looking for she knew not what. What am I overlooking? Why are they advancing now instead of waiting for their main force? They know we can’t retake the ford.

In the hall, she had dismissed the wild fear that had gripped Frána when he spoke of the van. It’s easy to be spooked by the unknown. It may have been no more than Wargs in the dark and the loss of his friend. Yet always fear is our enemy’s weapon. Yet the Rider was not one to be taken by fancies, and she now wondered what he had seen or felt, just as she acknowledged the ball of fear clenching up her stomach as she watched the relentless line of Men and Orcs approaching.

Should we have left yesterday? Was Déorlaf right after all, even if he almost seemed cheerful describing our doom? Éowyn wondered. Now, even if we beat back this attack, all we gain is a clear road to flee to Dunharrow before the main army arrives. But at Dunharrow we can hold out long enough for Erkenbrand to come to our aid.

Éowyn bit her lip in frustration as she turned to watch the Riders below. We have to hold. They’re all doing what they can, and I suppose I am as well, even if my part is to merely stand here. Even Déorlaf is out on the wall with the archers.

Below, the bars were lifted and the gates swung open. Sighere, who was leading the charge, looked up and nodded as Éowyn raised her hand.

~*~

The Riders raced out of the gates, the stillness of waiting released in sudden movement.

“We should go up now,” Frána said as soon as all had gone.

“Just a moment.” Merry stood up on tiptoes to see out. They’ll close the gates again soon. He could just see the Riders, spears at the ready, the horses standing in a loose line. What are they waiting for?

“Let’s go up,” Frána repeated. “We’ll have a much better view from the wall.”

~*~

A horn blast, and the horses sprang forward.

The enemy line is breaking. Even the Wargs cannot stop the Riders.

Riders rode through the gaps and turned around to engage the line. They hemmed in the Warg-riding Orcs and quickly dispatched them with long spears.

I wish I was down there! I feel as useless standing up here like a living banner as sitting in Meduseld’s hall. At least I don’t have to wait for news here, but-- what is that?

Wild hope surged through Éowyn for a moment as the enemy line parted in a rush. Have Erkenbrand or the Elves arrived with reinforcements?

A rider appeared from the middle of the split line, slowly moving towards the walls. Éowyn wished she had her cloak with her at the sudden cold draft that gripped her.

Below, the Riders’ attack faltered, some men halting and watching the newcomer. Others still pressed on to charge the now open line of attackers. Yet, these soon found themselves surrounded and overwhelmed.

The rider was at least a furlong away still when someone cried out. “Fall back! Fall back! Dwimmerlaik!”

Éowyn drew in a sharp breath. Of course, that is what it is. One had flown over Edoras earlier in the year, perhaps towards Isengard, but she had not seen it. Those who had, spoke of a great beast high in the air, and of their fear as it flew by. Then they would say no more, as if the memory was still painful to them.

Now, there was no flying beast, and from a distance the dwimmerlaik looked like any man on horseback. And yet it… Éowyn tried to move – to run or to … to what? – but she felt frozen in place. I should look away, maybe then I can move. She wondered what horse would bear such a rider, and then she at last could turn away and start down the stairs.

All around her, others also ran – or stumbled – down the stairs, their weapons forgotten and left on the walkway or fallen to the ground. Outside the wall, horses screamed in fear.

Éowyn staggered blindly down the last few steps. She gasped for air against the fear that squeezed her throat again. The cold...

The gates! The gates are unguarded! She tried to shout and raise the alarm, but her voice fell flat in the still air.

~*~

“The gates!” Is that Éowyn? Merry did not yet dare open his eyes to see for himself. It feels like…like back in Bree. Like drowning in icy water. No, not water …. but a dwimmerlaik, a Nazgûl, here?

“Frána, what is going on?” Merry shivered as he spoke. The cold!

There was no reply. Merry looked for his friend.

Frána crouched nearby, his hands over his head.

Queen’s man! Queen’s man! It rang in Merry’s head. He squeezed his eyes shut again to try to stem his fear. An oath you swore to follow her.

Outside the gate, a cold voice spoke as Merry made himself crawl out into the open.

~*~

“Wouldst thou bar me from entering, wretch?”

“I will.”

At the last, the dwimmerlaik dismounted and walked towards the gate. He stopped opposite her, some steps back. A crown of steel he bore, but between rim and robe there was naught to be seen, save only a deadly gleam of eyes. 

Éowyn’s blood ran cold. So many lie dead, men and horses both. Is this how it ends? Edoras taken, its defenders slain, the Golden Hall in flames? Yet I am Queen, and the city is still mine to hold. She clenched her hands to stop them from trembling. Is this then what duty is? To defend what is mine, even when there is no hope?

She drew her sword. Not that it will do me much good against that mace.

“Thou fool. No living man may hinder me!” The dwimmerlaik stepped forward.

~*~

Then Merry heard the strangest sound. It seemed that Éowyn laughed, and her clear voice was like the ring of steel. “But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Éowyn I am, Éomund’s daughter, Queen of the Mark. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you seek to enter here.”

The Wraith did not answer.

Why is he waiting? Merry was so surprised that he forgot his fear for a moment and opened his eyes. Only a few steps away from him, a dark shadow loomed over both him and Éowyn.

Éowyn’s hair gleamed like gold in the early morning light, perhaps even the brighter for the darkness. She had a sword in her hand and her shield was raised against the gaze of the Nazgûl.

Merry clenched his hands. She should not die here, not alone, unaided. But what can I do to help against, against that! He hardly dared move for fear that he might draw the Wraith’s deadly gaze to him, yet slowly, he crawled aside.

I’m no more than a worm to him. All he sees is Éowyn! What was it? Merry wondered. What she said? When he said no living man might hinder him?

The Nazgûl drew himself to his full height and, with a cry that drove all thought from Merry’s head, he brought his mace down on Éowyn’s shield. Éowyn cried out as she was driven to her knees, her shield shattered. Within the darkness, Merry saw the mace rise again.

Yet it did not strike its target.

The Wraith stumbled forward with a shriek of rage and pain, the mace dropping to the ground.

Merry had stabbed him with the Barrow blade, slashing through the black mantle and cutting the sinew behind his knee.

~*~

“Éowyn! Éowyn!” Merry cried out.

As the Wraith stumbled before her, she struggled to rise and drove her sword in the space between crown and mantle.

The blade shattered, but the mighty crown fell and rolled away.

Éowyn fell forward upon her foe, but mantle and hauberk lay on the ground shapeless and empty. A shrill cry rose in the air, fading into the wind.

~*~

My hand! Merry’s right hand had gone numb as soon as the Barrow blade had pierced the Witchking’s unseen flesh. I can barely feel it. But… “Éowyn!” he cried out and rushed over to where she lay on the ground. So cold. He knelt down by her side, feeling worse than useless.

“Merry!” Frána called him. “Are you all right?”

“I… I don’t know,” he admitted. “I can’t feel my hand, and… is it dark again already?” The light was so dim he felt as if he was looking through blackened glass, but surely it was still morning? “But, Éowyn, the Queen – go find help for her!”

“Stay with her!” Frána sounded rushed.  

Merry’s sight grew even darker as a horn sounded nearby. The signal to gather and hold, he recognised.

~*~

Éowyn found herself in a grey fog. Dark swirls moved sluggishly. Moving... falling? A cry. Real, or only in her head? Slowly fading, yet when she listened for it, it was still there. Now she knew what the movement was at least: she was being carried on a litter. It still feels like falling.

All sounds were muted, except that cry that cut through all else. Is it real? Is any of this real? Is it a trick of the Enemy?

People talking nearby. Not the harsh growls of Orcs, or the beastlike speech of Dunlendings. Then, Edoras still stands? But she could not speak.

“Éowyn! Éowyn!”

Was someone calling her name? Or was it that horrible cry, still going on, that she heard? She wanted to put her hands over her ears to stop it, but she could barely feel either.

~*~

Merry followed the men carrying Éowyn through the gate into Edoras. Behind him, the Riders were gathering to defend the gate. Someone yelled to press ahead, the enemy was falling back. Was the Wraith their commander, or what is – then, when he looked around, he found himself entirely alone on the road up to the Golden Hall. Slowly, he walked on, until he found a low bench to sit down and rest for a moment.  

Someone was shaking him. “Master Hobbit! Merry!”

It was hard to focus through the shadows clouding his vision, but the blur Merry saw at first slowly resolved into Frana’s worried face. “Are you going to bury me?” he asked.

“No, indeed!” said Frána. “I’m taking you to the healers.”

*

Where am I? Merry was walking towards the dais and the throne, but if this was Meduseld’s hall, it looked as if an Age had passed and all he knew was gone. The throne was outlined in a strange grey light, and tendrils of fog drifted into view. It’s like the light of the moon but without colour. He could not see who sat upon the throne, and when he spoke it was as if the other did not hear. Of course, he thought. I’ve been no use at all. I couldn’t help Frodo, I couldn’t help Pippin, Boromir died because he tried to protect us both. Strider died. I can’t even protect Hild! Why did I think I could have done any good on the wall, or…. or live up to my oath to stand with Éowyn. Where is she, anyway? That isn’t her on the throne. I should look elsewhere! He turned away, towards where the doors should be. Éowyn! Éowyn!

~*~

Éowyn wandered through grey hills of ashes. Where am I? The hill in front of her looked like Meduseld, but there were no houses, and the Golden Hall was gone. Nearer to where the walls should have stood, she saw many dead men and horses, their bodies burned and covered in a layer of ash.

And now, Edoras will be overrun, and we’ll all die. Those that left will live a while longer, until the enemy’s army finds them. Her vision started to blur as she tried to remember what had happened. The gates were open and … the Wraith…

The fog grew even thicker. Somewhere, someone was calling her name. “Éowyn! Éowyn!” Who was it? Who are left alive? I ordered them all to ride to their deaths, and for what? I am only Queen because my uncle and my brother died. All I did at Minas Tirith was to run back home with the survivors. And now I can’t even protect my home…  but…the mists… Éowyn shook her head to try to clear it. The voice that called her name - It is as if… Éomer, is that you? Slowly, the memory of her brother’s face emerged from the mists.

You failed! You are unworthy to take a place beside our ancestors!

She flinched, then replied in a flare of anger. You failed also! You didn’t even make it off the battlefield as King!

Chapter Text

November 10-11, 3019

The lake is a dark mirror, perfectly reflecting tall pine trees and a hard blue sky. When he looks straight up, that sky is framed between high branches. Old needles carpet the ground among the ferns that grow among the trees. Close by, along the brook that feeds the lake, a waterfall, but in the thick air even its babble is muted, softened. The air is still, warm, peaceful - sleepy, rather than stifling. He breathes in the sharp scent of the trees and the musty, earthy smell of the undergrowth.

A narrow path runs into the distance towards the Halls of Lady Nienna. This lake is not hers and its stillness touches the heart differently than her quiet halls of shadows and sighs. Yet, and this he gladly acknowledges as he has partaken of both, Irmo’s and Nienna’s domains both nourish those who seek healing, within dream or within death.

Now, though, he feels a disruption, an abrupt sense of—he knows not quite what, except that it intrudes along the path of dreams that he walks now. A wordless cry, too distant to hear more clearly.

=~*~=

Well before Gandalf opened his eyes, he had lost the last remnant of his dream to the stench of the Dead Marshes. Only a cry overheard, the memory of peace lost and a lingering sense that something was wrong remained. As if I don’t know that already. Nothing in Middle-earth can be right while Sauron holds the One – but, that cry… I’d have thought it was one of the Nazgûl, though it brought no fear with it.   

Even on the edge of the marshes, their smell was overwhelming. It’s said you get used to smells. I wonder how long that takes? This stinks as badly now as when I first came down from the Emyn Muil. At least no one will come here if they can help it, and the foul mists over the Marshes help hide my presence if they do. But the Eye still watches, and these earthly vapours will not hide me long if he thinks to look here. Is that why I feel so ill at ease? But no! Had Sauron found him, he would know.

The terrain ahead was as bleak as the Marshes and nearly as soggy. Further south lay the fens of the Wetwang. Ahead, the bleak moorland of the Noman-lands running towards the Ephel Dúath, and beyond the mountains, Mordor.

I’ll have to decide how to go on soon. The Morannon is guarded too well. The Ephel Dúath are near impassable until one reaches the Morgul Vale. That too will be guarded well, but my only hope is trying to slip through the pass into Mordor. Ithilien it is then. I have lost too much time already in the Emyn Muil.

He was still irritated over the time he had lost clambering over those jagged rocks. It should have been easier to find a way down. He had wanted to head south after crossing Nen Hithoel, but somehow he had gone north instead, ending up in the Dead Marshes. Now at last he was back on his original course, or near enough.

=~*~=

That night, he dreams he is sitting on Amon Hen and he wonders what he would have seen had he sought a vision there. Perhaps the path I should have taken. Or some far-away disaster beyond my reach to avert. He shakes his head, and casts his thoughts into the night. He dares not look East  – I might as well set off fireworks to announce my presence, even in a dream. Dol Guldur is veiled, and he cannot see beyond to Thranduil’s realm. He does not want to draw Galadriel’s attention by looking at Lothlórien. South, he shies away from Minas Morgul, and to the west of Anduin, he cannot see beyond Minas Tirith. Even before I returned I should have been able to see Pelargir. Am I so weakened then by not using Narya, or can I not look beyond where the Enemy holds sway? Perhaps west, and Rohan. If they fall, the North is next. How long will Eriador, the Shire, stand? They are safe while Rohan holds out. Would I not be able to do more good there? He sighs. No, my aid is no longer wanted, even if it were needed, and I shouldn’t force anyone to take my help. With that thought, he looks towards Edoras. A dark fog lies over much of the land, but the town itself can be seen. It looks empty. No smoke rises from chimneys, no light escapes from any window. The scene has a clarity as if he is watching by the light of the full moon. At first, there are no people, but then he sees light behind a window. He wills to see what is behind it, and is granted a glimpse of a woman he recognises as Éowyn, palely lying in a bed, seeming asleep. He feels himself drawn away again, just as someone speaks in the room. “…the dwimmerlaik…” is all he hears before he is looking at Amon Hen again. 

The next few nights, he attempts to dream himself back to Amon Hen, but his road is blocked by black-thorned bushes that entangle him at every step. When he gives in and follows the path of dreams where it will take him, he finds himself wandering along the lush eastern coast of Aman, far to the south where few, either of the Ainur or of the Children, come. Not even Oromë has been here to hunt for many long years, and animals barely even look up when he walks by. Far away he still faintly hears someone calling what sounds like a name.

=~*~=

During the days, as in his dreams, he drifted along, though he still aimed for the mountains in the East. He kept wondering at the vision on Amon Hen. Did I only a dream a vision, or did I see true? Then what did it mean? Did Éowyn face a Nazgul? He remembered the cry he had heard before. If she did, and if she defeated it or even just drove it off, then that is a sign of hope. He snorted at that thought. Hope, or as much of it as we can expect. Yet, if true, it means the Enemy is still not unassailable, and my task may not be doomed.

He halted at the top of a slope, leaning on his staff. An old Gondorian road ran far below, between brown, dry grass, and sparse trees with winter-bare branches that bent away from the cold northern winds. Only the road distinguished today’s terrain from that of the last few days. It matters not whether this is Ithilien or still the Noman-lands. Any chance I have of getting into Mordor lies south, the road Frodo must have wanted to take. And whichever road I take, there is little chance of remaining unseen. I am no Ranger, and even Aragorn himself could not- He shook his head. What would he say if he saw me now? And if I do reach my goal and get into Mordor unseen? Get to Barad-dûr, find Frodo and free him from his imprisonment? Even in Sauron’s old stronghold at Dol Guldur, luck was with me to not only get in, but also come out again. The Dark Tower will be worse. Ulmo’s choice was to go home or to remain here in Middle-earth and become again who I was. I chose the harder path, but am I still on it? I stayed to find redemption, to reject the temptation of wielding power for its own sake. But if I reject power, what good can I do against Sauron? Or is that even what is asked of me? Even now I feel the Eye searching – not for me, not yet, but for any threat.

He shook his head again. I did not promise Bilbo I would try to rescue Frodo. A foolish promise it would have been, and thus there is no oath that binds me on that path. Perhaps that is what my choice means, then: to not abandon those who followed me, rather than attempt to fight the Enemy directly. And perhaps, if I was wrong to leave Aragorn behind, to atone for that.

He walked on for a few more miles until he found an old path by a hill. Bare trees provided little cover. There should be shelter nearby, enough to rest overnight. Ah yes, down the paths there!

No! Orcs camped here.

Yet another befouled spring, trees hewn and torn down, the ground dug up and every growing thing slashed at and ripped out. This troop has moved on, but there are always more. At least they are easy to avoid when I pay attention.

The day before, he had almost walked into the middle of one band, despite the noise they made. Thinking too much, instead of minding what’s around me. I should know better. I do know better. I’ll have to find another place to rest, and hope to find unfouled water. I have food enough, but I never thought I’d run low on water within Ithilien.  

When he at last found a trickle of water that ran clean, Gandalf thanked Ulmo for the gift of clean water before he drank his fill and sat down to eat. Even within the fouling of Ithilien, the Lord of Waters has not yet abandoned Middle-earth.

The previous week had been a constant dodging of Orcs troops large and small moving north, and he had not found any of the hidden strong places that he knew the Rangers of Ithilien had once held in this land. Not far to the Crossroads, another day perhaps. I have lembas for a week or two on short rations. That will get me into Mordor, and well on my way towards Barad-dûr. And then what? By any measure, trying to rescue Frodo is hopeless, yet there remains ever a rift in the armour of Fate, until the full-making and the Last Battle.

If he dreamt that night, he did not remember it.

=~*~=

Soon, the road will enter the Morgul Vale, and I can no longer hope to find clean water. Gandalf went down the side of the road to where a narrow brook ran clean between rocks. As he filled his water bottle, he wondered what to do about Narya. It had been quiet for some time now, no longer at the  forefront of his thoughts. Círdan meant well when he gave it to me, and for a long time I used it well. Over-proud I was to not put it away immediately when I knew the One was in Sauron’s hand once more. Yet what to do now? I know not to use it, certainly not where I’m going now, but whether to leave it behind for anyone to find, or to take it with me and risk it falling into the hands of the Enemy… The Three are linked, more than the Rings Sauron crafted, and if he gains one of them, I know not what would come of it. Gandalf sighed. And I doubt even their maker could answer that question. I will take it with me, and hope no ill will come of it.   

~~

Ahead, the Morgul Vale looked empty.  Its armies are busy elsewhere. For once, the ill luck of others is my good luck. Not that the road is entirely unguarded, but unless I go north and east the long way around the mountains, there are few other paths.

Gandalf walked on until he came to a bridge. To his eyes, the road gleamed faintly as it ran towards Minas Morgul itself. Icy vapours rose from the water and carven figures guarded the bridge’s head, their watchful eyes on the road.  

He retreated from the river and sat down on the low wall that ran alongside the road. I cannot cross this bridge unseen, but there should be another path, a secret one, high over the mountains. Few know of it, though Minas Tirith’s library has maps from Minas Ithil’s days. Cirith Dúath it was called then, soon renamed to Cirith Ungol. He shook his head. A name of terror, and not to be taken lightly, but if, as I deem, it is guarded by one or more spiders out of Mirkwood, it should not be beyond my strength. And beyond the pass, an Orc tower guarding its exit. Dangerous, but not impossible.

Gandalf turned and gazed back into the murk along the road. The pass lies north of Minas Morgul, so the path that leads to it may be nearby. Ah yes, there! Another stroke of luck! He quickly stepped across a gap in the wall onto a trail that led away from the road and up the mountain. After a short time, the trail gave way to a steep and narrow stair hewn into the rock.

~~

The air grew unexpectedly musty as he climbed up further. The path was not as hard as it had been lower down, but in the thick air he had to stop and catch his breath. Sometime during his climb night had fallen, and he could just about make out a long ravine between high rocks that towered over his road like shapeless statues. Beyond, the mountain rose even further, shutting out what little light there was. The road led towards the wall of the mountain, to what seemed an entrance to a cave or a tunnel. A vile stench came from the opening.

Gandalf entered reluctantly. The stench was worse inside, the air heavy and unmoving. Yet the floor was smooth, as was the wall when he reached out for guidance. Onward then. The corridor went on for some time, straight and up. There were openings along the wall, but no air flowed in or out.

I’ll need a light in here. Yet the light from his staff showed naught beyond itself, and so the darkness only felt worse. This won’t do. He stopped and let his staff go dark.

As he reached up, something brushed against his hand and stuck briefly. A strand of spider webbing? What else would I find in Torech Ungol? But where is their lair? In Mirkwood, the spiders would have been on him the moment he entered the tunnel, unless they were led by an older, more crafty spider, willing to plan an elaborate trap.

I’ll get nowhere by standing here in the dark, whether or no there are spiders waiting.

He went on, his hand along the wall. In the dark, he soon lost any sense of time. After what seemed like hours he came to a wide opening on the left.

A dark wave of watchful malice hit him.

He stumbled, stunned and blinded, only keeping to his feet through his staff.

He must have kept going, for when he regained his senses, the sense of peril and the gaping opening in the wall were gone.  That… I’ve not felt anything like it–no Mirkwood spider–

Blindly, he continued to feel his way along the wall until he found his path blocked. He stopped and listened carefully. There were no sounds of pursuit behind him. But what if the road stops here? He felt along the rocks that blocked the path. They were uneven, broken, also covered in old cobwebs. An old rockfall? Perhaps there remains an opening. No opening revealed itself in the wall of rocks, but to the side another corridor branched off. It was not as smooth as the path behind him, and the air was as stifling ahead as behind.

This has to be the way through, even if it’s only used by Orcs and whatever has its lair in here. He allowed himself a short rest and a swig of water. But if Orcs made or maintain these passages… He slowly half-drew Glamdring. The faintest hint of blue showed along the blade’s edges. Not near, but enough to help me stay on the right path. I doubt that Glamdring’s maker ever thought it would be used as a compass to find Orcs.

Just as he started to resheathe the blade, there was a long venomous hiss behind him. He whirled around, his staff flaring into brightness, Glamdring in his other hand.

Two clusters of spiderlike eyes became visible, still at some distance, and then dimmed again as the darkness he had felt before nearly overwhelmed the light of his staff.

Not just darkness. Unlight. Child of ancient foe, I know you now. I serve the Secret Fire, and you shall not prevail against it.

Slowly, his staff brightened, and the glittering eyes lit up again in its shine. The spider had used the darkness to creep up closer, but as Gandalf advanced towards it, the beast withdrew until its eyes were barely visible.

Raising both Glamdring and his staff before him, Gandalf kept going forward. The eyes kept backing away, even as they reflected the light of his staff. Behind those eyes, the bulk of the beast’s body remained a hidden menace, sensed rather than seen.

There was a rustling in the dark ahead of him, and Gandalf knew by the lifting of his feeling of dread that the spider had gone into the corridor he had passed earlier, that had to be its lair.

Gandalf retreated to where he had been heading before, going as far as the blocked passage before stopping again. He listened carefully, trying to also feel the spider’s presence.

Gone! He breathed a sigh of relief. For now.

As certain as he was that the spider had gone back to its lair, he still imagined unseen dangers in the darkness, lurking just beyond the edge of his senses, ready to pounce.

Now for it! Before my imagination overwhelms me!

His footsteps as he ran down the righthand corridor sounded as loud as Dwarf hammers, yet at the same time the sound fell away immediately, dampened by the threads and tendrils of spiderweb he kept brushing against. The light from his staff shone brighter than before, perhaps another sign that the spider had indeed retreated into its lair, yet it too faded away no more than a foot or two from him. The corridor now headed steeply up, and he felt the faintest of breezes

At the end, though, the path was wholly blocked by thick layers of webbing. Within, cocoons of many sizes were woven tightly into the webs. If this spider was indeed like its kin in Mirkwood, those would be catches put aside for later. I guess I’d make a nice change from Orc …. Behind the webs, he saw a faint, greyish light, and he let the light of his staff go out.

The pale blue light on Glamdring’s edge shone stronger now, confirming that he was closer to the pass leading into Mordor. Not far now to the exit. I only have to get through those webs. He tried to pick the threads he had picked up along the way off his clothes, but they only stuck to his hand as well as his clothes. Almost on a whim – there were terrible spiders in the passes near Gondolin, where Glamdring was made, too – he carefully struck his sword along the nearest surface of thick webbing.

As he had hoped, the threads parted easily and did not cling to the blade. He quickly cleared a passage through the web. Once through, after about ten yards, there was a wide and low opening. If I have the spider’s size right, that opening may not be large enough for it. Hope sprang in him again as he carefully stepped outside, on to a wide path.

The light was low, the sky gloomy and smoky, but after the dark passage of the mountain, it felt like bright sunshine. Gandalf took a deep breath and looked around. It looked like it was morning. The cliff over the passage he had just exited was marked with deep holes. Other passages, no doubt. Ahead lay a narrow pass, dry and rocky, lined on both sides by jagged high walls. Cirith Ungol at last! Beyond the pass lay further danger, but for now he would rejoice in reaching this milestone.

Glamdring’s brightness reminded him of the first obstacle, for the pass was guarded at its other end by a tower garrisoned by Orcs. Best sheathe the sword for now. I already know there are Orcs there, and the light would betray me.

Gandalf had not yet put Glamdring away when a sudden stench and a rock clattering away from the path alerted him to the danger that had crept up behind him. He whirled around, his staff flaring into brightness.

The spider reared back at the light.

Yet as the staff flamed like a star come to earth, its tip burst asunder, and darkness fell again. Burning splinters of wood and shards of crystal flew overhead, and from the spider’s angry hiss Gandalf guessed that some had struck the beast.

In the gloomy light of dusk, he saw that one of the spider’s clustered eyes was indeed damaged, and oozing a foul liquid.

Now press the advantage! He struck quickly and Glamdring sheared through the spider’s nearest leg. Thick black blood welled from the cut. Gandalf stepped forward again. He struck at the next closest leg, cutting it deeply. His next swing just missed the spider’s remaining eye, but the threat was enough for the beast to draw back.

Gandalf turned and ran from the spider that crouched, hissing low as if with pain, in front of the entrance to its lair. It won’t follow immediately, and once I make it to the rocks, the path will be too narrow for it. And even if it does follow, I’ll have the advantage.

A massive weight slammed into his back. Pain flooded through him as he landed on the hard ground, the impact knocking the breath from him. He attempted to get back up, but his legs did not obey him. I’ve been stung.

He was being lifted off the ground and turned over. Now wha– I’m being spun into a cocoon! He attempted to struggle again, but he could no longer even feel his arms or legs.

He was almost dropped as the spider appeared to lose its balance. Of course, it’s a leg short.

Then, a sharp pain, and the world turned black.

~~

His eyes were open, but he only saw darkness. Snarling voices around him. He was being carried. Orcs. But, … the spider… I’ve been captured by Orcs now. Did they take me from the spider? Then, perhaps I can still break free. He tried to move, but he still had no control over his body. Narya! I knew I was right not to leave it behind! Perhaps– He tried to reach for his ring with his mind. I cannot even feel if it’s there…   

Chapter Text

First, a warm Thank You to my betas, Anglachel and Julie (as well as Stella for her help with the first several chapters), whose input and encouragement have done much to make this story happen at all beyond the initial idea. My thanks also to all others who help in various ways, including Surgical Steel who has been kind enough to give advice on medical details here and there; any mistakes that are left, are therefore entirely mine.

Chapter notes:

General: Several chapters use (adapted) dialogue and description from LotR. I try to list all instances, but I'm bound to miss one or two; so, if you recognise it, it's probably not mine.

Chapter 6:
Sië terquanta ná vanda Arandurion Ondórëo. – Thus is the oath of the Stewards of Gondor fulfilled.

Chapter 11:
Some of the text in the conversation with Treebeard is quoted almost literally from LotR, bk 6, Ch.5 Many Partings

Chapter 17:
Based on the assumption that the Dúnedain, especially in Eriador, are heavily influenced by Elvish culture, I looked at the below quote from LaCE (HoME X, pg 212) for my take on Dúnedain custom in this chapter:

It was the act of bodily union that achieved marriage, and after which the indissoluble bond was complete. In happy days and times of peace it was held ungracious and contemptuous of kin to forgo the ceremonies, but it was at all times lawful for any of the Eldar, both being unwed, to marry thus of free consent one to another without ceremony or witness (save blessings exchanged and the naming of the Name); and the union so joined was alike indissoluble. In days of old, in times of trouble, in flight and exile and wandering, such marriages were often made.

Thus, while it would not be the norm, and would be seen as a breach of custom and most likely inconsiderate towards their respective families for a betrothed Dúnedain couple to “have an Elvish marriage” and not wait, I think a child from such a union would be legitimate. What Halbarad refers to in this chapter is what I’m calling a “Ranger’s betrothal”, a hasty betrothal and marriage after the woman falls pregnant; this would be a more uncertain situation, though the child would still be considered legitimate (though likely in a weaker position in disputes involving inheritance); if, however, the father is killed on patrol before even knowing about the pregnancy...

Chapter 18:
The idea that Thorongil held the rank of Captain-General of Gondor has been borrowed with permission from Anglachel’s story Hands of the King.

Chapter 20 and 24:
My thanks to Surgical Steel for her advice on Halbarad’s injury.

Chapter 21:
Elrond’s words "A great doom awaits you, either to rise above the height of all your fathers since the days of Elendil, or to fall into darkness with all that is left of your kin" are quoted from Appendix A, the Tale of Aragorn and Arwen, as is Arwen’s thought at the end of the chapter (Estel, Estel!).

Chapter 27:
My thanks to Surgical Steel for her advice on Elrohir's injury, and to Arwen Lune for her advice on horses.

Chapter 28:
The lines of poetry are taken from the Lay of Leithian (HoME III, pp. 253, 277 – 1987 Unwin paperback ed.)

Chapter 30:
Again, my thanks to Surgical Steel for advice on Elrohir’s injury and the circumstances around it.

Chapter 33:
Ulmo’s guise as the Mariner has been borrowed with permission from Anglachel’s story Hands of the King.

Chapter 37:
The geography of the Shire, specifically the names and locations of villages, is based on The Atlas of Middle-earth by Karen Wynn Fonstad.
The type of Greek Fire the Corsairs use is borrowed with permission from Anglachel’s story Hands of the King.

Chapter 38:
The letter about Isengar Took that Amrothos refers to, and Silmarien's Discourses are borrowed with permission from Anglachel's story Hands of the King.

OCs in order of appearance:

Chapter 2:
Halmir: Halbarad's elder son
Borlas: Halbarad's lieutenant in the Grey Company

Chapter 5:
Hunthor: Ranger of the Grey Company

Chapter 6:
Beleg: Ranger of the Grey Company

Chapter 7:
Belzagar: Captain of the Guard of the Tower

Chapter 9:
Herulf: Rider of Rohan, currently in charge at Dunharrow
Frána: Rider of Rohan, Herulf’s lieutenant

Chapter 10:
Folcwine: Rohirric lord, one of Éowyn’s councillors
Swithulf: Rohirric lord, one of Éowyn’s councillors

Chapter 12:
Daeron: Ranger of the North, Halbarad’s brother-in-law
Gethron: Ranger of the North

Chapter 13:
Celegir: Silvan Elf of Lothlórien, commands the company that meets Elladan and Elrohir

Chapter 16:
Grimgár: Beorning captain

Chapter 17:
Gorlim: citizen of Caras Dirnen
Dineth: Halbarad’s wife
Haldan: Halbarad’s second and youngest son
Bregor: former Ranger, seneschal of the Keep in Caras Dirnen
Mallor: Lord of Celonhad and member of the Council of the Angle

Chapter 18:
Herion, Balan: Rangers of Ithilien

Chapter 19:
Aesc: Rider of Rohan, messenger
Déorlaf, Eadwig, Sighere, Wigmund: Rohirric lords, Éowyn’s councillors

Chapter 20:
Orleg, Marach, Baran, Elatan, Tavor, Vardamir, Maethor, Urthel, Falassion, Amlaith: Rangers of the North
Hithaeron: Elf, leader of the archers sent by Rivendell
Ciriondil: Ranger (and healer)
Cadman Crackwillow: the Bree smith
Robin Rushlight: the mayor of Bree
Porto Brockhouse: hobbit, mayor of Staddle
Will Sandheaver: hobbit, farmer

Chapter 24:
Hatholdir: member of the Council of the Angle for the outside villages
Angrod: member of the Council of the Angle for the western villages
Edrahil: member of the Council of the Angle for the eastern villages
Galion: member of the Council of the Angle, Lord of Athrad
Vëantur: member of the Council of the Angle, Lord of Ringlanthir

Chapter 26:
Yávien: Imrahil’s wife
Forweg: Forlong’s grandson, now lord of Lossarnach
Indor: Harbourmaster of Pelargir

Chapter 29:
Leofric: a doorward of Meduseld
Hild: a distant kinswoman of Erkenbrand

Chapter 31:
Alagon: an Elf of Rivendell
Gelmir: a Ranger

Chapter 32:
Bronweg: a Ranger

Chapter 33:
Rhúnendir: an Elf of Mithlond

Chapter 36:
Soronto: the Master of the Watch on Imrahil’s ship, the Falcon
Meldoron: the captain of Wilwarin, a ship in the Gondorian fleet
Perchalf: the captain of Windrunner, a ship in the Gondorian fleet
Gaerion: an elf of Lothlórien

Chapter 37:
Gilor and Thelion: Rangers at Tharbad

Chapter 38:
Rathwine: Rider of Rohan, captain of an éored

Chapter 43:
Walda: Rider of Rohan, messenger
Laegel, Bellas: Elves of Lothlórien, patrol commanders

Chapter 44:
Wulfric: Rider of Rohan, messenger

Chapter 45:
Aelred: man of the Guard of the Tower
Egnor: man of the Guard of the Tower

Chapter 48:
Alagos: Elf, one of Hithaeron's archers

Invented places:

Chapter 12:
Caras Dirnen: the capital of the Northern Dúnedain in the Angle

Chapter 17:
Celonhad: town in the Angle
Ringlanthir: town in the Angle

Chapter 24: Athrad: town in the Angle

Chapter Text

Timeline for Unto the ending of the world

Events that occur the same as in the book are indicated in italic text.

All dates are given according to King's/Shire Reckoning

March 3019

The timeline for this month is based on the original timeline from the Tale of Years.

7 Frodo puts on the Ring to avoid capture by Faramir. Sam is caught, but killed when he attempts to escape.Aragorn comes to Dunharrow at nightfall.

8 Aragorn takes the 'Paths of the Dead' at daybreak; he reaches Erech at midnight.

9 Gandalf reaches Minas Tirith. Faramir leaves Henneth Annûn. Aragorn sets out from Erech and comes to Calembel. At dusk Frodo reaches the Morgul-road, where he is captured and taken to Minas Morgul. Théoden comes to Dunharrow. Darkness begins to flow out of Mordor.

10 The Dawnless Day. Sauron has his Ring back. The Muster of Rohan: the Rohirrim ride from Harrowdale. Faramir returns to Minas Tirith. Aragorn crosses Ringló. An army from the Morannon takes Cair Andros and passes into Anórien.

11 Denethor sends Faramir to Osgiliath. Aragorn reaches Linhir and crosses into Lebennin. He looks in the palantír again. Eastern Rohan is invaded from the north. First assault on Lórien.

12 Faramir retreats to the Causeway Forts. Théoden camps under Minrimmon. Aragorn drives the enemy towards Pelargir. The Ents defeat the invaders of Rohan.

13 Faramir leads the survivors of Cair Andros into the City. The Pelennor is over-run. Aragorn reaches Pelargir and captures the fleet. Théoden in Drúadan Forest.

14 Minas Tirith is besieged. The Rohirrim led by the Wild Men come to the Grey Wood.

15 Rohirrim arrive at cockcrow. Battle of the Pelennor. Théoden falls, Éomer is slain shortly after. After their initial charge, the Rohirrim are driven back, but the rout is turned into a holding line near the Rammas when Éowyn reveals her presence. Aragorn raises the standard of Arwen. Fresh Mordor troops pour into the field to reinforce the Haradrim. Before he can join forces with Imrahil and Faramir, Aragorn is wounded by the Nazgûl. Debate of the commanders.

Battle under the trees in Mirkwood; Thranduil repels the forces of Dol Guldur. Second assault on Lórien.

16 The attack on Minas Tirith resumes. Rohan attempts to break the siege, but cannot get through. The Gate of Minas Tirith is breached. Gandalf kills the Nazgûl as the wraith attempts to enter the City. The Enemy’s troops start moving into the First and Second Circles. The Corsair ships and the Rohirrim are signalled to abandon the siege and make their escape. Gandalf leaves Minas Tirith, destination unknown. Aragorn dies at dusk.

17 During the night, Denethor orders the evacuation of Minas Tirith. The defenders make their way out into the mountains. Minas Tirith has fallen.

Battle of Dale. King Brand and King Dáin Ironfoot fall. Many Dwarves and Men take refuge in Erebor and are besieged.

18 The Gondorian evacuees go south, heading for Pelargir and Dol Amroth. The Grey Company heads west.

19 - 24 The Grey Company travel through Gondor
21 They pass Ethring
23 They reach Erech
24 They travel from Erech to the Morthond Vale

25 The Grey Company go from the Morthond Vale through the Paths of the Dead to Dunharrow, and arrive at Edoras around dusk

26 Halbarad, Elladan and Elrohir meet with Éowyn and her councillors.

27 Elladan, Elrohir, Legolas and Gimli ride north, accompanied by Erkenbrand and Wídfara. The Grey Company leaves Edoras to ride west.

28 Elladan, Elrohir & co. meet Treebeard.

April 3019

1 Elladan, Elrohir & co. reach Lothlórien, and speak with Galadriel and Celeborn.

3 The Grey Company reach Tharbad.

13 Glorfindel catches up with Halbarad.

14 Halbarad arrives in Rivendell. He speaks with Arwen and Elrond.

15 Pippin spends a pleasant day fishing in Pelargir.

16 Legolas and Gimli leave Lothlórien. Halbarad arrives in Caras Dirnen.

17 Faramir’s patrol to Ithilien leaves Pelargir.

20 Éowyn meets with her councillors.

24 Legolas and Gimli reach the Old Ford.

25 Halbarad reaches Fornost.

27 The Rangers march for Bree.

29 Faramir watches troops march north from Minas Morgul. Damrod dies.

May 3019

1 Arwen and Elrond talk.

3 The Rangers break the ruffians’ siege of Bree.

13 Faramir's patrol returns to Pelargir.

17 Word reaches Lothlórien of an army approaching. Halbarad returns to Caras Dirnen and summons the Council

19 Halbarad and Halmir spar; Dineth returns from Ringlanthir

21 Elladan and Elrohir watch the Enemy’s army cross Anduin. Legolas and Gimli enter Mirkwood.

24 Lothlórien is under siege. Legolas and Gimli die.

26 The last Councillor arrives in the Angle.

27 The Council of the Dúnedain convenes.

28 Imrahil arrives in Pelargir.

29 Denethor's Council meets.

June 3019

1 Celeborn sends messengers to the Ents.

6 The Nazgûls’ attack on Lothlórien is repelled.

28 Elladan and Elrohir reach the Old Forest Road and turn west towards the Misty Mountains.

Mid-year’s Day 3019

Arwen reaches a decision.

Éowyn and Elfhelm wed.

Elladan and Elrohir are caught in a rockfall in the Misty Mountains. Elladan dies.

July 3019

14 One of Glorfindel's patrols finds Elrohir.

18 Húrin, Erkenbrand & co. arrive in Bree.

20 Húrin, Erkenbrand & co. leave Bree.

August 3019

1 Húrin, Erkenbrand & co. reach Caras Dirnen.

3 Gandalf and Saruman arrive in Mithlond.

20 Merry receives some letters.

25 Imrahil sees an Umbarite fleet at sea; Elrohir comes to Caras Dirnen.

26 Imrahil sends three of his ships off to warn Gondor about the ships he has seen

27 Imrahil realises where the Umbarite ships are going and sets course for Dol Amroth.

September 3019

1 Saruman leaves Mithlond; news that Erebor and Dale have fallen reaches Lothlórien.

5 Halbarad and the envoys arrive in Rivendell.

11 Elrohir arrives in Tharbad.

12 Imrahil’s messenger arrives in Tharbad. Elrohir and three Rangers ride to pass on the warning.

20 Elrohir arrives at Mithlond. The Corsairs attack.

22 News of the Corsair raid reaches Rivendell.

27 Elfhelm’s éored is attacked.

30 Gandalf arrives in Rivendell.

October 3019

2 Gandalf leaves Rivendell.

7 Éowyn receives news of Elfhelm’s death, and enemy troops move into Anórien.

10 Gandalf finishes crossing the Misty Mountains.

15 The news of Elfhelm’s death reaches Lothlórien.

19 Erkenbrand returns to Edoras.

26 Éowyn miscarries.

28 Gandalf arrives at Parth Galen.

November 3019

3 Húrin and Amrothos report to Denethor.

4 News that Elrohir is coming home reaches Rivendell. Arwen works on warding the valley.

6 News reaches Edoras that the river crossing at Entwade has been taken by the Enemy.

7 Halbarad and Elrond meet in Bree.

9-10 The Witch-King attacks Edoras