Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The last year of the period known as the Third Age of the world(though truthfully there were several more than two before it) came to an end early in the year of 1974, in the March of that year.

Like all the ages of the world, the end of the old one, and the beginning of the new would come through some monumental event that would reverberate through the world, and mark a decisive end to what had been, and ushering in what would be.

The exact details of what caused the sudden end of the age, the people of the world, be they Men, Dwarves, Elves, Ents, Hobbits or otherwise, would not know until the events themselves were far, far into the past.

Nor would they learn the terrible, and apocalyptic consequences of those events until everyone who was alive then, but Elves, Ents, and orcs were long in their grave.

But whatever caused the end, and the eventual consequences that would come home to roost one day, what followed after, was a common tale, for it was an event hard to miss, with its own consequences for all around it.

Early that March, a sound was heard all around southern Mirkwood, from Lothlorien to Rhovanion.

A sound like that of breaking glass, only with such echoes that it sounded as if the very air all across the vast expanse of land was breaking apart.

It was said(And believed by all) that the sound, whatever its source, originated from Dol Guldur.

The reason for this belief was that almost immediately after the sounds swept across the land, a ball of flame suddenly appeared in the sky above the old capital of the Wood-elves, brilliant, terrible, and white, before falling to the earth, incinerating everything out for leagues around with Dol Guldur as the center, creating a crater so perfect, as if it was made by a giant sphere being dropped into packed and wet sand.

The fall of the White Sun as it would be called would have many consequences, as Eru's(for surely only the creator himself could have been responsible for such destruction… As well as that which would follow) wrath caused many a thing to follow in the immediate aftermath, some with good consequences, and some considerably worse.

As the great and terrible fire vanished as quickly as it came, Dol Guldur and all that it had contained vanished from reality, destroyed and burned… And Sauron, or the Necromancer as the whispers called him then, reappeared openly years later, his skin was cracked, and scorched from head to heel. 

Never again would he walk without pain and misery, and he was black, and scorched and scarred, so that only his red eyes stood out, like red beacons from his dark and haunting frame.

He had overstepped himself for a second time, and once more, Eru, the true God of the world had punished him severely.

The loss of Dol Guldur was also of immense consequence for the immediate political climate in the region, for all of Sauron's greatest servants in the North of Middle Earth, save those of Angmar, were located there.

Countless Orcs, trolls, monsters, and wicked men were all to be found in that place, and all were now gone, along with the fortress, and all the land around.

Most chief of these however, was one of the nine, Sauron's Ringwraiths, who was destroyed along with his ring, and ever after, only 8 rings of Men remained in the world.

And for Sauron's war effort to destroy the free peoples, this had terrible consequences, for the Ringwraith in Question was Khamul, the Black Easterling, and he was responsible not just for much of the day-to-day goings on of Dol Guldur, but also for controlling the Easterlings who had swept away the Northman Kingdom of Rhovanion, from the shadows.

Without that will to unify and drive them in their opposition to Gondor, they would soon splinter and suddenly find themselves alone against their many, many enemies as well as no longer having the financing of steel and weapons that herefore had been supplied by Sauron and his servants.

These foes had not forgotten the Easterlings' genocidal campaigns against Rhovanion, and terrible indeed would their wrath be as they re-invaded their conquered lands beneath the banner of the returning Eothed, the strongest of the surviving Northmen peoples and states.

A bit to the North, the Wood Elves suddenly found that their chief opposition for control of the great forest had suddenly vanished, leaving many of the dark creatures that before troubled them greatly without a will driving them forward.

Though they would not succeed in killing the Giant spiders off, they were in the following centuries greatly reduced in number, and many formerly abandoned places of Elves were reclaimed.

A blessing in and out of itself, only aided by the fact that the Kingdom of Thranduil, like that of all Elves, would enjoy the blessings of the new age.

But this enormous crater that was the obliteration of Dol Guldur was not the only target of Eru's wrath.

No, three places there were that had been exposed to the flame from the heavens.

The marshes North-East of Anduin, of which the Dead Marshes were only the northern half, suddenly found themselves under target by white flames from above, but unlike Dol Guldur, this one was of a far more calculated and careful manner, cleaving out only the swamps where the traces of Sauron's evil will have long ago taken root, leaving the entire area as another, enormous hole in the ground, where Anduin had to refill before once more running into the sea.

The areas around where Sauron had so diligently destroyed all life and potential thereof, were also cleansed by the holy flame.

These two new, great craters would have direct consequences for many, far beyond the initial destruction.

For Lothlorien, the eastern edge of the golden forest suddenly found itself erased from the world, with the River Nimrodel suddenly running into two great empty spaces, alongside the upper, and lower Anduin.

Many years would come and go before the greatest craters were inevitably filled by water from these rivers and became a great lake that ran out back into the Anduin… But for all those years, the Anduin suddenly found itself without its main sources of water, and as such, the greatest river in the known world would suddenly begin to contract and shrink, with terrible consequences for many animals, many who would not be found on Earth once the waters finally began to flow back again in strength.

For the race of Men, however, none were more devastated than the people of Gondor, for it relied on the Anduin for both travel, irrigation, and defense, being a great deterrent against enemies.

For many, many years, they would find themselves under frequent raids, both from bands of Easterlings fleeing the destruction of their lost homes in reconquered Rhovanion or by the usual rabbles of Orcs.

It was in short, a period of hardships for the southern Dunedain, where much-tilted land would suffer crop failures, fish would become far less in numbers, and the once great number of convoys of trading ships up and down the southern Anduin would vanish until the time came that great Rauros would once again let forth it's mighty roar.

Had their enemies been in a better position to take advantage of this, it may very well have been lethal, but Gondor was still strong, and the time of Sauron's resurgence in strength was greatly delayed at the start of the new age.

As such, the period was, if not good, at least one of a breathing room of sorts.

The third great crater was much smaller than the rest, and with fewer consequences for the world, if far more symbolic than either of the other two.

That final target of God's own wrath was the foundations of Barad-Dur, Lugburz, the great Tower, fortress, and city that had once been the capital of Sauron's empire.

When the last alliance had defeated Sauron, they had famously not been able to tear down the base of the fortress, for it had been made by the power of the One Ring, and as long as it remained, so would they.

Eru had no such difficulties, but he did not merely erase Barad-Dur and the lands(whether it be mountainous stone or rocky hillland) directly around it.

A cloud of pure, glowing white descended above the great crater, and there, for 40 days, and 40 Nights it was filled with a never-ending torrent of rain, a rain of brilliant, glowing water.

And ever since, there where Sauron's pride and joy had once stood, in the very heart of the lands Sauron had claimed as his own direct domain, there now resided an oasis, where water never dried up, where every time it rained(which was very rare) the banks would overflow, and for a time it would fill the lands around it with its holy water, which would spring flowers and green into every part of Mordor it touched, as well as healing the sick, and mend the spirit of any free Man, Elf and Dwarf… And whose very presence would bring unbearable sickness to any who willingly served Sauron; Man, Dwarf, Troll, Wraith, or other, and a gruesome death if they dared to touch it without repentance.

It was a testament to Sauron's stubbornness, his pride, and his amazing capacity for creation, that he refused to abandon Mordor in spite of this, but also that he created great and effective ways to bypass this obvious danger in the northeast of his realm.

Still… Never again would he be able to project force east of Orodruin. And never again would he get to look out over his realm without seeing the reminder of the consequences of his foolish attempt to claim that which was beyond him.

However, despite how monumental and earthshaking the events that took place east of the Misty Mountains might have been, and the consequences that would follow thereof, they were of little interest across most of the world.

For while it was these events that set it all into motion, it was the far, far greater consequences that came thereof, which ended the third age, and ushered in the new one, not three holes in the earth.

Elves all across the world east of Valinor suddenly became strong anew, reinvigorated in a way they had not been since their early days, since the age beneath the stars, before the Sun. Though in truth that was a poor comparison. For in certain ways they were even stronger now than then.

Children, before so rare amongst them that a birth was a celebrated event amongst all in places where one was born, became common anew, and in numbers that dwarfed those of even their earliest ancestors, If still not as plentiful as those of Men.

It was called the great blessing by many, but truthfully, what had actually happened was that for the first time in a long, long while, the Elvenfolk suddenly found themselves free from the marring of Arda.

The less wise suggested that the world was now at last free from Morgoth's will and influence, and the time had come to heal what could be healed and embrace the new age.

This was of course not true, though for any but the Valar in the far west, it certainly must have seemed that way or at the very least something akin to it, for much of the shadow had been pulled back… But it had not disappeared, merely changed in form and nature, and would inevitably come again, in another, much more destructive form.

And when it did, Elves would feel the consequences thereof no less than all others.

But the greatest immediate change was that of the world itself. For the lands of the Earth changed on a scale that had not been seen since the world was bent into a sphere.

The great continents that had, ever since the new state of the world, been drifting through the oceans with various levels of speed and intensity, suddenly found themselves moving across the waters with enormous speed, and driven by a clear purpose and hand.

Many Islands and great landmasses that had been underneath the waves suddenly found themselves raised above the depths, and life began there anew, or for the first time.

Some were new lands that had never been seen before by mortal man, some that would have, if the course of time had gone elsewise, would have emerged and been settled in ages after.

Others were old lands that sank beneath the waves for one reason or another, now brought anew back up from below the depths.

Cities in ruin that yet there lay, made by both Elf and Human hand, now once more tasting the fresh air and the light of the shining sun.

It was a time of wonder, when magic came back into the world, for good and ill alike, as the world was wrenched back by force, unto the path Mankind was supposed to lead it to, before their First sin destroyed their destiny and potential. And yet the damage that had been done at this point, ensured that even so, this age would be short indeed… At least compared to the age of Man that could have been, whether with Magic or not, for that age was supposed to last until the end of Ea, the universe itself, not merely the end of Arda, the Earth, and all that dwelt upon it.

Still… It would be a glorious age for as long as it lasted. Glory born of both wonders and terrors.

However, in that age, in the midst of magic becoming strong anew, and the reshaping of the world, there was also something else.

5 Kings.

5 leaders of men, who would lead their people into the new age with open hearts, and great wisdom.

It would be said by their peoples that these five had been blessed with the gift of sight as Malbeth the seer, and those of his ilk had been, for they knew much and more about the world, that they should not possibly have known. 

Much of the past that had long been forgotten or obscured. Far more of the present and the workings of the world. And some and more of what may, or may not come.

5 Men had been chosen, for their virtues and their great capacity.

5 Kings had been chosen, as they were in the right time, at the right place who would be the vessels to be remade into something more, something greater than what they had been. 

Two halves together remade into something that resembled both, and yet was more than either. Much like to how bronze was a mixture between two lesser metals, to make something stronger and grander than both.

The Hero of this chronicle is one of these 5, and after his passing, his descendants, and of course their subjects in turn.

More specifically the center of this tale is one Arvedui of Isildur's line, King of Arthedain, the last King of Arnor's successor states, Lord of the Northern Dunedain, the Bree-Men, and the Hobbits of the Shire.

When the great remaking of the world took place, this unfortunate King of Men was to be found amongst the people of Lossoth, a folk who lived in the frozen lands along the northern coast of Eriador, far to the North of Bree.

He and his surviving guards had fled here with two of Arnor's Palantirs, after spending a few Winter months hiding in an old, abandoned Dwarven mine in the Blue Mountains, before hunger forced them out to seek sustenance and shelter elsewhere or die.

Their original flight into the cold winter snows to the Dwarven mines, was due to having to flee the city of Fornost, capital of Arthedain, the only true city still populated in the Northern realm that had once been the lands of Arnor.

It had been the gathering place of the vast majority of the kingdom's population, used to hide there during the colder part of the year when the raids of their great enemy, the Witch King of Angmar raided into their lands.

For that winter, strengthened in both power, force, and length by mighty spells, drawing upon the force of sunken Ultumno, first Fortress of Morgoth, now drowned in the bay of Lossoth to the north, the Witch King began his final gambit to crush the kingdom of the northern Dunedain once and for all.

And at the height of that winter, using the very snows as ramps to scale the outer walls, without heed to the massive numbers of dead his side took in the assault, the Witch King took the city, and burned it to the ground, then slaughtering it's people indiscriminately.

Only some hundreds survived to flee into the snow-covered wilds, while at the same time avoiding the fate of either starving or freezing to death.

It was seemingly the end of the Northern Dunedain… But lo, not all hope was lost yet!

For carried by the wings of wrath, northwards came a fleet with a vast host of Gondorian Soldiers, led by the crown prince of the southern Realm.

Their king had promised Arthedain aid and salvation but had taken too long to come to save Fornost.

But in the spring, they would come to Lindon, and there they would begin a campaign of wrath and retribution upon Angmar for their fallen kin.

And into the wilderness, amongst the few survivors, were King Arvedui, his two sons, and two of Arnor's Palantiri.

The line of Isildur was not spent yet.

---

It was an interesting sight. Seeing the world shake to its foundations.

It was like… Like watching someone edit a landscape into a new form, only with a speed and fluidity that no mere programmer could ever match on a computer, for it was all-encompassing where the will currently was focused.

And there was a greater will behind it.

As he watched from above, he saw the great ringed mountains rise above the depths, and the water being bathed in golden, brilliant flame, before vanishing in a fog like a rainbow and dissipating from sight.

He assumed the flame in question was the same Imperishable Flame of creation that Morgoth had so coveted, for as it danced across the plain, life sprouted into being from the ground and into the prime of their life in like the sudden appearance of… well, bursting flame. Grass and trees and flowers in equal amounts of colors as the rainbows that had covered the land right before now were to be found all across the sea of grass in patches here and there.

Out from the hill that was in the center, water suddenly burst from the rock, and began flowing the same place it had long, long ago ran down and into a lake, before flowing into some underground outlet.

But in the middle, upon that hill of stone, the ruins of that great city were not restored as it had been but rather left in the same ruins as it had been when it had been sacked.

So it had been with all the cities and towns he had gazed upon. Stones would move through the air from where water and tides must have carried them, but rather than go to where they had once been set in a wall, or a house, or a well, they would instead end up strewn about in a manner stone only was when they were suddenly torn down by violent hands.

Of the great cities of the west, only the dwarven cities of Belegost and Nogrod had been restored to what they had once been, stones reknit, and pillars rising and falling back into place before the walls of fallen mountains began to rise up and cover them as domes.

They had not been sacked and thrown down by military might, unlike all the rest, whether by the host of the Valar, or the armies of Angband, and so they were raised back into their full glory, as unmarred as they had been before the earthquakes of old had destroyed them so utterly.

At least he assumed that was the reason.

Only the bones that for a brief moment had been open beneath the sky before being shut off again, bespoke that these cities were not in the same era as where they would now belong.

Their peoples, who had long, long ago abandoned them for lesser holdings in the Blue Mountains, were now, slowly but surely, making their way back to them, timidly and in awe, but none of those who had died inside in ages past rose again like the green grass and trees on Beleriand's plains and hills.

Not there, and not Beleriand proper. It would be the survivors and descendants of old Belerian that were still amongst the living who would go on to inherit the rising Beleriand.

Not that this mattered much to him though. 

It was strange. The most important bit of development in living memory, a cataclysmic remaking of the world on part with the fall of Numenor and the bending of the world, and frankly speaking, it did not matter much to him.

For he had far, far greater concerns than the question of who would repopulate Beleriand.

His arm moved, now pointing south-westwards.

The line of sight immediately warped, as he left behind the work of what he could only presume was the hand of God on the move, to now gaze over the cold waters of the sea.

It was bizarre. He had in the day before gazed over the continents that would in another time have become the America's speed through the waters and sea… And yet it did not cause gigantic tidal waves and tsunamis in their wake as they logically should have.

Nor did the bay of Lindon close up completely as he had feared it would, now leaving a rather sizable hole in the emerging Beleriand that had not been there during the first age.

This new giant bay still connected it to the sea, for which he was very, very grateful, for if it had closed up, all his hopes and dreams would have withered and died.

As it was, he felt himself smile as at the gray havens, despite the tumultuous remaking of the world, ship after ship with black sails docked and unloaded men, after men, after men in shining steel mail and helmets.

On their black surcoats were the tree, stars and crown of Gondor. The banner of the king, not the stewards.

He pulled back.

Flashes came before his eyes. Flashes of snow, ice, men and women seeking shelter in abandoned barns and huts, some with children or family, others alone.

Back to the north, where the air was still bitter, though in his hand was warmth.

The Palantiri of Amon Sul, which had been glowing with an internal blue flame flickered, and slowly, slowly faded back into the form of a pure black stone.

He took deep breaths, suddenly feeling fatigued and tired… And feeling the sheer optimism he always felt when seeing through one of the stones, vanished into thin air, along with the unwanted will that always made his own vanish underneath it.

He swayed… Then he sat down on the fur-covered block of cold that was his bed.

As he returned beneath the fur blankets, he felt a pang of utter and total frustration.

King Arvedui of Arthedain had had a very miserable, and painful time of it lately.

But at the very least he had still possessed his skills at effortlessly controlling the Palantiri that were his birthright well enough, despite how horrible things had gotten.

Right up until he had woken from his sleep two days ago.

When he had, he… Was not himself anymore. Or at the very least he was… Something else as well. Someone else.

He didn't know how it worked. He had… Memories of another life now, mixed together with his own. Memories of a person so alike himself in temperament, personality, and looks, that it was hard to believe that it had been a different person.

Different it had been though, for despite such immense similarities that it was hard to differentiate where one began, there were so many differences as well.

An education that had put the one he had been bestowed as a prince so long ago to shame, making it look primitive, and of little worth by comparison.

Memories of working a farm, of creating great amounts of foodstuff through knowledge, strange machines and good old hard work, and the sweat of his brow. Enough food that he could have fed his entire kingdom by himself.

Memories of reading the story of his world in a series of books… That went past the day he was currently living in.

And of another woman who was not his beloved wife… And yet he felt love for her even now, this strange woman with black hair whose name he did not even know, and yet… The love he felt for her was as strong and powerful as the one he felt for his beloved Firiel.

What a queer feeling it was… To love two women at the same time, with equal passion… One of which did not exist in this time and place.

This whole thing was bizarre beyond words… And frankly, he did not understand it. Why was this happening? And why now? 

As he saw it, what had happened with him had to be related to what was going on in the outside world.

But whatever it was that had caused Eru(For surely it was the God whom both he and the other man in his mind both acknowledged as the Creator of the world) to do this, it was abysmal timing for him and his people.

Had this happened a few years ago, he could have used this bountiful amount of knowledge to turn the situation in the lands of Arnor around.

Even one year ago, if he had known that the strategy Angmar was to use was to invade and besiege Fornost in the middle of the worst winter in memory, using the immense amount of snowfall to fill in Fornost's famous dike, he might still have prevented the fall of his home through preparations alone.

But now?

The Kingdom of Arthedain, the last remains of the Dunedain of Arnor, the Kingdom of Elendil and Isildur, that had been founded so long ago, had fought the realm of Angmar and its Witch King for centuries on end.

When he was born, he had been named Arvedui, the Last King, for it had been foretold that he would be the last king of Arthedain.

The last king before Angmar snuffed them out.

He had rejected that destiny for his entire life.

He had fought it every step of the way, with sword, spear, and bow in hand, fighting bitterly for every bit of land, bleeding Angmar dry for every raid, every skirmish, every battle they dared to take to his people.

He had even married a Gondorian Princess and tried to claim the Kingship of Gondor, and unite Arthedain and Arnor's southern sister kingdom as one high Kingdom, so that he may redirect the south's might at Angmar and crush the dark realm once and for all, and save his people.

And it had all been for nothing.

A massive host of Gondorians was coming North, of a size that had not been seen in an army in Eriador since Elendil and Gil-Galad had set out with their host to face Sauron in Mordor.

It had come to save Arthedain and destroy Angmar.

The other, newer part of him told him to be cheerful, to see the bright side of it. For this Army would indeed destroy Angmar.

The older side of him however had only gotten even more demoralized by that knowledge… For he now knew what would come after.

He had hoped that after the war was over and done with, and Gondor had finally come to their aid, that his people would finally be able to recover and rebuild. That Arnor would rise again.

But he had not understood. He had not known just how few had truly survived the destruction of Fornost.

He had known that the city served as the beacon where his people hid for safety in winter… But he had assumed that at the very least somewhere upwards of 10 000 Dunedain or so would still be found elsewhere in the realm, even after the gruesome sack of his home.

The knowledge of what would come after had enlightened him on those misassumptions.

In another time… The time that the newer part of him had come from… Where his history was but remembered as a fairy tale, he had perished at sea, and his son had taken over the mantle of leadership.

Rather than reestablishing the realm however, Aranarth had decided that they simply did not have the numbers to do so, and had instead led his people into becoming the rangers of the North.

He did not know how few they actually were… But if his son ever decided on this insane course of action… Then he doubted that there were more than a thousand of them left.

Mayhaps even less.

Yes… The certainty that Angmar WOULD fall in the coming spring did not manage to enrich his mood.

Ironically enough, his life's work would be the easy part. For Gondor's army outnumbered the might of the army that marched Carn Dum in the winter 3 times over, and that army had been halved in numbers at Fornost.

And the Witch King in his arrogance would be foolish enough to march out and meet that army, rather staying behind the defences of his newly conquered walls in Fornost.

The hard part would be what came next.

He could not let the Kingdom die.

Arthedain… Or rather Arnor, had to rise again. Sauron… The true, hidden master of the Witch King was not gone after all. His servants would come again, either in the North, or in Gondor, and when they did, the Dunedain of the North would need to stand ready.

It would be a long, tireless, and hard road for them all.

---

Belegor felt a pang of relief, as behind him, the bright, blue light from inside the strange ice hut the Lossoth had provided their king, retreated from their heels, leaving them in the morning darkness anew.

Inside, he heard the steps of the king, then the by now well-familiar sounds of him retreating to his furs.

He always did after using the great seeing stone nowadays.

"He's… Not as strong in his will as he used to be."

Fingon snorted.

The older man(at 150, he was not young, even as their ancestors had reckoned it), shook his head.

You were there, weren't you? At Fornost…"

He shuddered.

"Aye, I was."

The memories of that time were… Haunting, but compared to the rest of his companions, his thoughts of that dreadful time seemed… Different somehow. 

"I dream of it still. The screams, the wailing, the sounds of steel on steel… And fire. Those sounds be the worst of all my dreams…"

He shuddered again.

"The poor children…"

He nodded. At that, he had to agree. Belegor was not haunted by the memories of that time in the hours of the night, but he did not have to endeavor hard for the images and sounds from that horrible night to come back.

Silence reigned in the cold night air for a while after, before Fingon spoke again.

"It hardly be surprising that the nights be taking their toll on the King. Even less when he uses the stone every day. I understand why, but… I be of the opinion that he should save his strength, rather than spend it to see over mountains, plains, and stones to Beleriand."

Beleriand.

The legendary lands of the first age, where all the great and heroic events therein took place.

He recalled many a tale from his father, uncles, and grandfather of that magnificent land.

Tales of heroes and villains, adventures and quests, of love and beauty that made the old and weathered lands of Arnor seem dull.

Had he been a younger lad, and the situation in Arthedain not so utterly dire, he would have dreamt of going there now.

But it was a harsher time.

"You seem rather unenthused about that Land. It is a miracle in its own right that it be rising anew." 

"Aye, I suppose that it be such. But that Beleriand would rise again was foreseen long ago by the Elves. But it was said that it would not be before the end of the World, or at least a time approaching it."

He shuddered.

"The end of the world?"

His eyes glanced over to the western horizon, where just a few days ago the entire line from north to south had been bathed in golden fire.

"Do you truly think that the last battle will soon be upon us?"

"I suppose logic dictates such… But nay, I do not. My sound mind tells me that the fall of Fornost, atrocities there were but a prelude, and that something even worse is about to fall upon us… But my heart and instincts tell me that what we see in the West… The great changes to the world that the King sees through his stones, is something good, a blessing that Eru is giving the world in this time of Darkness."

He looked up to the sky, where Earendil, the Evening Star shone with a light it had never had in all their days. 

That by itself brought to mind other stories, of the days when he first sailed across the sky, and relit hope in a world where evil had seemingly triumphed.

Fingon sighed.

"But I do not think such is a blessing for us. For our place is here, between the mountains of blue, and the misty peaks tall. Beleriand was the lands of Elves, and such men who wandered there became vassals of either Elves or the Dark Lord. No doubt a life underneath some Elven King would be good enough… But our Lord be the heir of Isildur and Elendil. Not anyone else."

"I suppose that is a fair assessment… Still, it's… Strange to think that something so monumental is happening in the world… And yet it matters little to us."

"I suppose one could say the same for Arthedain and Gondor. If we fall… Would that matter much for the Southern realm? Or would they simply continue to live as they had before? Uncaring that we were no more?"

"I suppose not…"

"Many and more people have come, gone, and been replaced through the years. The tales of Beleriand are a harsh reminder of that. Even IF the elves recolonize it in strength, rather than continuing going west across the sea, many of the great Elven people that once lived there are no more. The survivors of Gondolin and Nargothrond are not greater in number than we are now. Less mayhaps. And they have children far, far less than we. Even if they do go back to their ancient cities, it seems unlikely that Nargothrond, Gondolin, and Menegroth will ever reach the heights they had before. And even if they do, most likely the new elves will be of different stock and culture than those who came before."

"...You take a lot of the magic out of this miracle in the West my friend."

"Better to see the world as it is. Hope is all well and good… But it needs be tempered unless it leads you into a bad place, or astray. Especially in this regard… For if we split as a people, half of us wandering into Beleriand, and half of us remaining here, any hope we may have had to recover from this deluge of sorrow will cease to be."

He supposed that made sense… But still… He felt a… Desire to go west. One he could not quite shake off, no matter how much he thought about the logic of his friend's words that night.

He felt as if went west, and crossed stream and stone, he would eventually… Reach somewhere. Somewhere he belonged, far more so than here, in Arnor.

He had tried to talk about this with the other men, but as he aired the idea to Fingon in the cold night air, Belegor met no more luck than he had with the rest.

Instead, the older man remained focused on their duty and responsibility to the king and Kingdom.

He did not feel as Belegor did. No one else it would seem, felt the pull west, that urge that overrode all other fears and concerns.

---

Ilmarinen gave their "guests" a side glance.

Most were asleep, and still inside the huts they had provided for them, but there were those who were guarding the rest.

They did not trust the Lossoth with their own safety. Neither as guards nor as hosts.

He shook his head and went over to begin his work for that morning.

He had offered the man his food and water. He had offered Arvedui guest right, and the King had accepted. That should have been enough.

True, he had given that guest right in large part due to his people's experience with the dangers of angering men with swords of steel, but he had given it.

He would have done so regardless, truth be told… Even if the Southerners were no friends of his, it was not in the Lossoth's nature to leave folk to die in the snows.

And yet they were still weary even if Ilmarinen had told them time and again, and as the king's sorcerer stones had told him, no agents of the Witch-King were at work here in the far north. Weary of their hosts, weary of the weather, and wary of the Witch-King's reach.

He passed 4 guards who were protecting the large black stone they called Annuminas. He was not sure why… But he would be lying if he said he was not tempted to ask to be allowed to use it.

His gaze turned to the far west, where just two days ago, the horizon had lit up with golden lights, and according to the south King, lands were rising from the ocean. Fertile, warm lands.

Devoid of people.

There was an opportunity there… But he was not a man who immediately jumped on chances and gambits.

He would not be the only one who saw this land… If it actually was there, and Arvedui was not telling tall tales of how big and wide it was… And saw the chance to lead his folk west.

And unless he was severely mistaken, most like, the others who did so would have steel in hand, just like his guests.

It would do them no better to go west, only to be driven on the fringes of the world anew, because they could not match such.

Regardless, he headed out to the edge of the settlement, down by the shore, where the Ice was still thick enough that you could walk on it, and as he knew he would, he saw several of his own folk out on the ice, sitting around small holes, where lines and hooks had gone down.

His people still needed to do their regular work, regardless of the foreign King and his entourage's presence.

In this case, procuring food.

It was as he was watching, that he spotted it, in the distance.

Something bright, and white on the horizon, out on the sea, drifting across the actual waves amongst the icebergs.

He stopped and just looked at it as it drifted closer, and closer, and to his shock, he, and many others who had also noticed, realised what it was.

A giant… Bird that bobbed across the waves. Or at least that's how it looked from afar. As it got closer, it became clearer and clearer that it was no bird.

---

The great town of the Lossoth… Or what passed for a town here in the far north of Middle Earth, was in an uproar, as its native people beheld something they had never seen before. A gigantic swan ship at anchor in the middle of the bay.

The Lossoth, who didn't even have kayaks, much much less a great Galleon, watched the ship with a mixture of awe, fear, and distrust.

And if they did not trust an enormous, white ship, they certainly did not trust the tall men who had come ashore.

Tall and built wide and strong like oaks in the prime of their lives, they yet still were almost ethereally fair. Far fairer than any there had ever seen of men and women of the race of Man.

As they got closer, immediately recognized their leader, a man with flaming red hair that spilled about his shoulders like waterfalls.

"So you live yet Dunedan!"

"I live, yea."

He smiled and clasped hands with the Elf.

"So, you were the one that Cirdan picked to come to my rescue, Haldar?"

"So it was! News came to us, that you still lived, and needed aid here, on the edge of the world. So our Lord sent a ship to bring you home. Now come, my friend! We'll set sail back home immediately, and when we get home to the havens, you'll see an army arrayed the likes of which the North has not seen since Elendil and Gil-Galad set out from the North together!"

It was here that the leader of the Lossoth, Ilmarinen spoke up with some fervor.

"Do not mount on this sea-monster! If they have them, let the seamen bring us food and other things that we need, and you may stay here till the Witch-king goes home. For in summer his power wanes; but now his breath is deadly, and his cold arm is long."

The Elf's expression immediately soured, as looked the shorter man in furs over.

"And who may ye be, to speak on the counseling of Kings?"

Arvedui smiled.

"He is Ilmarinen my friend, the King of the Lossoth. My host and savior here in the far north."

"Ah."

The Elf gave a polite bow as an apology.

"My apology then your Highness."

The man did not seem put at ease by that, but Arvedui continued before he would be forced to reply.

"Regardless my friend, he is right… Unless you have provisions to sail ALL around Beleriand, arisen anew from the depths, sailing home is not an option. The passageway you came through from Lindon has closed behind you."

All the elves froze.

"...Beleriand?"

His voice, that until just now had been as melodious and warm as the spring, became one of utter, desperate longing, haunted by a deep, desperate desire and unforeseen hope.

He saw it in the Elf's eyes, as well as that of his companions. The sudden longing.

"Yes. Did you not see the golden fire on the western horizon? That began a few days ago, and lit the night sky with gold?"

"We did indeed, but ere we had no chance to go west, nor desire to go then. We knew not what the flames were, or what caused them… Have the Valar come to undo the damage of the ancient wars? Is that the reason the Earth now feels… Young anew?"

Young anew? Now that sounded rather intriguing.

Regardless, the Elves' good mood was infectious, as the dark clouds that had been over his mind began to break apart in earnest.

"I think not. I have seen across the mountains, streams, and bay with my Palantiri. There are no figures that roam the land to breathe back life anew. It all comes from the flames as it washes over the land."

"Then it must be… Eru."

The Elf seemed in awe.

"The fire of everlasting life, and creation… That is what we saw."

"Yes, I had similar thoughts. But we can speak more inside my hut. We both have great news to share, I'd imagine. Not all of which should be spoken off freely."

"Rather wise of you. Now then, if it has been decided that indeed the Elves shall stay here, Me and mine will help them load the food unto the land.

Haldar nodded and gave some quick commands, which the rest began to carry out with remarkable speed and enthusiasm.

Soon enough, the two of them were seated inside of his hut, where Haldar found himself seated upon on the ground on his knees, as Arvedui seated himself on his bed.

"I suppose we might start with what you wish to know before we discuss the events closer at hand."

"Very well! Tell me then my friend… As you stare across the lands, have you… Have seen our cities of Old? Are they still there? And if so… Are they covered with that which is to be found on the deeps?"

"Nay. But neither are they as whole as you might have liked. The cities that were sacked in days of old have not been restored to the manner they were before… But they have neither wear nor tear of the hardships from the bottom of the sea. The stone looks how I can only imagine it looked before the great war of Wrath."

The Elf, for the first time, seemed dismayed, but then laughed it off.

"What am I thinking! A miracle beyond any I have seen, or heard of has happened before me, and I feel frustrated that there is yet work to be done, before we can settle in our ancient homes?"

He shook his head.

"But tell me more friend! Has the world returned truly to the Elder days? Have Eru undone the bending of the world? Can you see Valinor beyond the waves in your stone?"

"Nay, and nay. The world has not been bent back to how it was in days of old. The great landmasses of the world are changing and moving at great speeds through the waves, and are settling into new places. If you keep wandering west, across the lands of Beleriand, and reach the place where the Helcaraxe once stood, you will find a short gap where the waves flow, and if you cross it, you'll reach what I think is the lands we once called the Darklands."

"The dark lands? Where Earenddil slew Ungolianth?"

"I… Think so? I'm not quite as certain as I'd have liked to have been… Though I think the part where that took place would have been a bit further in the south of those lands."

South-America. The newer part of him brought that strange, new name to his mind. 

The part where Beleriand is close to is North America… Or lands that would eventually become North America.

That part was true enough. Having seen those lands from above, he could easily tell that though there was a distinct resemblance, it was quite different as well.

It was more of a… Primordial form of this North-America.

Though to be blunt, he could not have cared less about either continent.

"If you had wished to sail back to Lindon, you would have needed to sail all the way there, to that gap and then through."

Not that he himself would have joined of course. After all, Arvedui knew exactly what fate would have befallen him, if he had agreed to go on that ship now. It would go down beneath the waves before even getting out of the bay.

Haldar had no such plans though.

"Nay… I shall spare myself that doom. I traveled through the grinding Ice once… I am not fool enough to think I survive if I try to cross it a second time… But I'm sorry… Here I am overjoyed by news of miracles, and wonder, while your Home is even more destroyed than mine of old."

Arvedui smiled.

"Do not worry of such my friend… Just you being here is good for my weary heart… And mayhaps you can also aid me, in the great and demanding task that lies ahead for me… In this winter that is without respite."

"That is what we came for. To aid you and yours in your great need. Mayhaps we cannot do so as I would have liked to do… But I can aid you in other ways still."

"Indeed. In both news and deed, I think. But first news. I know the overall size of the Gondor relief army… But do you know how many of my own men have managed to survive and make it to Lindon?"

"Not many I'm afraid. Less than a thousand soldiers, and only a few hundred of the rest of your people. It can scarce be more than one thousand and then five hundred if that."

His face became pained and sorrowful.

"I am… Sorry, my friend."

Yes… Those were about the numbers he had expected.

He immediately felt his mood darken.

"I thought so… But there are more still in the middle of the wilderness, in homesteads and barns across my fallen realm… I thought I could do nothing for them… But there might be something that we can do. Tell me my friend… How much food have you brought with you on your ship?"

"Enough for you, and us to last half a year. We fully expected that if the ice froze over, we might have to stay here until summer. That has happened before to those foolish enough to sail into this accursed bay."

Excellent.

"We will not be staying that long… But that food will come in handy yet. We might save many and more with it."

"How? Are they close?"

"Nay. I know where they are, for I can see them across the wastes, through my Palantiri, even if I cannot reach them. But as it happens, there are those amongst us now, who can travel across snow, without being slowed down in the slightest by fallen."

The Elf got a very confused look on his face.

Then groaned, as he realised what Arvedui was getting at.

"How… How many lost souls are we talking of here?"

---

Arathorn threw one more long on the fire.

On the opposite end of the room, sitting against the wall was his lifelong rival Echtelion.

He was far, far more gaunt than Arathorn had ever seen him.

The strong, powerful arms that had hammered steel for near 130 years now, had become far gaunter, and his cheeks were no different.

He had become a haggard shell of what he had once been.

Echtelion's eyes went to the still considerable pile of wooden logs stacked there by whoever had lived there before the sack.

"At least we'll die warm…"

The room was very warm indeed. The stove kept the room nice and cozy, and in the backroom was a nice and clean well.

They didn't even need to go, and let out a bit of warmth in order to get water to drink.

And they did drink. It was the only thing they had.

Arathorn had completely stopped caring about the constant growling from his stomach.

He had stopped counting how many days they had gone without food.

It had been a while now, he was sure of that.

There had been a third man with them as they fled, having jumped from the city walls of Fornost, and into the snows.

Then it had been a mad, mad dash to put so much room between them and the burning city as possible. The fear that the Dark King of Angmar had brought had been… Beyond description.

In that flurry of energetic madness and haste, they had lost the third man in the snow and wastes.

They had jumped from house to house to sleep in and yet kept going for 8 days until they stopped.

He did not know where this homestead was, but it had been owned by someone well-off. It had a privy with running water, though he had not the slightest idea of how it had been set up. Mayhaps they were near a river of some sort?

"How long has this winter lasted now…? It has to be… June, surely."

He nodded.

"Surely yes… I… I think it will never end…"

Echtelion nodded.

"Yea… That sounds about right…"

They had been talkative during the first few days when the show had finally left them.

Those had been days of fear, but at the very least, there was still energy and strength then.

That had ended when the food ran out.

There was no hope.

They had both agreed on that.

Fornost was burnt. Her people slaughtered. All they had ever worked on, had been in vain. Every sword they had ever hammered, every mail they had fastened, every helmet they had made.

It had all been for nothing.

Their king was dead, and so were his sons. The line of Isildur had been snuffed out. Their people had been wiped out. The Kingdom was lost. The only thing that remained now, was for the two old, tired men to keep throwing wood on the fire, stoke the flames, then close the small metal doors until it was time to do it anew.

Arathorn had ended up closing his eyes, and sleep must have taken him then, for he dreamt of the sea, of fish, of the wonderous tastes of the miracles of the world that tasted so good in his mouth.

A song came then, and for a while, he was sure it was only in his dreams, for so clear and beautiful did it sound that surely it could not be the voice of someone on the green Earth.

Suddenly though, his dreams ended, and he found himself staring at Echtelion, who was looking towards the closed window with an open mouth.

It took him a moment to realise that he was still hearing the song, the wondrous song, now much, much stronger than he had in his dreams.

"-Fingolfin like a shooting light!

Beneath a cloud, a stab of white!

sprang then aside, and Ringil drew

like ice that gleameth cold and blue!

his sword devised of elvish skill

to pierce the flesh with deadly chill!

With seven wounds it rent his foe,

and seven mighty cries of woe

rang in the mountains, and the earth quook,

and Angband's trembling armies shook!"

It was an Elven song, both in voice, and in content, and it only grew stronger still!

Then suddenly the door shot up, and in bold as they pleased walked 9 Elves, and several men, women, and children behind them, the last of which were carried by either elves or the men.

"Greetings sons of Arnor!" The obvious leader proclaimed with a smile.

"I bring the gifts of food, survivors, and hope, on behalf of your King, Arvedui of Isildur's line!"

There was said more then, but as words were spoken, Arathorn didn't hear a thing.

The only thing he managed to focus on was his own tears, and how… goooooooood the newly brought food in his mouth tasted. It was but a simple ham, but for him, it tasted better than any cake, or dessert he had ever tasted in the upper levels of Fornost.

Echtelion thought similarly obviously, but unlike him, he bombarded their savior with questions, as around them, the rest of the Humans had settled in.

"The Orders from the King are simple. Regain as much strength as you can, for when the snows finally vanish, you must hurry as quickly as you can westwards. You are not far from the Branduin, and when you reach it, travel along it downstream until you reach the bridge that leads into the land of the Halflings. They will aid you, with both shelter and food, while the warriors finish the fight."

"Warriors… So there is still enough fighting strength left then?"

"There is some, much reduced but still capable of going to battle… But that is not the main source of strength. From the Grey havens, a massive host from Gondor has arrived. Some 80 000 strong."

"8-80 000?"

"Yes. More than enough to win this war hopefully. The King is going to rally his men and join them before they march on Fornost to finish this war. What happens after that, I cannot say, but the southern army will not go back home until Angmar as a power is no more."

"That sounds good, I'll admit… But… How many have survived the sack, and then the winter? If we are to rebuild… Valar, It will take us centuries to reach our proper levels of strength, from this horrible defeat…"

"That it will. But that is for another day. For now, we must save as many as we can. Us elves will be leaving soon, but we'll leave enough food for you to last at least two weeks, and we'll be back before that time is up, with more food… Unless spring comes before that, after all."

Neither him, nor Ecthelion, nor any of the other Humans were particularly pleased with that prospect, but they were not in any position to argue.

The Elven leader, before they left, pulled out something that he had heard many a tale about, but never seen.

One of the seeing stones from Westernesse.

That he was able to use it at all, confirmed that their King yet lived after all, for only with permission from him would he have been able to use it, though for what purpose the Elf used it, he did not know.

As the stone stopped glowing, the Elf nodded, and then they left.

It was… A stark contrast from earlier that day.

All the adults remained silent for a long, long while, just taking in their salvation… Then the Children began talking and set forth to explore the house.

That broke the silence.

One of the women introduced herself. She had been a washerwoman in the castle.

One of the other men had been a miller from outside of Fornost.

Yet another had been a lumberjack.

And so it went. They all introduced themselves, one after the other… Then questions began to roll and answers began to flow.

Life returned. Not just food. Actual life. And in the night, despite the cold, and the bitter snows covering the field, from outside one could hear songs being heard that night.

-

And so it would go all through western Eriador, as through the work of a band of Elven sailors, and their tireless work of moving across snow-covered plains while leaving not a footprint in the snow and the power of the Palantiri of Arnor, hope and will to life was renewed in that cold and horrible winter.

And if the Witch King and his lackeys in conquered Fornost heard of these scattered gatherings of survivors of his butchery in Fornost, they did nothing about it. After all, the war was won. What did it matter if a few worms in the ground clung on to life through the winter, when in spring, they would sweep across the land, destroy Rivendell, burn Lindon, and sweep the land clear of men and elves once and for all?

---

The folk gathered at the Grey Havens were a more colorful collection of folks than had been seen there in ages.

Knights and foot soldiers of Gondor had set up enormous camps all around the city, and every day, more and more ships came in to deposit more men, more horses, and more goods. All of whom carried the symbol of the white tree.

Meanwhile, the battered and broken remains of Arnor had also gathered here, some in blue, some in black, but all with the white Star emblazoned on their coats.

Even some of Gondor's allied Northmen from the people of the destroyed Rhovanion had come to aid the Arnorians in their darkest hour.

And from the east had come a company of mounted Elves from Rivendell.

Cirdan had expected the last one. He had been told they would come.

What he had not expected was to see Elrond himself make an appearance at the head of his men.

But mayhaps he should have. He had known he would need to speak to Elrond sooner, rather than later.

It had been many a day and year past since Elrond had ridden forth on campaign, rather than send Glorfindel to lead in his name.

As it turned out though, he had no such plans this time either.

"Nay, I shall not fight in the upcoming battle."

The two Elves were looking down over the scene below them, of countless men on the move, all doing something, making some preparations for the campaign.

"Yet still the Enemy does not know for certain where the 3 Rings are. He suspects, but he does not know. If I fight in the battle, it cannot be kept secret any longer. Mayhaps in days past it could have, but not in this new age."

Cirdan could not see it, but he knew the ring was on one of the fingers which were now resting on the battlement of his tower.

"Why have you come then?"

"For advice… A rare thing for me to seek out for certain, but no less true. You see Cirdan… When the great change that shook the world came about, I had a dream."

"Is that so? You would not be the only one, my friend. There have been quite a few amongst my people who have had such a sight of similar natures."

Elrond nodded.

"Yes… So it was as well in Rivendell… But most of those dreams were of a singular nature, about a choice or a deed that they should seek out… One of my people, Fingol, is an old Blacksmith from ancient Gondolin. One of the very few who survived through the Ages. He was planning on going to Valinor soon, once the war in the North was over. Now he plans to seek out old Gondolin, for he, like many others, feels the pull westwards. But before he leaves, he has a task he now needs to fulfill. An old weapon he must reforge before he leaves."

Cirdan nodded, stroking his beard.

"And you Elrond? Have you felt the pull?"

"I have. Those who are young, who were born in the eastern lands do not feel it… But all those who were born in Beleriand, are now feeling the calling to go back. So strong, that even the pull to go across the sea to Eldamar seems weak and dim by comparison."

"Valinor is the land of the Valar… But this pull I think, is from a higher power. From Illuvatar."

"So it seems."

His eyes narrowed, as he focused on one figure in particular down below.

Prince Earnur of Gondor struck a powerful figure, a head taller than even his own men, who like him were of Numenorean descent.

"My dream… Is one of Kingship. That part was clear enough. I chose in ages past not to claim the High Kingship after Gil-Galad died. I did not want it. Nor did I see any point in claiming it. But now… I have been given a sign that I must."

"I see… Lindon, and the people here are yours then my liege."

There were many lords, amongst Elves and Men who would have bristled at bending one's knee and becoming vassal to another out of the blue, regardless of how rightful a claim the other might have.

Elrond did not smile, but he saw the hidden relief in his eyes as he turned.

"That is well… And it means this entire endeavor is not doomed from the start. But it was not your allegiance I came to seek. My vision was clear. I must go west, and lead the Elves who will return to Beleriand. It is strange… Galadriel foretold that Beleriand would rise again… But I had never considered I would still be here when it did. Nor that I would be called upon to lead when it came to pass."

"You have never wanted leadership… But you have been called to do so. Just as I was called to make ships, and one above all."

Elrond nodded.

"Yes, a great endeavor that was… But rather straightforward in its own way. Mine is not. For you see Cirdan, I have been called to bear a crown… But not where. My dream showed me that I must take a high seat, a capital to lead from, but that my choice would determine the fate of Beleriand."

"And what fates are to be determined from that choice?"

"If I choose to rebuild Gondolin, I will control the North, and that will be the new center of civilization. If I choose Nargothrond, the Elves will have little control over the North, but the Westlands and the Southern coasts will be ours. If I choose Menegroth, the seat of my ancestors, the Kingdom will have a presence in almost all of Beleriand, but will not be near as strong in any one place, except for the cities of Menegroth, Gondolin, Forlindon, and Harlindon."

"And Nargothrond?"

"I'm not certain. It was not shown to me if I chose Menegroth, only that it would not be a center of the Kingdom. But what that might mean, I know not. Mayhaps the ancient city will simply not become a center of people. Or maybe it will become a stronghold of those who will also come to Beleriand."

The way he had spoken before, it was obvious that there had to be someone other than Elves who would wander to Beleriand.

"And who might they be?"

"Orcs and Men I presume. Even if Arvedui successfully brings his kingdom back from the brink, I doubt he'd be able to stop other men, or bands of Orcs from moving into Beleriand across Eriador."

"Well… There are men there already. At least one people."

This took him aback.

"Truly? Has the fisherfolk along Arnor's southern strands already begun to move?"

"Nay, I was not referring to them. I was referring to the men who live on Tol Fuin."

Elrond was genuinely startled.

"They still live?"

"My people still see their fires in the night when sailing past."

"That's… That's not good. The highlands were corrupted far, far beyond cleansing during Sauron's stay there. And men who fled there after the war of wrath… The men of Nan Dungortheb… It might have been a better world if they drowned in the great sea rather, along with the spiders."

"Mayhaps it would, but they did not. And what they will do now, who can say? Though doubtless, you are right in fearing they will leave their valleys, but where will they go? Their old home is now above the waters, like all the rest of Baleriand. Maybe they shall only go there. Regardless, you might be looking in the wrong direction. Arvedui has seen the land with his Palantiri, and according to what I have gotten back of his account, Beleriand is not quite as it was of old. In the North Thangorodrim and its mountains still lie beneath the waves, even if a large part of the plains south of it has now been restored, both in land and in greenness."

"I still remember them falling… It seemed such a grand, beautiful, and decisive thing then… But it was only another stage of a long, long battle."

"That it was. But the fight goes on, and we have no choice but to keep marching forward."

"Yes… Forward… Always and ever the road goes ever on and on."

"Aye. As for the rest of Beleriand, there is of course the new gulf that goes up here to Lindon. But far, far to the west, across the plains of Lammoth, and over the water where the Helcaraxe once stood, there is another continent, where men does dwell. If men are to move into Beleriand, it will most likely be from there."

"That… That makes much sense, yes. I have wondered why it would be the West and North, and not the East which I would have to surrender."

At this moment Elrond became silent, and for a while, that silence reigned, as below the distant sounds mail-clad men moving about were heard.

"Where should I choose, Cirdan? Which would create the better Kingdom? I am not experienced in creating realms. Imladris is not a kingdom, and I have never pretended otherwise… But this will be."

"Yes. There is far more at stake than just borders, and which you choose will determine what direction it will go. For instance, there is the question of a port. During the age of Beleriand, all travel was land-based, for there were few amongst the realms who traveled across the waves. But times have changed. Nargothrond would be the best for trade, for control over the southern coasts would allow one to transport food, troops, goods, and people across the waves, fast and quickly. If you choose Menegroth, we will have to make great canals to connect the rivers of east and west, as well as canals to allow the bypassing of waterfalls and such."

"That sounds complicated, and not quite as effective as the sea."

"It is, and it will not be. Trade along rivers can work just fine… But it is not the same as ocean travel. Even if it were to be made, it would mainly be about transporting goods to the ocean's ports, where the great ships can sail."

"We have those at least."

"Yes. But as for Gondolin… I cannot recommend it as the seat of power. It is a great city in its own way, protected by mountains… But it's not well located for a capital. It has no great river system to easily ferry goods."

"Not to mention it's location is not as naturally well defended as originally thought… Else it would not have been sacked."

"Indeed. Again, I don't recommend it."

"I have to agree. There is one advantage to choosing Gondolin, as it would allow us to control Hithlum and the now, new northern coast… But I don't see that as a good tradeoff. Which leaves Menegroth or Nargothrond… What would you say are the benefits of Menegroth over Nargothrond?"

"A number of things. For one, as you say, we'll be far, far better situated to influence all of Beleriand. It would probably not take the form of one, overarching kingdom, but that might not be a bad thing. If we can make the incoming humans into allies and friends rather than enemies, we could all prosper from it. And Menegroth has roads connecting it to Lindon's realm already. Nargothrond does not. The reality is, it would be easier to build a kingdom whose two halves of east-west are directly connected, with a strong population in both."

"It's the safer bet then, is what you are saying."

"It is. Menegroth might not be connected to the sea directly, but it is well-placed to dominate most of Beleriand. And as there is still a strong trade network from east to west across the land here in Eriador, trade would flow from Khazad-Dum all the way to there. And finally, there is the most obvious advantage… For men and Elves are not the only ones returning to Beleriand. Belegost and Nogrod have both been restored to what they were before the doom came. Both the Firebeards and Broadbeams have dwindled greatly in the second and third ages, but they are still here in the Blue Mountains. And I suspect both will grow greatly in wealth, numbers, and power as this new age goes on. And as Belegost will be right on the great trade road, that will be very good for Menegroth."

Elrond nodded.

"Yes… They have always been second to Khazad-Dum since the War of Warth… But it was not always so… And it might not remain such forever.

Which was true. There had been a time when Belegost had been the home of the greatest craftsmen ever seen in Middle Earth, with only the likes of Feanor and the Valar having been above them.

Cirdan did not need to ask further. He saw the decision that his now High King had just made.

Menegroth, the ancient home of his ancestors, would be the seat of the new Elven Kingdom in Beleriand.

He also did not speak to him of his own dream.

The one that had told him that his ancient watch and duty in Middle Earth had now ended, and it was now the promised time for him to be allowed to come west, to finally see the glory that was Eldamar, that he had only seen in visions and dreams, and through the Palantiri that showed a glimpse of Tol Eressea.

Instead, as the news went around Lindon that Elrond Half-Elven, son of Earendil and the heir of the houses of Fingolfin and Thingol, would take the crown that Gil-Galad had left vacant, he gave him his full political support as lord of Lindon.

Mayhaps this Kingdom would fail, as all the Elven Kingdoms of Beleriand had in the end… But it would not fail because Cirdan Shipwright shirked his duty to his Kin and people.

---

Arathron whistled as he drove the cart, passing men who all had concern on their faces.

That was the common reaction amongst Gondorians.

They were very, very upset about their great river drying up.

The fact they did not already have huge amounts of food stockpiled for the coming years was a very real fact that had suddenly become a matter of existential doom.

The questions of "Why?" and "Will it come back again?" And "When will the waters flow" Were on everyone's minds, with little heed for anything else.

Not only was the water drying up but what water yet large parts of what remained of the southern river was now very salty, as the sea had long since begun to push up the riverbed northwards again.

A disaster for any farmer down the river who relied on it for sustaining their crops, not to mention all the fish he had seen that had just died when the salt came. Right there in the water, with seemingly no visible reason for why thousands and thousands of them would just up and die like that.

He supposed he couldn't blame them for that.

Unless he was very, very mistaken, they were all going to have a bad time going forward.

Not least of which being the burden his cart carried in a huge chest, covered by silk bolts.

It was the single most important bit of cargo that had passed through this Kingdom since the days of Elendil and Isildur. If he was caught trying to smuggle it out, he would most certainly face a rather gruesome death, but he was not worried much about that.

He had a very good reputation as a trader in Silk, and he always paid his tolls without being asked once he crossed the southern bridges to Harad.

It was not a set of particularly thorough stations of searchers, the southern ones on the bridges. They never bothered to search your cargo if they knew you, or if you were obviously Numenorean of blood. He was both.

Though truthfully, and to be fair, detaining or finding smugglers and their goods was not what their intended purpose was. It was simply to demand a toll of any who passed.

If one went back a few centuries, it would have been a different dance, but the hold Gondor now had over Haradwaith was a tenuous one at best.

Unfortunately for them.

For as this humble spy and Agent of Sauron slowly but surely passed southward on the map and across the increasingly warmer landscape, further and further away went the single most precious thing in Gondor.

The Gondorians had been far, far too obsessed with the effects of the river suddenly beginning to seemingly dry up, and the after effect that had on their economy and way of life, to see the benefit in this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

Oh, a few souls had. By the Rauros Falls, some former fisherfolk were about to become very, very rich as they began plundering the now dry riverbed beneath the falls for what thousands and thousands of years of speedy waters had brought there, and here and there all along the river, a man would stumble onto some great treasure formerly hidden, whether it be gold, silver, jewels or other artifacts.

But it was the hidden agents of Sauron who had located, then pulled out of the water the greatest prize of all, and had hidden it from sight, until one of the Dark Lord's servants had come to pick it up and bring it secretly out of Gondor's borders, and into more safe lands.

A prize that the Gondorians had assumed lost forever, and so had not bothered to search for, having thought it had disappeared out into the ocean.

The great, black seeing stone of Gondor's former capital. The master stone of Osgiliath, the greatest of the Palantiri in Middle Earth, that allowed its master not only to see as all Palantiri did but also to listen in on any secret conversation held between wielders of the other.

The Kingdom of Gondor had accidentally sunk it into the Anduin when Castamir the usurper sacked the old Capital during the Kinstrife. And now it was back again. And on its way to Sauron's lands.

As horrible as the blows against Sauron had been in these last few months, he had not been entirely without victories, and of all of them, none would come even close to the damage that this victory would inflict upon the Free peoples.

---

It was time.

The snows had begun to melt, and it was now the hour to leave.

The greater Palantiri was now on a cart with wheels, and the party had taken the supplies they would need for the journey.

He got the distinct impression that Ilmarinen was not sad to see him go. The fact he was the only one amongst his people to actually come and see him and his party off spoke for itself.

Before he went though, he had a gift for him a payment for all the crucial aid he had given him and his.

Ilmarinen held up the exquisitely well-made ring and looked it over in the light of the sun, where the emeralds of the Ring of Barahir glinted like green flame.

"This is a thing of worth beyond your reckoning I'd say. For its ancestry alone even if nothing else, for the Ring is older than the sun and the moon, and the Human race for that matter. It has no power, save the esteem in which those who hold it who love my house. It will not help you, but if ever you are in need, me, or my kin will ransom it with great store of all that you desire."

The man raised an eyebrow at that.

"It's not nothing I suppose. But very well. I shall accept this gift from you as payment for our aid, in the hope that this ransom will be paid one day. May you go to victory against the Witch King, and bring us all warmer winters."

And with that, and no particular fanfare, the party left.

The last King of Arthedain set out from the frozen bay where on the bottom old and sunken Utumno lay beneath the waves, accompanied by the last remains of his honor guards, and a small group of Elven sailors.

It was not the most glorious of marches, but it was one which the people of Arnor would still talk about to the end of the world.

Chapter Text

Baldor, son of Bucca, was having a rather busy day.

That was not unusual. Springtime in the Shire was usually a time of work for everyone. Planting and preparations for the rest of the year's farming, the yearly spring cleaning, and whatever secondary work was to be found at the farm, or in one's own business as Winter came to an end and the year truly began.

What was not usual, was housing and feeding refugees in the hundreds.

The Big Folk was rarely seen in the Shire, other than the King and his entourage during his 3 yearly hunts.

It was a time where their Lord mingled with the Hobbits, and sometimes they hunted together as well.

His father had come to know the King personally through such a hunt, when the King had chosen the Marish, where their family was the one that had the most to say, both in wealth and influence.

That had been some 40 years ago before he'd been born when his father had been a spry, young Hobbit barely an adult.

It had been a happier time.

This spring was not a happy time.

Dozens and dozens of refugees had come across the Brandywine, and they had brought with them both their King's Commands to feed and shelter them for the time being, but also horrible news from the east of the Kingdom.

Norbury had fallen to Angmar!

That was frankly horrible news for the Hobbits, and an existential threat, given that it meant an invasion into the Shire from Norbury itself would undoubtedly follow in the spring.

And so, there was a climate of fear and uncertainty as men and Women trickled across the bridge.

There was a large company of men in mail there, soldiers and warriors of the King who had survived the sack.

They were the ones who now served as the only bulwark between that likely invasion and the Shire, but also the ones who met the refugees, and sent them on their way to where they would be taken care of in the Shire.

That part was where Bucca and his family came in.

As one of the wealthier families, it was their logical duty to ensure that their King's commands were carried out, and so they were there by the bridge, handing out food, and then sending guides along with the refugees to aid them in finding their way to where they would find a place to rest(which could be everything from a small tent, to a tarp string between some poles depending on how rich the nearby Hobbit family that would aid them was).

The most recent was a tired-looking woman holding a smaller lad by the hand.

The kid stared at the hobbits in both fascination and a bit of fear.

Obviously, he'd never seen a Hobbit before.

"Where were you assigned to my lady?"

"H-Hobbiton. With a family called… Clockson"

Hobbiton. A small hamlet to the west.

He had a volunteer from there.

"Bilbo! You take the lady on to Hobbit. Here miss. Some food for the trip!"

He cheerfully handed her a massive, but covered basket which contained bread, and a jar of strawberry jam, waterskins, along with utensils. He also sneakily included a few apples.

The next was a younger, singular lad, not quite old enough to be called a Man, but not young enough to quite be a child yet. Amongst the hobbits, he would have been called a tween, though he did not know what the equivalent was amongst Men.

"Where were you assigned, lad?"

The "lad", looked him over with an annoyed, but tired look.

"...Tookland… Berrybutter…"

"Tom. You take the lad. And here, some food for the trip."

It was maybe not quite as much as the woman and child got, but it should serve well enough. And if it did not, he and Tom should not have any problems finding someone who was willing to give them some food on the way.

And after that, there was a lull, as no one new came in for a while.

It wasn't unusual… Often there had been days where you had to wait an hour or two before a new one came in.

That gave them some time for themselves, which led the rest of the other lads to begin talking amongst themselves.

It was the usual talk that had dominated the talk of the entire Shire for the past month. 

Worry about what would happen now that the Capital had fallen. How big was the relieving army from the West? Would it actually be able to defeat the Witch King? Where would they fight? Here? Would the big battle happen by the Brandywine? Or would they march on Fornost?

Then there was the other talk, namely worry about the Men who were now in their care.

How would that work out in the end? Where would they live now, that Norbury was no more? Would they just settle here in the Shire? How long would they live here?

Good questions.

It wasn't as if there was any larger current of resentment of having to take care of these poor folk. That kind of thinking was not in a Hobbit's nature. But there was great uncertainty, and nobody knew how things would go from here.

And of course, there was talk of the King. Where was he? Was he still alive? Or would the Prince now have to take the title of King, and lead them?

All the refugees claimed to have gotten orders from the King to come here, and the Elves that had first brought news had claimed to have spoken on his behalf, but there had been no sighting of him.

That changed that day though, as suddenly, the entire party on the bridge suddenly began blowing their horns.

The sound immediately made every one of them jump on their feet, and the horrible thought that the Witch King had come with an army went through every mind… But that did not last long.

The sounds from the bridge that followed were cries of Joy, many in a language that the Hobbits did not understand.

But one word stuck out, spoken in many different cries.

Arvedui!

Arvedui King!

All of them hastily began walking over closer to the bridge, their intended duties now for the moment forgotten as all of them came to take a look.

There was a huge commotion, and for quite a while the Men had gathered in one, giant cluster, forty men all on the other side, shouting and laughing… But eventually, it did begin to part, as the room opened up, and through that gap, a party of mighty folk stepped through.

There were Men and Elves, but even amongst such fair folk as the Elves from the west, one man stuck out.

He was tall, taller than all the rest, and wide like a chimney. Long, flowing black hair that went about his shoulders, and a face without a hint of a beard, speaking of his Elven Ancestry, for not a single man with Elven blood in their veins had a hint of such.

It was a strong face too, with a mighty jaw, and confident blue eyes like the sky, and on the width of his brow, was a shining star of white, held together by a chain of silver that seemed as if it glittered like diamonds in the light of the sun!

He wore a full coat of mail and over it a pure black surcoat, with the Star of Elendil across it, and on his back, he carried a backpack.

In his belt, he had a longsword about as tall as Baldor was, sheathed in a bejeweled scabbard.

King Arvedui. The lord of the Shire had finally come.

He had vague memories of having seen the king once or twice during his childhood… But if so, they did not do their monarch justice as he strode across the bridge, towering over everyone with a confident smile, ready to take on the world.

There was both fear, respect, and more than anything Awe in his heart at the sight, as the King walked up to him.

"My men tell me that you are Baldor, son of Bucca is that right?"

"I-Yes, yes I am he-I mean that's me, yes. Thou are correct."

"Good. Now, your father is here is he not? Go get him, and as much provisions as you have. Me and my men have to march as quickly as we can… But I must speak with Bucca before we leave."

"I… Yes. I'll do so right away-"

And there he was interrupted by one of his companions actually interrupting and asking the king a question!

"What about the refugees? There might be more who come, who we need to direct and help."

He felt a pang of annoyance at the man, but the King did not chastise him.

Though his face became one of sadness.

"Nay… There will not be. The lad was the last. All the rest are now either in Bree… Or dead. There will not be any more."

He pointed to a spot to the right, northwest of the bridge.

"I'll set up camp there. Send your father to me as quickly as you can."

---

After having informed his father, who had quickly left to seek the King with a rather stern look on his face, he went about gathering supplies with the rest of the Hobbits in his party.

What they scrounged up from the rest of their remaining stores was quite a lot… Though whether it was fit for a King was another question.

The King's men, though, did not complain when they came to them with it. Far from it, they threw themselves over the food as if it was the most delicious bit of food they had ever had in their lives.

He found his father with the King, the latter standing, while his sire was sitting on a cart the men had brought with them, which had a large, black, round stone in the center.

"-400?"

"Aye. Larger numbers we cannot muster at short or longer notice. If it was before the Plague that would have been one thing, but we haven't even come close to recovering our numbers from back then."

"It'll have to do. 400 bowmen is nothing to sneeze at… especially not with our role in the battle ahead in mind."

400 bowmen? That was a massive number of Soldiers. Was that really how many men they would muster now?

He went up to them, and offered the plate of food, with a freshly baked apple pie that one of the local hobbits had been making, and had offered, when the news spread that the King himself had come.

"Thanks, lad."

The king fished out a spoon and began eating from it as he continued.

"Our role in the battle will be to Kill the Witch King. I have no doubt that the host gathered in the west will be more than up to the task of destroying his army, and then Carn Dum… but if we cannot kill their Sorcerer King, he will most certainly return to the north one day. WE will ensure that doesn't happen. And that will begin with killing his own and any other horse around him, to ensure he cannot flee on one."

Bucca nodded.

"That part will be the job of my son and those who go with him then?"

Baldor sputtered in shock, earning him an annoyed glare from his father… But the King did not seem to mind.

"Yes. Me and my soldiers will take care of the next part, but we need to dehorse him first. That part is Vital . And after that… Well, there will be the long, arduous journey to rebuild."

The King motioned with his spoon-filled hand northwards towards the small tributary river called "The Water", that ran into the Brandywine.

"I have seen that the lands directly north of the Water are uninhabited… Though the land is clearly overgrown, and there are hobbit holes there, the fields are all full of weeds."

"Ah, that. The land was hit HARD by the great plague. Almost everyone there died, and who few survived moved elsewhere. It's… Fertile enough I'd gather, one only needs to take a look at the fields to see that. But like most of the North-East, it's rather cold in winter. Far more so than most of the Shire. So people haven't exactly been all that eager to settle it. Especially not when there are still plenty of other, warmer places to settle in the Shire."

The King nodded.

"And since most hobbits don't want to live there, the few who do, wouldn't have the infrastructure to do so, thus creating a cycle. It would be settled eventually… But not before there was an actual need for new lands after all the good land had been recolonized."

There were a lot of fancy words in that… Much more fancy than any Hobbit would have put it, but he could not say the King was wrong.

The King took several bites of his pie and took his sweet time chewing as he was obviously In contemplation on something.

Then he obviously made his decision.

"When the war is done, I'll be settling ALL of my Dunedain subjects there. We'll be using the lands around the Brandywine, North, and south of the Shire as the new center of the Kingdom for the moment… However, we'll have to redraw the borders a bit, as the Water will serve as the North-South border between my direct lands and the Shire. As for the west-east border, it would have been nice if I could just draw a straight line on a map to mark where it would go, but doubtlessly some Hobbit families live east of where such a border would go. We'll figure out the exact details of that when the war is done."

That seemed fair enough to Baldor. If there were no Hobbits living there, there should not be a problem.

His father though, judging by his expression, clearly was a bit more worried.

"How long will it take before this new land is set up well enough to house all those who need it?"

"4-6 years most likely. There are not many of us left now, so we don't need that much land… But on the other hand, that also means that we don't have that much manpower to work with… And we won't have such before at the very least 30 years from now… But that is for another day."

Having finished his pie, the King handed the remains over to Baldor, before pulling out several sheets of Paper.

"We have a LOT of work to do going forward… But in case I die in the battle… Here Bucca. This be my plans for how to remake the Kingdom's farming capacity."

His father took the paper and began looking them over, with a raised eyebrow.

"Ah… Interesting…. Four fields for crop rotation… And Clover? That be a strange choice, but… Ah… Increased fertility in the earth… and doubling in size eh?"

"Yes. Though, you must understand that this means "up to", not "all of them will"."

Bucca nodded.

"This does sound rather promising… Provided it works."

"I WILL work."

Bucca raised an eyebrow but did not challenge him on that.

"Truth be told though… This isn't quite as useful for us, as it will be for you. Certainly, bigger animals means more meat… But that won't help as much if they become so big that we can no longer shepherd nor control them."

The king was taken aback by this assertion, but he nodded slowly.

"That… That does make much sense, yea… Regardless, Clover will still help the earth massively, even if only used for Composting. But I agree, the bigger animals will have to be the domain of men."

Bucca nodded.

"As for Kingsfoil, I do have some in stock as usual. How much do you want?"

"All of it. If we be lucky, this shall be the last time in our lifetimes we should find ourselves in need of it, but mayhaps not. Regardless… as for the other plant mentioned there… I don't suppose you have any at hand at the moment?"

"Westmansweed? No, I can't claim to such in my stores. It's not exactly the most popular stuff… I should be able to get some eventually, but… Not enough for the war effort I fear."

The king gave a sardonic smile.

"That's fine, It's not for the war effort, so it's not that important. Just a… Personal matter. If I don't survive the battle, think nothing of it further. If I do… Well, I would appreciate it if you get me some afterwards, my friend."

His father nodded with a smile.

"As you command, your Highness. Anything else, before you head on?"

"Nay… Not between us at least. I have some tasks I yet need to do, and some messages that I must send before we march off to war, just in case… But not anything more in the shire for the moment."

The king finally finished up his pie.

"This pie… It was warm and fresh, so clearly, it wasn't just sitting about… Where did you get it lad?"

Baldor once more was startled that the King was speaking directly to him but managed to answer without tripping over himself this time.

"From the farm over there!" He pointed at a relatively large hobbit hole in a hill. "They were making one, but when they heard you were here, they donated it."

King Arvedui nodded, then pulled out a pouch from his backpack, and opened it, and fished out… A ruby the size of Baldor's eye.

"Go give them this one as a token of my thanks lad."

Baldor took it and just stared at the immaculate and well-polished gemstone.

He had no doubt that this gem was worth more than everything he owned, and then several times over.

"Rather generous of you Arvedui. Mayhaps I should invest in pie making, it seems to pay quite well."

The king laughed at Bucca's comment.

"I have come to see that Gems aren't as important as I once thought my friend, but good food is never without grand worth. And let it never be said the Kings of Arnor are not Open Handed and generous to those who served them."

---

After the King and his entourage had left, Bucca(On the King's orders) began setting into motions the muster of men.

It was a seldom seen part of Shire life, when every young, able Hobbit came together, with knives, swords, or the most common weapon of their people, the bow.

Hobbits were not warlike people. It was not their nature to either plan for, nor wish to engage in battle.

But when push came to shove, they could and would fight, when it became clear that their existence, their lives, were at stake.

Or as the Shire folk did, when their king called. That did not happen much, for he preferred to use his own men for war, but as their sovereign, he could, and when raids came a bit too close to the shire, he sometimes made the call to arms.

This was something different though. This was a call to a campaign.

Victory or death.

Once he'd sent all the runners to call every single man who had a bow to come muster by the great bridge, Bucca leaned back against the wall of the home he'd been staying in for a while, and sighed, massaging his temples.

His son Baldor went about cleaning a bit up, but he just leaned back, trying to figure out where things were heading from here.

"He was… Even taller than I had expected. And way more generous."

"King Arvedui? Aye… Far more so than in older days."

"You… Sound like that displeases you father."

"It's not that! It's the King's demeanor and plans. He doesn't expect to survive this final battle, I can tell that much. He has never been as openhanded with coins and valuables. Never niggardly, but he's always used his wealth responsibly and with care. Not like us Hobbits at all."

That idea seemed to baffle his son.

"He… Doesn't expect to live? Why?"

"If I had to guess, it probably is related to what befell Fornost. I've talked to the rest of the survivors. It was… Butchery. Thankfully, the two princes survived, but I think Arvedui now plans on passing on the crown. I've heard of such tales, kings who seek out death in battle, rather than of old age. Madness that be… But the King is old and weary, and tired beyond words."

"He… Didn't seem tired."

"Not to you mayhaps. But he is. Arvedui should be full of life and power. That's how he's always been. Confident, strong, and mighty in deed and certainty alike. Now he's a shell of himself, and speaks far more of "if I die" or "If that happens", in one conversation than he has ever considered the matter in all the years I have known him."

"Do you… think he'll die?"

"Hopefully not. It's a dreadful thing to consider. The king is only 110. He should be leading us for another century yet. But few things are certain when swords are swung. His confidence clearly broke with Norbury… Though I suppose none can blame him for that."

Few Hobbits tended to go to the capital. Now and again some were taken by the "Wanderlust" and decided to go traveling, and more often than not, it would be to Bree first, and then north to the magnificent city that was Norbury, or Fornost as the Men called it.

A two-tiered city, with the upper level being a copy of some famous Elven city of old.

It was a mighty city, a fortress that should not have fallen so long as anyone inside had the strength to hold a weapon to fight.

He had been there more often than most.

He understood the implications of the city being burnt, and its people put to the sword. There had been more people in that city, even outside of winter(when people came to seek shelter from Angmar's raids), than there were Hobbits in the shire.

He recalled the city the last time he'd visited, and all the children playing in the streets, the music from windows, the incredible buildings with four to seven levels. 

The idea that all of it was gone was… well, it was a gruesome thought, but it was reality.

And they needed to make their decisions around reality.

"The King seems rather certain we'll win…?"

"Of course he is. He's the leader of all of us, and you aren't a good leader if you don't show yourself as strong and confident when things get bad. No one gets inspired when the family head doesn't look like he knows what they're doing."

The lad nodded slowly. He wasn't the brightest, his boy. He had a good heart, but not much going on upstairs.

The reality that if this went south, every single Hobbit in the shire would be exterminated, and join their countrymen in Norbury hadn't quite set in for him.

Truth be told, it hadn't really set in for most of the Hobbits either. Maybe that was for the best though.

If it did, then there would absolute panic and chaos, rather than this uncertain peace.

---

Aranarth had rarely felt more relief, or joy than the sight of his father appearing over the hill, and then walking down to the thunderous cheers of what remained of Arnor's army.

For a while yet, he'd been terrified of the idea that he'd have to lead everyone in this darkest of hours.

But those fears vanished, as the attention of everyone around him finally went away from him, to where they belonged.

Their King.

He was wearing Arnor's star crown, so he'd definitely meet up with Denethor at some point on his journey.

Besides him, his younger brother ran up to their father and caught the man in a hug, proprieties be damned.

The older man returned the hug with a smile and laughter, then as they disentangled, he turned from him to Aranarth.

"It's good to see you father. When I heard you were trapped in the ice bay, I feared the worst."

"And got Cirdan to send some help as well. I did not truly need it at the time, but it certainly did aid Arnor, as those supplies allowed us to save hundreds of lives!"

More cheers.

"Those who have survived the sack have now sought refuge in the Shire, and they'll stay there until we win the war."

He turned his head to the army gathered beneath them, on the plains and hills.

"You know… I never did think Gondor would actually get around to sending us their army, and yet here they finally come, at the end of things."

His eyes, which had for a moment glazed over as he beheld the army beneath, suddenly went into focus again.

"Ah, but that can wait for a bit. I have some news, and then we need to speak alone us 3."

He turned to his men, as he fished out a bit of paper.

"So our soldiers who guarded the entrance into the shire made a point to gather details as best they could from the refugees who got there. And through that, I have the pleasure to tell that the families of Isildur, son of Eldacar, Aradar, son of Arathor, Arveleg, son of Denethor, and Boromir, of Barahir managed to make it to safety, and are now alive and well in the shire."

The reaction of the gathered men was mixed.

Isildure grinned from ear to ear in pure joy. Aradar sank to his knees and buried his face in his hands, while Arveleg and Boromir both cried openly with smiles on their faces.

The rest of the men though had much less outwards reactions to the news.

"Those… Those were the only ones? Nobody else?"

"Nay. Not amongst those related to any of my warriors. I'm sorry to say, that there will not be anyone more showing up later either. Those who survived have now come to either the Shire or Bree.

The expressions of the men hardened.

"We have all lost much and more… We could not save fornost… But we will yet have vengeance yet! All of us! As we put our enemy to the sword by Fornost."

This talk was however cut short(Along with the private talk between father and sons) by the arrival of a rider, asking for King Arvedui to come to meet with Prince Earnur, the leader of Gondor's forces, with haste.

---

There were many, many reasons why Aranarth had not been eager to claim the title of supreme leader of the remains of Arthedain.

One of the main ones had been Earnur.

The crown prince of Gondor was a man with power, and strength of will, and was used to getting his way.

He could not have been more unlike Aranarth if he had tried to be.

The Prince of the North had not been able to stand up to him on pretty much anything, being stronger in both personal and military power.

He was not a bad man, but he was one who expected others to listen when he spoke and did not have much patience for Aranarth's less-than-confident leadership.

Neither he nor his brother was particularly fond of the man… Even if they were very grateful for his host coming to their aid.

Their father had a different tactic.

"Loot? Aye, that shouldn't be too hard. There are going to be two large points of concentrated wealth. Fornost, and Carn Dum. I'm going to have to ask that you let me and mine reclaim our home relatively unplundered. All therein is ours after all… Not to mention that shall require what yet remains there to rebuild the Kingdom."

Earnur, in quite a contrast to the way he usually was with Arvedui's sons, had a more measured expression as he considered that. His eyes never left Arvedui's, and it seemed to those around them, that there was a contest of wills there.

Finally, though, he nodded.

"Aye, that sounds fair enough. Far straightforward and to the point than your sons… And what of Carn Dum?"

"You and yours can take any coins of gold and silver, along with any jewels you find there, while we take the unbeaten metal bars, and any metal equipment, be they armor, weapons, or more common things."

Earnur seemed surprised by that.

"You're willing to give us all coins? I wasn't planning to ask for such a huge portion."

To that, Argeleb gave a rather loud and dismissive snort, to which his older brother gave him a clout.

Truth be told though, despite him trying to retain an emotionless face, he did not feel particularly different on the matter than his brother.

Everything Earnur had said the last few months had given him the impression that the Prince of Gondor would very much prefer to take everything from the campaign.

Earnur didn't so much as glance in their direction though, either not noticing, or caring about the display. Instead, all his attention was focused on their father.

"Bars are easier to manage. You can mint them with as much gold as they require, or make grand things out of them as you please, both of which I am going to find myself in need of in the future."

Earnur just nodded, seemingly completely missing the implication that Angmar's coins were debased.

His father continued:

"The true prize, at least for us, is the equipment. There are now a grand total of 2 blacksmiths of any worth left in my realm. Even if all goes perfectly in the north, it will take decades to train up a new core of young blacksmiths. As such, we require the mail and swords that are to be found in the North far, far more than we require gold. Gold is great for trade, but you cannot use it to defend your land with."

"Aye, be that be true enough. We cannot come to your aid every time you have to deal with enemy forces. But all right, I'll accept these terms for the division of loot. Now with that settled, we should go meet the rest of the leadership, and discuss the plans for the upcoming campaign."

Their father nodded, then motioned for them to follow as he began walking beside Earnur.

As expected the Prince gave them an annoyed look, before turning back to Arvedui.

"From what I can tell, you and men are skilled enough Horsemen… Yet you lack enough mounts at the moment."

"Yes and nay. We can all ride, that be true, but there are a few knights amongst us. Mostly, we used mounts to get to the field quickly, then fight on foot."

"Ah… Yes, that makes some sense. But that won't be necessary for the moment though. You'll have to wait for the rest of the Army instead of racing ahead."

"I'm not going to ask your men to give up a large number of their horses if that be what you fear. You have better cavalry than I ever had, and our war effort will be far better off with them able to fight at full strength. I will require one horse though."

"For yourself, aye, that should be fine."

"Nay. For a messenger. There is a message I need to send at utmost haste, just in case I perish on the field."

"Truly? To where?"

"To Khazad Dum. But I'll explain at the council."

---

The council was composed of a rather influential group of people in the West.

Elrond, lord of Rivendell, and newly minted High King of the Noldor, and his second in command Glorfindel.

Prince Earnur, commander of the Gondorian forces.

Cirdan the Shipwright, ruler of Lindon.

And finally the King of Arthedain and his two sons.

Arvedui felt more confident now than he'd felt in a long while. His mood had been rising and falling depending on what was going on at the moment, but it was when he had something to do when he felt most like his old self. If it was the nights that were the worst.

And so, as he prepared to speak before the rest of the council, he felt strangely at ease, despite the matters of which he would be laying forth before the rest of the Lords.

"I'm glad to see you survived Arvedui. It would have been yet another great sorrow if you had perished as well."

He smiled.

"Not Elrond. I have a lot to do ahead. I cannot afford to die now."

He nodded to his crown.

"So do you I see. I'm guessing you're heading west then, after the war? Doriath?"

"Indeed. My grandfather's halls are now awaiting a new master from what we have heard from you."

"Indeed. You'll make a fine lord no doubt."

His face got more serious.

"But before that comes to pass, we must win the war. And in regards to that, I have a lot to tell you all, my lords."

His arms went to the sides, symbolizing something great and vast.

"My lords, you as well as I have seen the complete remaking of the World. In the west, Beleriand has risen from the depths, and the continents of the world have been rearranged. But what you do not know, is that on the same day when Eru remade the world, I had a vision. A vision of things to be, what would come, and how to make it happen."

He had assumed he'd get some skepticism.

Instead, Eranur spoke up in a bored tone.

"That is not surprising no. Many amongst the people have gotten such a vision. More amongst the Highborn Elves, but there have been a few amongst my own men. Though they seem to be more mundane in nature, than the likes of the Elves, which about momentous things they must do."

He was completely taken aback by that.

"Truly?"

"Indeed. My decision to claim kingship was based on such a vision. And one of my people, a blacksmith of Gondolin, has been instructed to remake Narsil, though he is not here in Lindon, else that would have happened before you arrived."

"So… You were told to go west?"

"Yes, I was."

His first thought was wondering if everyone else had similar experiences like himself. A second self, in the backs of their minds. But… This did not sound quite like what he'd been through.

Regardless, it was a question for later.

"I see. Well regardless, what I have been shown is quite large in scale… But to the point, as regards the matter at hand, I have been shown a glimpse of the true nature of our enemy."

"The Witch King of Angmar? Is there more to him, than merely being an accursed sorcerer-king?"

"Aye, that there is. For the Witch King is but a servant of Sauron, one of the nine men who were granted rings of power, and ensnared in his web. He is one of the Nazgul, the Ringwraiths, who serves the Lord of Rings, and is preparing for his Master's return."

Silence though the facial reactions ranged from surprise to anger, but none of them despair.

It was Elrond, who saw the truth immediately.

"That… Implies that the entire reason why Angmar ever existed is to destroy Arnor, and weaken the might of the west."

"Aye, that is the case. But it is worse. For I have seen the battle ahead. We will win the fight, for the Witch King will be foolish enough to leave Fornost, to meet us in battle. He will engage our foot, and then the cavalry will swoop in and take him aware, and Angmar's might will be broken. But the Witch King will survive and escape the battle, leaving his kingdom to meet its fate. Then he will emerge again in the south many years later, and take Minas Ithil by surprise, conquering the city and bringing death and doom to Ithilien."

Earnur slammed his fist into the table.

"That he shall not! I shall slay him before I ever allow that to come to pass!"

"I agree. However, our foe is immortal. You cannot simply slay him by normal force of arms, no matter how strong or valiant. He has escaped countless battles against Arnor's folk, and no matter how many wounds he might have taken, none have succeeded in slaying him. However…"

And here, a massive smile came to his face. A sinister one, that to all those who knew him, seemed very, very out of character for the King. Smiling, he drew his sword and laid it out on the table for all to see.

"I have been shown his weakness. The old blades of Arnor, engraved with runes of power from Westernesse, have the power to sever his immortality. After that, he is as vulnerable as any other man, and can be slain by sword or spear, or arrow."

The various men looked the ancient sword over, with interested, hopeful, or reserved expressions.

It was Elrond who spoke first.

"This sounds good… And that you have this information from Eru speaks well for its validity, but I know enough of this foe, to know that it cannot be as simple as this. He is a great and terrible foe to meet on the field. Implementing the means of destruction can only be achieved, after cutting off his means to flee."

"Aye, that be true. Luckily I happen to know how such is to play out. He will escape on horseback… Which is why me and my men will focus exclusively on shooting down his horse and any who might be near. Only once on foot, and separated from his men can we bring about his death."

---

Argeleb was practicing his archery.

He aimed as well as he could, feeling the tension in the bow's string, the force being concentrated there, as the shaft was about to become an instrument of death.

With a loud thwack, his arrow hit the outer layer of the target ring. As had 24 other arrows so far.

Only 1 arrow of 25 had managed to hit the intended main target.

"Not as good as you'd hoped?"

His brother came up to him and had brought along a waterskin.

Without a word, Argeleb put his bow against the wall, before joining his brother on a nearby bench.

He took a draught, before answering Aranarth's question.

"Archery was never my specialty. I have always fought better with sword and shield, you know that. As you should, given all the times I have bested you in such."

His brother shrugged.

"Fair enough."

That was a point that annoyed him greatly. His brothers refusal to counter this kind of accusation.

It was this kind of timidity that had allowed Earnur to walk all over him these past few months.

Meanwhile, he himself had gotten laughed out of the room by both Earnur and his men when he tried to butt into their talks.

He had never truly considered the differences between Arnor and Gondor before having to spend time with their southern Kin.

If he had ever paid attention to what his mother had taught him once upon a time, he'd have recalled that 25 was the age one came into one's majority in Gondor, not 21.

As far as they were concerned, he was still but a child… And a rather amusing one at that.

Thankfully, Father had finally come and restored the dignity of their family.

Even the Gondorians now looked to him as a man to respect, in a way they never had Aranarth.

It was the difference between a King and a Prince.

"Regardless, my skill at sword and shield won't matter much. It'll be the bow we will be using on the field, not swords."

"Right… Does it…"

He hesitated, but then as his brother glared at him, he continued.

"Does it… Not bother you that we will be basing our entire battle strategy on something Father saw in his dreams?"

Oh, so THAT was what he was worried about.

"Nay, I cannot say that it does. Why should it? Even two of our rank and file have had visions, telling them matters of the future… Admittingly the fact they are to devote themselves as hunters for the crown in the coming years might be a lesser matter than what father saw, but the point still remains."

"Right… But… What father describes seems… Far, far different than anyone else. Far more detailed and varied."

"So father is special, what of it? He's always been special. A glorious hero who fought his doomed fate to the last. I fail to see how Eru taking greater notice of him is strange at all."

"I just… It's strange… This entire thing is strange… A Balrog beneath Khazad-Dum along with horrific, nameless monsters… The Witch King actually serving Sauron…"

Then he stopped, and looked around, before continuing in a more hushed tone.

"And what Father told the two of us… That the One Ring is yet still to be found in the upper banks of the Anduin, not swept out to sea as all believed…"

At that point, he had to agree that it was a strange new world.

He shuddered.

"If he gets his hands on that anew… That will be the end. When Arnor gathered her host to fight Mordor the last time, she had 300,000 men at her back. Now we don't even have a thousand men to fight."

"Aye… It's gruesome news… And somehow, in the midst of all of it, we are supposed to remake Arnor into the powerhouse it used to be. With less than 2000 men and women. I cannot fathom how father thinks that is to work… We'd have to… Have it so that every single couple would have 10 children at least."

Now that was a strange idea. It was the way of Numenoreans to only have a few children. He could scarcely recall a single family he'd seen where there were more than 4 at the absolute least.

"Aye, a strange thought… But I'm certain Father knows what to do. He would not have been given this gift if he could not."

"Our ancestors were given their great island, their long lives, enormous stature, and more, directly from Divine hands as well. That did not in the end prevent them from failing spectacularly."

"See brother, this is why Earnur stepped all over you. You need to stop thinking so glumly."

To that, his brother gave a non-committal response.

Always doom and gloom his brother.

He had always been like this. Whereas his father had fought his prophesied fate every step of the way, his brother had always regarded old Malbeth's prophecy as inescapable.

Hopefully, his brother would cheer up once the war was over, and father put down the title as the last king of Arthedain, and took office as the new King of Arnor, with all other challengers gone.

Surely once that came to pass, he could finally leave this certainty of doom behind, and use his wit in a better manner.

His brother was neither foolish nor stupid… But had never been able to use his wit in a constructive manner.

Neither to make his men love him nor devoting himself to the sword as Argeleb had done.

He would probably be a better prince in peace, than one in eternal war.

He certainly could not do worse.

---

Arvedui studied a map over Arnor.

Over it, he had written in beautiful Elven Tengwar letters(the alphabet invented by Feanor so long ago): 

"Plans for how to remake the Kingdom"

Had it been written as an official edict or court document in Fornost a year or two ago, it would have been written in the Adûnaic alphabet.

It was a usable, if ugly scripture, but frankly speaking, compared to either of the languages his "Newer half" told of, the Cirth runic scripture the West would eventually adopt, or the later "Latin" alphabet, it was beautiful as a swan in flight.

He was going to do away with the old script from Numenor entirely when he began to remake his Kingdom. He was not the first who had such aspirations, as many Kings of Arnor and Arthedain had wanted to embrace the Elven Alphabet, but he was the one who would make it happen.

It was ironic, in a very, very bitter way, that the very destruction of his Kingdom was going to be the factor that allowed for all of his reforms.

The new generation would not know the old scripture, and so the Elven one would become their new normal.

Then of course there was the King's role in the realm.

His "Newer self" would have given his nation the moniker of a "Constitutional monarchy" where the King had very clearly set powers over law.

The King was absolute in many regards, but one where he was not was the nature of law. The Kings of Gondor and Armor did not have the ability to actually change the law system inherited from Numenor, his role was merely to serve as its interpreter, and its enforcer.

That was going to change, as he both shifted away power from the law and to the King, while at the same time divesting himself of some not small degree of power in favor of the Council of Arnor.

The power he was divesting himself of was mostly related to Taxation, but it was still giving away a lot of power in the long term, in favor of creating a more dynamic and adaptable state.

Ironically enough, that very same council he would in long-term empower for the most part did not exist anymore, and that vacuum of power when Arnor did not have a Noble class was what would allow him to go ahead with these changes.

It would only really begin to matter once new nobles were appointed… Which would be decades off. As it stood, the only nobility left was the Lords of Tharbad in the south, an isolated Town in a sea of wilderness.

But that was one, single noble. And regardless, though they had always had special privileges, a hereditary seat at the great council of Arnor or any of its successor states was not one of them.

It would be a long time when he ruled as an effective Absolute Monarch over what remained of the Men of the North.

It was a small group of folks, his Dunedain and Bree-Men… But it would have to do.

As he considered how he would go about remaking his Kingdom, he considered the greater scope beyond his borders.

If they successfully killed the Witch King during the coming battle, Gondor would remain much, much stronger, never losing Ithilien.

And on the eastern front, there was Rhovanion…

He did not know how to make wha this "newer self" called plate armor, or the bursting Black Powder that would revolutionize warfare forever… but there was one weapon which he knew how to make. One that would benefit the forces of the West, far, far more than Sauron and his ilk.

The hollow lance of the strange knights called "The Winged Hussars".

It was frankly, such a simple concept that he was shocked that it would take thousands and thousands of years before it was invented.

Just cut a lance the length of a pike, then cut it in two halves from the top to bottom, and hollow out the interior, after which you glued the two halves together again.

The end result was that you suddenly had a cavalry lance longer than most spears, which would turn the already powerful charge of mounted men into an unstoppable force that would dominate the battlefield.

In fact, of his plans regarding remaking Arnor's military might, this lance would be absolutely crucial.

However, in case he perished in the upcoming battle, he had made certain that one particular group would have the knowledge of how to make them.

The Northmen contingent of Gondor's gathered forces.

When they returned home to their friends, family, and fellows, they would have the weapon they needed to retake their ancestral lands of Rhovanion, and its great open plains.

Rohan would never come into being in this timeline… But their ancestors would instead retake their old lands west of Rhun, and form a much stronger and more powerful state than Rhohan would have been. Another mighty bulwark against Sauron.

Let the Dark Lord choke on that.

And in the west, there were the Resurgent Dwarven Kingdoms of Belegost and Nogrod, not to mention the planned Elven High Kingdom of Beleriand.

The forces of the West were heading down a very different trajectory than in the original timeline.

The only thing he was uncertain of, was Khazad-Dum.

He had sent a messenger with a rather detailed description of their impending doom if they stayed the course.

Whether the Longbeard King would heed his warnings… Well, he would see in a few years.

Durin's Bane was not far from being awoken.

Regardless, he did not have the power to enforce his will on Khazad-Dum's course.

He had given warning and council.

More he could not do for them, and would instead need to focus on his own foe ahead of him.

The sorcerer King of Angmar.

He felt a burning, seething hatred bubble up inside of him just thinking about the man.

He would see him dead.

He would not let him escape to cause more untold suffering upon innocent people.

He would NOT let any other city burn at his command like Fornost did.

Chapter Text

The army set out towards the east on the 17th of May.

Thousands upon thousands upon men in mail overlapped with black and white surcoats.

Thousands upon thousands of men on huge Horses, ready for battle.

Elves and Men, side by side.

As they reached the eastern edge of the Shire, they were met by 400 or so bowmen, adding Hobbits to the coalitions armies.

They then turned sharply North, marching over green hills and plains, and came to Lake Evendim on the western shores, and then went along its edge, until they reached the Northern strand of Eriador's greatest lake.

Then they turned directly Eastwards and marched forth steadfastly and without turning, for they were led by Men who knew that terrain inside and out, every nook and turn.

Thanks to the work of their outriders killing every scout they found before they could raise the alarm, their foe did not get news of their march before they were only one day's march from Fornost, and even then, they had deliberately detached a rather large part of the enormous host before they were spotted.

An important part.

The Witch King responded immediately, and if he ever considered simply hiding behind Fornost's great walls, he discarded that idea.

Mayhaps it was simply due to not trusting the city's defenses to stand up to their foe, given he himself had broken down both of the city's main gates.

Or as Arnor's historians would later assign as the reason, mayhaps he truly believed his army, despite being outnumbered by this surprise and out of nowhere force, might win the day on the field.

Regardless of the reason, the army of Angmar sallied forth to meet their foe on the field, just east of the city.

It was the 27th of May in the first year of the new age.

Blood would flow again at Fornost's fields.

---

Earnur felt his hands twitch as they often did before battle, the thought of engaging in a contests of arms and tactics bringing him an excitement that nothing else could.

All around him, his vast cavalry force stood arrayed like an ocean of mounted warriors, all just waiting on the signal to flow forward.

---

Baldor felt himself shake as in front of him he saw the enemy army drawing itself before Norbury's eastern side.

Somewhat unfittingly, their black and scarlet colors actually fit rather well with the City's black walls that rose up behind them as a towering, all-encompassing shadow.

Or it would have if there was not something between the host and the walls 

There was… Something in front of the city's famous walls, a mass that had filled up the city's famous outlying dike and then rose up and about the lower sections of the walls, looming over the men in front of it.

What it was he could make out at this distance, but it seemed pale, and he somehow felt a deadly chill run through him just looking at it.

It was cold here, very, very cold for May, that be true, but there was something wrong over there, something he had no wish to get any closer to.

Something else he did not wish to get any closer to was the army on the opposite side.

It was yet far away, but just seeing the force filled him with a deep desire to go home and close the door behind him.

Yet he did not do so.

Nor did the rest of the hobbits around him.

He heard a number of worried mutterings, but none turned and fled, for which he was rather grateful.

That would have been rather embarrassing, not to mention rather rude to their fellows who were standing on either side of the block of Archers.

As he watched the army on the opposite side, he wondered what had brought them to this point. Why did they serve such a wicked, evil King?

He had heard tales of the men of Angmar, who said they were wicked, cruel, and evil, and yet from what he could see with his eyes, at this distance they didn't seem much different than the tall men of his own Kingdom, except mayhaps that they seemed a bit shorter.

Their coats were different though, that much was true.

Whereas the King and his men had either black or blue coats over their mail, adorned with a white star, these men all dressed in black, with a red tower fortress adorning it.

"Can you see him?"

His thoughts and fears and worries were interrupted by one of the Dunedain not too far to the left asking a question.

"Nay, though truth be told, I can barely make out their lines from this distance. But you'll know his visage when you see him. There be no mistaking that foul creature."

He assumed it was the Witch King himself they were talking of.

He had to agree though.

The description from their king did not leave much room for doubt.

Taller than all the rest, dressed in a big imposing cloak and robes, an invisible head, an iron crown, and glowing red eyes, certainly mounted on some black horse.

Surely there could not be a second figure out on the field who fit that description.

"And what… What is that thing behind them anyway? It looks like a second pile, but… white."

"Snow?"

"Snow would be sparkling, even if it's A bit cloudy now, and-" "Can you two please Shut Up!" A third voice broke in, sounding rather angry.

Several of the other men gave affirmative sounds to that, though in Baldorr's opinion, many of them sounded more scared than angry or annoyed.

As they waited for the enemy to get into formation, he could not help but notice that it became cloudier and cloudier as the day wore on, as more and more troops poured out of Fornost's southern gate to the field.

He immediately saw when the new battalions that formed up were Orcs.

They were much smaller than men, and looked absolutely hideous!

He shuddered just looking at them, and recalling every tale he'd ever heard of Orcs, and their innate cruelty.

Just looking at them, and their grinning, evil faces and huge tusks, he believed every one.

These Orcs were not much taller than Hobbits, but they were far wider, and with huge, elongated arms that almost reached the ground, and with red eyes, and skin black as the darkest soot.

Not a grey, or dark brown, but pure black, with only their white teeth and red eyes standing out from that darkness.

He swallowed and felt the grip on his bow tighten.

But it was what happened next that truly shook him. Literally.

He felt him, long before he saw him.

A presence entered the field.

A presence that made his knees shake, and the grip on his bow grow even stronger, as fear and TRUE feat began to creep into him.

Besides him from both Men and Hobbits alike there suddenly came sharp intakes of breath, as the presence came closer.

Then he saw him.

Tall, terrible, mounted on a huge black horse, dressed in a cloak as dark as sin, and a half robe of grey that came down to his knees.

A crown of grey metal he wore on an unseen brow, but between that crown and his body nothing was seen, but two, burning red stars that somehow captured the attention of every single man on his side.

In one hand he carried a shield, with the symbol that was emblazoned with the same fortress as his men, and in the other a massive morning star, with wicked and cruel black spikes.

The Witch King of Angmar had come to face the might of the West.

The man who had destroyed Arthedain, and wiped out the people of Cardolan, who had seduced to his side the people of Rhudaur, pitting them against their true countrymen, and after he had then betrayed and exterminated them once they no longer served his purposes.

The great enemy of the North, who had hounded Arnor's people for centuries upon centuries and been the source of all their great voes and the spectre in their nightmares.

He was far away still, but as he rode up along his ranks, his soldiers, Human, and Orcs alike, stiffened and whatever doubts they might have had facing this foe, overwhelmed. Not by courage, it could not be further from that, but instead from fear of their Overlord overpowering anything else.

They feared him, and his wrath, far, far more than they feared the possible outcome of this battle.

Suddenly, he stopped.

He wasn't right in front of the Arthedain contingents of the Army, but he was now a bit to the left of where Baldorr and the rest of the Arnorians were pointed.

Not that that mattered much for them.

They could redirect their fire that way easily enough.

He raised his hand, and then… 

"BOOM!"

A massive drum began to beat somewhere behind the enemy lines.

"BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!"

A chorus of similar drums began to beat in rapid succession, and as the symphony began, the army began moving.

Forward surged a massive force in black, like a tidal around their King, who remained where he had stopped, though he turned now to face the enemy army from the backlines.

Baldorr felt a surge of Panic as the black wave came towards them, not in a rush, but a calm, calculated, disciplined march of Iron across the uneven plain of tilled

Earth.

The army of the west was standing on a series of uneven hills, with a slight, if not decisive high ground, but it was in front of the Archers where the biggest high ground was to be found, as here the slope was relatively steep, and an attacker had to clamber his way upwards to assault them.

Its most notable feature though, was its vantage.

As the army in black marched closer and closer to the range of their bows, a contingent of spearmen on their side marched forward and arrayed themselves in front of the Archers down the slope in a loose arrow pointed.

Perfect for them to defend the archers while still allowing them to take advantage of that vantage.

There was some tactical reason for making the Archers look exposed as the armies began to close in on each other, to which Baldorr was not privy to, but it did not seem like the enemy had any specific plans for the archers.

A sharp sound from a whistle behind them brought Baldor and many others out of the trance of looking at the incoming army, and several hundreds of men snapped an arrow from where they were embedded in front of them in the ground, drew their bows, and raised them skywards, before letting the shafts fly.

A hail of arrows rained down on the enemy ranks, and here and there coats of mail and steel helmets stopped the sharp metal points dead, whether they came from hobbit or man.

Many others screamed and fell to the ground as arrows punched into exposed arms, throats, or legs, or found their way into an eye opening of the helmets.

Those who fell were mercilessly trampled into the ground by their fellows who came after them.

Baldorr was not the only hobbit who winced at what their arrows had done, but a second volley did not come.

This first volley was just "for show", to lull their enemy into a sense that there was nothing off with the archers. Though a more gruesome show Baldor could hardly imagine.

The army kept moving forward, though little extra focus was dedicated to their little corner of the massive lines.

Instead, the hardest assault came on the side right of the Hobbits and Arnorians.

Baldorr did not get to see any of it as the two sides clashed, but he heard it well enough.

Cries and screams and the clashing of steel on steel.

It was absolutely horrible, but far, far worse than that was the sight right below him, as spearmen and Angmar's soldiers smashed into each other.

Blood quickly coated the ground, and dead quickly piled up over each other as the Angmar forces desperately began their attempt at overwhelming the defenders.

As one soldier had his head burst open, exposing all that had been inside to the world, he almost hurled but managed to keep his composure.

One of his fellows did not, and he heard the sound of someone relieving their breakfast behind him.

It was after that though, that was the worst part.

Two sides throwing themselves at each other, with one being pushed back, then regrouping to slam back.

Reserves moved on both sides, but the great signal, the movement of the enemy king, the source of fear felt by so many here did not move.

He instead simply watched, quiet and still a statue.

But finally, as thousands of men's lifeblood now covered the cold ground, it finally happened.

He began to move.

Not along with his own cavalry, for they were on the flanks, ready to protect their sides against the numerically superior army, but alone, charging towards the enemy ranks.

The men Arthedain knew exactly what would happen shortly, for they had suffered this tactic, many, many times.

Fear.

As the rider rode up, his very presence would shatter morale, any but the very bravest, with wills of steel would turn in terror, thus creating a break in their lines.

It was a tried and true tactic, whether mounted or on foot, that the Witch King had used time, and time, and time again to defeat his enemies in the North, despite equal or worse numbers of men on his side.

But today, a counter was in play.

Baldor felt every nerve in his body tighten as the king began to move, but he thankfully did not charge right to the side, which would have forced them to redeploy their position.

Instead, he came right forward.

It was as he finally came within their range that another sharp sound from a whistle came, and another rain fell, though less precise than the previous, for many of them dared not even see where they aimed, for as he had gotten closer, fear had begun to creep in.

Even so, more than a few arrows hit home, and with a bestial scream, the great black horse fell to the ground, legs kicking frantically into the air.

The great figure of black rose from the dying horse, unharmed and none the worse for wear.

But his Horse's fall was the great signal that the trap had worked.

A massive horn blew, clear and loud, a massive Oliphant Horn from ages past, echoing across the plains and hills, and they were soon answered by more horns. Hundreds of them.

To the north, hidden by the hills, horses suddenly threw themselves into motion, and southwards a mass of mounted warriors began to surge.

There were still thousands of Angmar forces in reserve, waiting to oppose any counterattack, but it mattered little. For the cavalry force that had come to undo them, had more mounted warriors, than every soldier Angmar still had put together.

Once they came across the final hill and thundered down they swept across the Angmar army like an unstoppable wave.

Meanwhile, the cavalry hidden behind the main foot surged forth on the southern end of the field, to cut off any retreat.

There were no plans to allow any of the enemy forces to live free to see another sunrise with sword in hand.

This would be a total victory.

And die they would, whether they tried to flee to save themselves, or saw the reality and rallied for a final battle.

Not one tried to surrender, for all of them knew that there would be no mercy from this army. Not when their great sin was there for all to see outside the city walls.

The Witch King, however, was not a force that could be undone with horses.

Having suddenly found himself caught in the middle of the trap, the Dark King tried to summon mounts to replace the ones he had just lost, but no horse survived that summon, for arrow after arrow rained down upon the spot where he was, and the entire field around him was soon covered as a pincushion by needles.

The strategy that Arvedui and Earnue were employing was rather simple.

It was not within their capability to kill the Witch King with arrows, but with arrows, they could kill any mount he might bring to himself, or any servants that tried to come to his aid. 

Nor could he easily escape the hail by going back or to the north or south, for Arvedui had waited until he was far inside the range of his bowmen before he had let the trap spring.

He was thus trapped here, inside the killing field, as from the north the force that would destroy his army came surging.

For a moment, sensing what was coming,  he gazed northwards, completely unheeding of the rain that fell upon him.

He had but a moment to act before the enemy entrapped him here, and once that came to pass, his chances of a successful escape even for him, would vanish.

Thus he made his decision quickly and turned west.

Before anything else, he needed to destroy that force which kept him confined.

The enormous wraith suddenly surged across the battlefield with a speed that beguiled even his massive build, for came west like a storm.

As he surged across the field like a Demonic spectre, Baldor felt fear, unlike any which he had felt before surge forward.

It was a feeling that told him, no demanded, screamed that he had to escape NOW or he would Perish!

It was all he could to keep himself from bolting, to force himself to remain where he was, but the fear had taken all power from him and as he tried to draw his bow, it didn't move an inch backwards.

A few more arrows fell, but compared to the hail that had surged until a moment ago, it was like the last few drops of rain on an overcast day.

The Witch King was soon upon them, and as the morning star went left and right, he cared nothing for which side it befell.

The entire line became chaos as the line of spearmen broke.

Angmar's forces surged forward with a manic energy, driven forth by their King's evil will.

Baldor felt one moment of utter terror as up a man rose up before him like a towering mountain.

Then he rammed a spear at him.

The young Hobbit screamed as the metal pierced his leg clean through, but before he could wrench it out, the man fell as well, an arrow taking him right in the eye.

The world was pain, excruciating, indescribable pain, as all around him men died.

Hobbits and Men alike fled, some breaking completely, and throwing everything to the ground and fleeing far away, and some who repositioned themselves further away, as from the backs surged another, stronger force.

One that had faced the Witch King before, and did not buckle under his wrath.

Arvedui and his men smashed into the enemy forces and there they died on the hill as up, up came the Witch King.

Then he stopped.

Perhaps it was because he recognized the man who now stared down on him from up the hill, or mayhaps he simply felt the danger ahead, for every man of that company had swords engraved with runes of power.

Around him, the last embers of Angmar's assault up this hill died, to spear and arrows.

Despite it all, the dying all around, the bloodshed, the strewn masses of bodies, Arvedui gave a grim smile.

"We meet anew, Angmar… Tell me… How does it feel to see the end of your realm before your eyes… If you can even see anything of worth with your wraith eyes."

The figure shifted from clambering up the hill to standing rank, eyes locked on the other King's blue ones.

A cold, metallic voice sounded up the hill.

"If there be one to ask, I supposed thou would know best… But unlike thee, I care nought for this pitiful patch of ground in the frozen north! Break or conquer, it matters not to me what becomes of it… And regardless of what happens here, thou realm is gone, and DEAD. Thou cannot bring it back from the cold grave through the point of a sword, or false victory. Thou have lost ye, King. Arthedain is gone, and mine purpose here be fulfilled."

"So it is. But my people remain yet ye Sauron's slave..."

For one moment the red eyes and the will behind it, that drove the cold fear into the heart of all those around, faltered in certainty… But it was short-lived, for as the King continued, uncertainty gave way to rage.

"Arnor will rise anew, harder and stronger, unlike Angmar... Or Mordor. For as always happens with your side, you come so close to true victory, only to have it snatched away as the forces of light undo you. It happened to Morgoth, that overrated and cowardly ogre. And it happened to your master, who my ancestors crushed and Isldur Gelded . Several times at that! How fitting, that the slave who sold himself like a whore for a pretty bauble, would meet the same end as the master, who in turn also sold himself like a whore to Angband's Lord, to become his Werewolf Bitch! Tell me oh great King of Angmar, do you still have it? The pretty little ring you sold your soul for? Or does Sauron keep it for himself, and only show it to you when you please him, to pawn over it, long for it, and worship it and him, as the loyal dog you are?"

Silence ensued, as the figure stared up at Arvedui. A deadly silence.

There was a moment when nothing there existed except for those two.

Then, the dark king raised his left hand, which held his shield, sky high.

The fist unclenched, and only the thumb yet held it in place, as from the middle finger, a Black Light began to Shine.

The entire hill became darkness, and a Fear, unlike any other set in then.

Men were struck speechless as a madness took them and even the bravest of those who stood there fled, screaming with insane eyes, while crying like animals.

The dying cradled themselves into fetal positions as they grabbed their heads in a desperate attempt to hide away on the ground, everything else forgotten, even as guts and gore spilled out from their wounds.

Arvedui just stood there mouth agape. Paralyzed with fear and the will who was now directed at him, and him alone.

Then the Witch King spoke words of Power and broke his mind.

He fell to his knees, sword and dagger falling listlessly to the ground, as he spoke no more.

The Witch King looked his work over, then he began to walk uphill, slowly and casually, as a man out on a stroll.

On the way, he noticed a Hobbit with a spear through his leg cradling himself.

Without stopping he stomped down on the shaft near where it poked out of the leg, breaking it in half, and jerking the entire small creature along through the sheer force.

A scream of immense pain followed.

The Witch continued on and stopped in front of the broken man, and he stared down at him with eyes that burned like distant stars.

Then he raised his mace to kill.

But before the final blow was struck, a shield slammed into him from the side, bringing him tumbling downward the hill, along with another figure, who desperately tried to stab him as they fell.

Another figure followed.

Argeleb's sword stabbed again and again, but it managed not to punch through the Witch King's thick mail, and with one motion of his hand he sent the prince flying as he snapped back unto his feet.

"Ahhh… So the princes have come to play as well…"

"Begone Wight! Ye will not have our father!"

The effect was somewhat muffled by the fact that both princes were hiding their eyes from their foe's red stars, and were shaking as leaves in a storm.

They and they alone amongst all of Arnor's knights had dared to oppose the Dark King's might, as all others had fled before it.

"Better wit thee have than thou father, but thou strike a poor figure hiding behind thy shields like babes beneath the bed. I had great sport with such as they during the winter!"

The two princes began to slowly spread out and flank him from the sides, difficult though it was with the ground beneath, and the lack of true vision, for neither dared to lower their shields against their enemy's deadly look.

Their enemy did not seem much afraid of that, and as they did, he kept talking.

"Aranarth… The weakling. The weak chain. The weakness of thou entire line… I had great pleasure with thee wife… thee can find her above the gate. She lasted long but despaired by the end, as madness took her. And Argeleb thee who were stronger than all… And yet thee be cursed to fall in line behind thine worthless brother…"

The two brothers made their move.

Aranarth came in from behind first, and Argeleb followed, intending to take his great foe as he turned.

Mayhaps if they had their usual strength and unshaken hands it might have worked, but they did not.

Before the blow had truly begun, their foe swung around and stepped into Aranarth's range, and with a sickening crunch the rim of his shield bashed into the Prince's face.

Argeleb's sword swung through empty air, and the prince stared in horror as his brother fell to the earth.

The morning star took him in the chest, and he was flung upwards in a great arc, before crashing down, the sword falling to the ground.

As the Prince took desperate breaths, his chest caved in, his eyes met his father, and for a moment, they focused, only to go wide, as tears began to flow.

His hand raised as if trying to reach forward… But as the Prince's chest stopped heaving, it fell back down again.

Once more, the King of Angmar began to walk upwards the hills anew.

This time though, he stopped and turned, for up the hill something with great wrath and power.

A brilliant white, piercing light!

Glorfindel of Rivendell came up the hill afoot, for even his elven horse had refused to come near that darkness!

With an elven longsword in one hand and a shortsword of Arnor, he came uncloaked in all his power! One of the great Elven Lords from beyond the western seas.

In another time, and another place, that alone would have been enough to force the Dark King to flee before his light!

But not here.  And not now.

For this was the scene of his greatest triumph, where not long ago, Evil Had won a victory so resounding, that only the battle of Unnumbered tears equaled it in scale as such clashes of good and evil went.

And not now. Not in this age. For if Glorfindel was stronger now than he had felt in so many years that mortal men could not count them, even that paled in comparison to the Witch King of Angmar.

For none upon the green Earth felt the Splendor and Might of this new age, more so than those who carried the Rings of power, from the lesser rings to the One to Rule them all.

His darkness did not yield to the Elf's light.

Yet no slaughter was this fight, for as the two clashed, the Witch King's shield of steel was hacked to pieces, and his Morningstar lost well over half its spikes to Glorfindel's sword, though it in turn ended the fight with chips along the entire blade and a broken tip.

But the more important blade, the one of westernesse broke in half all the way to the hilt to the Morningstar.

This clash, more than anything sealed the Elf's fate.

The bout ended in a set of mutual blows.

Glorfindel's sword bit deep into the Witch King's unprotected neck, as the mace crashed down upon his head.

A horrible, horrific scream echoed across the fields even as the battle of Fornost raged on, but all kept well away from the hill.

All save one.

As the Witch King staggered to his feet, long, rasped breaths along the way, one figure ran up the hill, but not towards him. Instead to Arvedui.

With a cold, bitter scream of wrath and hate, the Witch King barreled up the hill anew.

This time there was no grace or calmness as he rushed forwards, up the hill like a wounded, but wrothful spectre!

For he was wounded gruesomely, with a pain he had not felt in ages… Though the blade had not severed the will that kept his spirit to his body.

The figure that was running snapped around, and blocked the mace. A massive, echoing clank of metal on metal, and yet the steel did not break.

For steel, it was not.

Two red eyes narrowed.

"Mithril… Earnur…"

"I be he, thou bastard."

Tall and strong he stood there, between the Witch King and his friend and kin, Arvedui.

His shield was raised high against his eyes, and unlike the other princes here, he shook not but stood strong and unyielding.

It was not a true mithril shield compared to what Dwarves would consider such. Far too little of the true silver to make a proper alloy… But it was yet strong. Mighty strong.

And yet the blow that struck it then, was nothing compared to the ones that had raged against his foes until just now. For it was much reduced in power and might.

The Witch King vaulted back, as a sword imbued with runes stabbed forward.

A sword with runes.

"Thee have lost the day Bastard. But like Sauron, you refuse to go without shedding the blood of me and mine. But thee will NOT have Arvedui. The princes will be the last sons of Arnor you ever Kill."

At those words, Arvedui stirred. As did another heart nearby, one much smaller.

But the Witch King was not moved.

He let forth an evil laugh, filled with pain and malice.

"YE speak TRUE OH PRINCE OF GONDOR! I shall have mine share of Blood here, AYE! The lines of Isildur and Anarion BOTH!"

But he did not rush forward, instead he let forth rasps of pained breaths as Earnur stood ready for the next blow.

"I hope thou have more than mere words to threaten the son of Earnil with thou bastard of Mordor. But whatever thou do, the heir of Anarion shall hinder thee now, be it flight or murder!

"EARNIL!" 

The Witch King spat. His eyes began to glow, not like distant stars, but two small, burning blood-red suns!

"EARNIL the USURPER, who clawed his way to the throne of Gondor against the true heir on the flimsiest of pretenses! EARNIL, the last king of the line of ANARION! ANARION, the FORGOTTEN, ANARION the OVERLOOKED! ANARION, who got his head crushed by common ROCK, WHOM NONE REMEMBERS nor CARES for because he was a WEAKLING, who hid behind the SKIRTHEMS of his GENERALS! ANARION did NOT HINDER me in days of OLD, and THEE will NOT hinder me NOW!"

A fist grasped around a sword hilt with a frantic grip… Then the Witch King launched himself forward.

The great shield blocked the blow, and it thundered like a great bell, and the arm beneath broke.

The sword slashed through the air, and bit into the crown on the invisible brow, sparks flying as the sword bit into the steel… And there it got stuck.

Before Earnur could wrench it out, an arm shot up, and closed around the sword arm with a grip of cold steel!

The Morningstar rose again and crashed into the helmeted head of Earnur, crown Prince of Gondor.

With an arc of his arm, he threw the dead body to the side, sending it rolling down the hill, uncaring of its further fate. The sword went with it, sliding down the slope.

Then he turned and without any further words, he once again lifted the mace to kill.

But then suddenly anew he let forth a scream of bitter pain! He buckled forward unto his knees, as his weapon sank into the hill.

Argeleb's longsword had hit him from the side, gone up underneath his mail, and stabbed him up underneath the lung, and into the spine!

For a moment as he screamed Arvedui stared at what unfolded before him.

Then life soared back anew and with a roar of pain and fury , his fingers clasped around a sword, and he buried it into the head of his foe.

The darkness vanished so suddenly as when a string was cut.

The sword splintered.

The crown was flung back and rolled, rolled down the hill.

A scream rose up and echoed up to the sky, and across the fields, and then… It faded as the winds took it, and it was heard no more on the Earth by living nor dead.

Arvedui once more found himself on his knees, but some strength was returning.

And just like that, it was over.

The sky shone merrily through the layers of grey skies, and the sounds of a massive battle just beneath suddenly were heard again.

He blinked. 

Then raised his hand. 

The "New him" raised his hand.

He searched for the "Old him" inside. He heard only distant cries and weeping.

Before he could further think about what that meant, he heard a rasped voice breathing and out in pain.

A small figure he was.

His hands still gripped the hilt of his boy's blade, but it was already burning away from the tip to the crossguard.

The hobbit was clearly in great pain, but in his eyes shone a surprisingly defiant look, then softened as he met the King's eyes.

"I…"

He looked down.

"I'm… Sorry, my lord… About… your sons…"

His sons. His strong, loyal, wonderful sons…

His eyes went past the young hobbit to where now far away, and yet so close lay the fallen broken bodies of two young men.

Past them, below on the fields of Fornost, all his hopes and dreams came true.

The Witch King was dead, and his army was undone, trampled underneath hooves, or smashed by surging infantry.

The trap had snapped shut with jaws of steel.

Not one Man, nor Orc who had taken the field underneath Angmar's banner this day would leave here alive.

It was as decisive and total a victory as could be imagined.

And yet nothing in his entire life had ever felt more bitter on his tongue. Was this his great victory? The defiance that his entire life had been building towards?

His eyes, more out of instinct and reflex, rather than any intent suddenly came back to the young Hobbit as he began to sway, his eyes beginning to go dim.

"You… You're hurt lad…"

He moved forward to where the hobbit was yet kneeling on one leg, the other hanging limply behind him, the end of a spear having gone through it. His arms grabbed around him, preventing the lad from falling.

"Wait… I know you… You're… Bucca's lad."

"Yea… That's me. Bucca's boy."

"Baldor… I remember."

He unloosened the clasp of his cloak, to use as a blanket upon which to lay the lad, so he should not have to rest directly upon the earth… the bloodied earth.

As he moved him over, his old training took over.

Black Breath.

That was the main issue.

The wound in the leg was bad, very bad, but it was within his power to heal easily enough, given it wasn't healed over yet.

For Black Breath, however, he needed Athelas. Athelas and boiling water.

As he considered how to get it, however, some of his men suddenly came running back.

The great shadow had passed, and so had their courage returned.

Some looked at him as he was now, leaning over and treating a wounded hobbit with great wonder, and all glanced at the spot where a mace had embedded itself into the ground beside a pile of black clothing and a coat of mail lay.

A few others looked at the sight of the fallen. 3 princes and one Elven Lord.

"Water. Bring me boiling water, and Athelas."

They flinched… but thankfully several ran off to do his bidding without questions.

Several of the ones who remained cautiously went over to where, just below his pride and joy had perished so valiantly, to check if they were really dead.

Another did the same for Prince Earnur, and soon enough, all 3 princes were covered by cloaks, to shield them from further dirt, dust, or grime of the battle.

Much more strife there would be that day and for hours yet the fight and slaughter went on, and as Arvedui used the powers and knowledge that he possessed to beat back the shadow on the young Hobbit's face, the entire time there was the clamour of death behind him.

But as time went on, the sounds began to quiet. Or at the very least the sounds of steel.

The lamentation of the wounded yet filled the air.

Once he was satisfied with his work, both in spirit, and the lad's leg, he called for a cart to aid him back to camp.

As for others who had the Black Breath(And there were more than a few) he ensured that they would be gathered in one place by the time he returned to camp.

It would yet remain a busy day and night, but for now, he had one more errand he needed to do before he resumed the arts of healing, and turning his attention to rulership.

He found what he was looking for not far away, for none had dared to touch the piles of black clothing his great foe had left behind.

And there, he found it.

He did not look at it in depth, merely closing his fist around that most accursed of things, which had claimed his sons' lives, and God knows how many other souls over the years.

As he raised himself back up and walked, he did not stop by the black drapes beneath which his sons lay.

He knew if he did that, he would not manage to raise himself up. Not as he was now.

Instead, as men were going about the aftermath of victory, he instead headed east, across the fields and towards Fornost's walls.

It was as he did that, that he suddenly once more recalled the strange white mound that was piled up in the great dike around the city.

An eternity ago, in another age, he had wondered what that was.

But now it seemed unimportant… At least until he came close enough to see what it was for himself. And there he stopped.

He just… Stared at the sight ahead of him, almost not comprehending the horror.

For there, in the great pit and killing field around his home, which had stopped Angmar's forces countless times, was stacked, one atop the other, every single one of his people who had been killed in Fornost.

Thousands upon thousands. Hundreds of thousands.

Men, women, children.

All stripped of clothing and dignity, and with Angmar's symbol branded upon their foreheads.

His people… Oh God, he had failed them so…

He eventually began walking, not so much because he found his strength anew but because he HAD to get away from this horrible, horrible sight ahead before it broke his heart anew.

And only by passing beyond them and into the city, could he escape Deadman's Dike.

He was not the only one who was utterly horrified by this gruesome sight.

Later, as the night began, the men of the west would set fire to the mounds, and in the darkness, as the half ring of flames raged, the hearts of the Men of Gondor would fill with wrath and a thirst for rueful vengeance, for their dead prince and their fallen Kinsmen… But in Arnor's hearts, there was no room for rage. Only deep, unquenching sorrow.

Arvedui eventually reached the causeway, the only pathway through the great dike, and as he came up that causeway, and entered his broken and battered city through the fallen gates he himself had last seen as he attempted to defend them, he felt his heart almost break anew for a second time that day, as all he saw was shattered rubble and broken homes, statues and destruction.

His home.

The place he'd been born. It was utterly destroyed. Every shop was torn down, and every home was torched. 

Almost none had been left standing here at the lower level of the city.

One building though which stood perfectly intact was a small one. It was a rather simple building, merely a square block of stones.

It was a smaller building, with a number of private rooms inside.

It was perfect.

Nobody of those who had come here before him, to ensure no Orc or man yet hid here questioned it as he went inside this building, and none followed him.

One of his ancestors had constructed this building. King Beleg, who had been annoyed by public urination on part of the poor and homeless of his city.

It had once been called by a number of names, whether local nicknames such as "the pisshouse", or the official "Public Outhouse", though he would simply have called it a public toilet.

It was here he found one such, a square stone seat, with a hole in the middle, and raised that which had clutched in his hand during his entire march here.

He let it dance through his fingers.

A golden ring, with an Obsidian gem. It was beautiful. It was calling to him.

He could feel its pull, its will, demanding he claim it.

It was strong. Powerful. It demanded that he put it on.

He knew the true purpose of that pull, of the brutal fate that awaited those who claimed these rings.

But it was not that which went through his mind then. He recalled something else, something that overrode any worries, or temptation of taking this ring as his own, his weregild.

He remembered Arveleg's face as his eyes pleaded to his father, right before death claimed him.

He remembered the other face, lying face down into the hill.

He remembered his boy's When they had been young, his firstborn a shy lad, and his second a brilliant flame who burned ever on, so bright and alive.

"Let Midgewater have thee… And may thee rot there with shit and moss until the end of days!"

He dropped the ring down into the hole between 4 blocks of stone, down into the watery depths, where it was immediately claimed by the running water below.

And from there, it passed the same way as all the rest that had tumbled through this underwater passage over countless years, southwards, all the way to the Midgewater marshes, where it would rest for near a thousand years.

Chapter Text

If one wanted to find a capital city that was a true embodiment of her people, one would be hard-pressed to find one that better encapsulated it than Fornost did for the Arnorians in that summer.

Broken and shattered beyond belief… And yet somehow still alive.

The vast majority of the city had been leveled, leaving enormous piles of stone and broken wood in humongous piles along the city's gridline.

Its culture had been eradicated, as even in places where the buildings had not been torn down, every painting on canvas had been thrown on the fire, along with every book to serve as kindling for Angmar's forces.

Every statue had been smashed to rubble, or if made of metal, be it gold or bronze, hacked to pieces and melted down to bars.

Every mural was broken, and every painting on the walls scrubbed over.

And outside her walls in great pits there yet remained the bones of her former inhabitants, now charred and blackened.

And yet despite it all, despite all the attempts to stomp out the Dunedains' presence, she still lived!

The army of Gondor was currently using it as a great depot of provisions for their coming and brutal campaign in the north.

It would serve as their great base in the North.

And amongst their rubble the survivors of her own people yet remained as well, either recovering from the great battle outside her walls or shifting amongst the rubble.

There was still sorrow and grief in every heart… And yet still there remained a drive to continue the march forward, the refusal to give up on life!

The war for their lives(At least as far as they were concerned) was now over. Now was the time to begin the path to recovery.

And so it was that with a diligent fervor that men, aided by their Elven allies, shifted through the rubble of stones.

Both to find useful things for them to bring with them back to where they would dwell for the foreseeable future, but also to take as much stone with them as they could that could be used for buildings and such.

The time would come that they would come back here again on a more permanent basis, and they would in turn rebuild it when that came to pass, but for now, the order was clear.

Save and salvage that which could be recovered, and make one's goodbye to the city, for they would not see it in many a year.

But there was also a third reason for their great work amongst the blue-grey rubble.

Now and again, someone who shifted through the stones would let out a cry, and quickly all around would lay down their burdens to come and aid him with what he had found.

Often it was a painting.

Some had suffered greatly in the sack as the buildings collapsed, and some had only been scratched, and some so badly damaged that only a scrap remained.

And yet all were treated with great care and reverence, as if they were the finest glass, as they were carried to a better storage.

The most common thing they found was cloth, be it banners of their star, or sheets, or towels, though little remained of clothing.

Second to those were rugs, for many a rug they pulled out from the rubble.

Some would have scoffed at it all. Men working so diligently to recover such ephemeral things in such dire times, but for the Men working so hard, they understood.

This was their culture. The last remains of Arnor as it had been.

When their sons and daughters grew up, these would be their reminders of yesteryear, of what had been… And what could be again.

And through those days of work, every man looked after one thing in particular. The thing that Fornost had been founded on, their great specialty, that they had practiced since even before their ancestors had left Annumias as the capital of the north.

And yet they found none. Not one time did they find any of it other than shattered rubble… Until finally one man let out a cry of excitement as he and his team finally had reached the ground leveled of that particular building, and underneath a rug, they found an entrance into the ground.

A basement, hidden from obvious sight.

And here, they finally found one. Along with a chest filled with silver coin, they found something that in their eyes was worth far, far more than any hammered piece of silver could ever have been.

Pure white and marvelous, a statue of a proud, crowned woman, size half that of being truly lifelike.

The more learned amongst the Men recognized her as Queen Tar-Ancalime of Numenor, one of the ancestors of their beloved king and his fallen sons.

The chest was for the moment forgotten, as with utmost care and gentleness, the one, single statue that had survived the sack of Fornost, once the home of the greatest stonemasons in all of the High Kingdom under Elendil the Tall, was transported up to the light, where it was given its own room in the gatehouse by the causeway.

There it would remain until it was time for it, and all the rest they managed to salvage, to go westwards to the shire, the Dunedain's new home for the moment.

---

Baldor was healing well all things considered.

His cousin had once been impaled through the arm by a pitchfork in a tragic accident.

It had never really healed properly.

By contrast his wound was closing up and after only a month after the battle he was now up and walking about with nonproblem… Though there was still a bit of aching.

Still, the King and his Men's capacity for healing was absolutely marvelous!

No, he had no problems, nor complaints about that.

What he could have done without, was the now showers of praise he'd gotten from both his fellow Hobbits and the King's Men.

He had earned fame he'd never dreamed of through his actions on the fields, and the King had even told him he'd be greatly rewarded for his actions.

He couldn't go into a room without some cheer or invitation to come talk.

He could very much have done without either.

In particular because rather than feel proud, it only made him feel more like a liar and fraud.

He was being hailed as a great Hero… Which he might have appreciated if he had truly been such… But he was not.

He was being hailed as the one man who stood beside his King in the darkness as all others fled, and who had stabbed the evil King and saved his sovereigns life… but alas, he knew the truth.

The latter might be true, but the first one was not.

He had been as paralyzed by fear and turned into an utter craven during the battle itself.

He certainly was not one such as the fallen Princes, who had stood by the King so valiantly and brave.

No, he was a coward, who had only been where he had been at the end because he was incapable of fleeing.

Mayhaps he had saved the King, steeling his heart at the very end to do what must be done, but he could not lie to himself.

He was a coward.

Honestly, he might been fine with that revelation, if not he was constantly reminded of his "Heroism".

Unlike his father, he'd always liked to keep his space away from most, but that seemed rather unlikely to be happening much in his future.

On that point, he was even more correct than he could possibly have dreamed.

It was as he was out and walking through the streets of the upper city one day, that he once more was called out to.

The voice though, made him stiffened just hearing it, though for a very different reason than the usual calls.

He immediately turned, as a tall, strong figure, flanked by 8 men in mail followed after him.

"Y-your Highness!"

"Baldor son of Bucca. Good to see you walking about. How goes the recovery?"

"V-very well your Highness!"

The man smiled, and his voice was cheerful, though he saw a deep pain in his eyes, which even he had no problems figuring out the source of.

But as the king did not mention his sons, he did not ask.

"I'm glad to hear it lad. Come, walk with me. There are matters to discuss."

Without saying a word in response, he immediately walked up besides the King as they went down the street southwards.

"It's a sad sight…"

Baldor understood what he meant, as they passed broken home after broken home.

He wondered how tall these buildings had once been when they still stood.

If they were even a quarter the height of the palace, the biggest remaining building, they must have been 4 stories at the least!

"It must have been beautiful when it still stood tall and whole."

The king nodded.

"That it was. Fornost was built by Elendil the Tall… the first High King of Arnor. A second, lesser city to his beloved Annuminas, which is four times larger, but still a wonder to behold, where he spared no expenses. The upper level we walk through now was modeled after the legendary Elven city of Gondolin, then lost beneath the waves. It was in its time the fairest city ever built underneath the sky and east of the great sea… In hindsight, modelling a city on another city most famous for its sack and fall might have been tempting fate quite severely."

He had not heard of Gondolin before now.

But he looked at it from the opposite perspective, of being impressed by its connection to this magnificent city.

"Truly? Gondolin was as great as Fornost?"

"Aye, as the upper part at the least. It was pure marble though, so it was the most pure white you could imagine, as opposed to our grey-blue."

"I think both sounds wonderful. I-i mean, building a city of blue or white stone… Both sounds beautiful like… The river and snow… That… really sounded better inside my own head."

The King laughed.

"Mayhaps so, but it's not a bad comparison. Snow and water are beautiful in their own right… But mayhaps you will see Gondolin in time yet, and mayhaps you shall get to judge between them… Though not in the proper form I fear. Both are ruins and ruins Fornost will remain in all my remaining time on Earth I fear."

"I… Rather doubt that. Once we go back home to the Shire, I don't think I'll leave it again."

"That remains to be seen."

The king did not say more right then, for at this point they reached the stairs up to the battlements of the upper level, and they began their journey upwards.

Much easier for the King and his men with their blasted long legs than for Baldor.

He was breathing harder than he should have when they were finally up on the top, to where the King walked over to the walls, and leaned over them, hands on the marble.

"The Northern plains of Arnor… They go ever onwards on… But we who live here change all the time… The plains might be the same as in Elendil's days… But the people are not. Hobbits did not even live here in Elendil's day, and yet here they shall remain as long as my kin rule…"

He wasn't sure where the King was going with this.

"Was… Was that in doubt, your Highness?"

"Only in the sense that had not saved my life, it would have been a very different world. A harsher one. But that did not come to pass. I yet live… The last of Isildur's line. For the moment."

He turned towards Baldor.

'And for that, I am extremely grateful. I'm sure you're wondering why I have not sought you out before now, despite my promise of a great reward."

"Not… Really. I have had other things on my mind, your highness."

And that was true enough. This reward from the King had been the last thing on his mind.

The king smiled.

"The more proper thing would have been to say yes, and lead into the fact that the time had come for it, lad… But I rather enjoy your honesty. You Hobbits are an honest and straightforward folk… Unlike others I could name. But the reason I have not spoken with you about it before is because I have been in contact with your father, Bucca."

"Really?"

"Indeed. As a reward for your heroism in the field, I have two rewards. The first, and more tangible, is that Bucca of the Marish is to become Bucca Brandybuck, Thain of eastern Shire which shall now be known as Buckland, and Lord of both sides of the Brandywine where it flows through the shire. These offices shall pass down through his line, starting with you lad. Let none say that the King of Arnor is not openhanded to those who serve him."

The young hobbit just stared at him in amazement, mouth agape, until the king actually laughed at his expression, upon which he shut it closed anew.

"I-I thank you y-your Highness this is…"

He almost said "far too much" but thankfully managed to blurt out: "Honor. I mean, an honor. It's an honor."

"It is. It also has a number of duties attached to it, in particular one of keeping both the mail system working, as well as seeing through some educational reforms… But your father will handle most of the changes. Your task will be to inherit them, and see them carry through smoothly as befits a lord."

Oh, stormy night… A lord. He had been raised as a farmer… A farmer from a rich family, that was true, but a farmer nonetheless… How was he supposed to… Lording? Was that the word?

"The second Honor though, is of a more personal nature."

He motioned to one of his men, who quickly pulled out what to him was a long dagger, but for Baldor was a sword.

The king took it, then handed it to Baldor to the Hobbit's amazement.

"I intend to strike you a knight of Arnor lad, as befits a true Hero of the realm… But that will be for later. For now, you shall be my squire, and learn the ways of Arnorian chivalry, and go where I go."

"I…" He took the sword, then stared dumbfounded at the sheath and pretty gems in the hilt.

This really was too much for him.

The King's face turned away from him, to once more look over the plains.

"I will teach you much and more lad… But home you shall go, for I too am heading to the Shire soon, and there we shall remain for a long while… But first, we shall make a detour west, to Lake Evendim."

As he continued, his voice suddenly turned so sad, and depressed, as if another man was speaking the words.

"My boys… I cannot lay them to rest here. The halls where my ancestors were laid to rest have been… sullied and perverted beyond words. The bones of all the sons and daughters of the line of Isildur who were buried here have been removed, and I know not where they are now… Amongst the rest of my poor people, I expect… And so… I shall lay them at rest at Annuminas. The old capital."

His gaze which had as he spoke been one of utter sadness and total defeat, turned back to the confident and cheerful one he had as he had spoken before.

"First Annuminas lad… Then to the Shire where it will be time to Rebuild !"

---

In the summer days across all of Eriador, the news spread far and wide that the Witch King was now finally dead, and his entire army had been killed at Fornost.

For the people of Bree, and the refugees there, it was a time of joy and celebration, where the very tense peace broke, and it became clear that yes, they would survive after all.

For the people of Tharbad, the fortified town far, far in the south of the Kingdom, whose overlord had changed back and forth over the centuries depending on who was willing to pay for the continued existence of their flood-prone little settlement, the news that the northern Kingdom, and thus the entire reason for their towns strategic importance and continued existence was similarly celebrated, if not for the same reasons as the lands in the further north.

The Shire was a mixed bag. On one hand, most of the province was overjoyed that victory had been achieved at last, and that now peace would reign, but the news that 78 of the 400 or so hobbits that had gone to battle had perished was a heavy blow for many a family, who's son or father would not come home.

For the sparse population of fisherfolk along Arnor's southern coastline, the news was met with utter and total apathy. A forgotten part of the Kingdom left to their own devices by first the King Kings of Arnor, then the successor state of Cardolan, and then finally by the Kings of Arthedain, they had little love for either their King or countrymen and usually their only interaction with the King in Fornost had been the collection of taxes, usually paid for in the form of salted fish.

For the people of Angmar, it was the worst news they had ever heard in the Kingdom's history, and it would only get worse going forward.

For the western remains of the Druedain that lived by the coast, in one of the few bits of the old Forest that had covered all of Eriador, there was celebration that the Witch King had finally been defeated, but little emotion over the survival of the line of Isildur, which had never been a friend of them and theirs.

For the Dunedain mostly gathered in the shire, there was of course great happiness and joy, but also the question of "What now?"

Victory had finally been achieved, but Arthedain was still destroyed. Would they return to Fornost and begin the long, slow road to recovery there? Or would they remain in the west of the Kingdom?

As the Arnorians began to trickle back to the shire, carrying with them horse-pulled carts(Given as gifts by Gondor's forces) cultural artifacts, stone, and what remained of Fornost's treasury, the word began to spread that the King had a plan for the rebuilding of the Kingdom, and would explain it out to the survivors in the shire soon… But first, he would be traveling to the Old capital of Annuminas for his sons' funerals before returning to the south.

Some of the Dunedain, and a few of the hobbits, including Bucca Brandybuck, the first Thain amongst the Hobbits under the King went northwards.

Amongst these was a small party from Rivendell, who had fled there alongside several important artifacts of Arnor before the previous winter had even begun, just in case.

Now they came back again, led by the now clear second-ranked in power of the realm as it now stood.

Amongst these was also an Elf. A blacksmith of Gondolin in ages past, who had taught many an elf in Elrond's hall the secrets of metalworking.

Now he had come to see through one, final task before heading west to join his High king along with most of his people.

They would all meet at Annuminas.

Chapter Text

As the large group made its way across the wilderness, its various members had a number of different thoughts and concerns, not to mention ways to pass the time.

There was always work for their scouts, for Arvedui had no plans of being waylaid by some ambush as Isildur had once suffered much to the sorrow of his realm.

Those amongst them skilled in hunting also had plenty to do, for the amount of wild animals in this corner of the world was massive, unsettled as it was.

Deer, boars, and the occasional wolf, though for the Arnorians it was mostly venison they served every night over the fire.

The most common pastime though was to share stories.

It was great stories, small stories, stories of the elder days when larger-than-life figures walked the land, and stories of personal moments the speaker had experienced.

And of course, the King himself was no exception to this.

For he spoke every day with his new squire Baldor, who by virtue of where his new position called him to, was generally to be found in his presence.

It was a strange sight to most of his men, the massive heir of Isildur, and the short lad, barely taller than a human boy of 12.

Honestly, many's thoughts were that the King was treating the lad as some form of substitute son… Mayhaps some replacement for the two brave ones who were following them in chests, carried on carts.

And if one listened to what the King had to tell the lad, this image of father and son would only be strengthened, for the tales he told his squire were tales of old, of his ancestors Beren One-hand, Luthien Tinuviel, and High King Fingolfin.

All the tales one might have expected to hear from an Arnorian father talking to a son.

Those who actually did listen to the King's talks with young Baldo however, had a much different opinion.

For the things that Arvedui asked you Baldor about in full were quite frankly so bizarre, that many of them were wondering if their monarch had taken some blow to the head during the battle.

For he asked about life in the Shire, in the most minute detail one could imagine.

There was the usual stuff one might ask out of curiosity, or politeness, like how it was to live in the land of the Hobbits.

Sensible, logical things.

But then there were questions like "How do you dispose of waste from the bathroom? Did you have running water beneath your toilets?  Was this common in the shire? What sort of food is the most common in your household during each season? How cold does it get in the southwestern parts of the Shire? What do you eat on? Metal, wood, or porcelain?"

It was a bizarre question in the eyes of both the men, and the young Hobbit as well, but the lad answered as truthfully as he could, and if the King was not satisfied with the answers he hid it quite well.

In fact, as he asked about the daily details of life in the shire, he seemed more, and more like he was more and more satisfied with the answers.

He went through each day with a smile and a strong voice.

It was in the nights, as the sun went down, and he was to sleep, that a much more melancholic look came over him.

For each night he set up his tent beside his sons. 

And every night, as he stopped beside the bodies of his sons to look their shroud-covered faces over, it seemed to those around that he turned into a different man as the party stopped, and everyone prepared for sleep. 

A broken man.

---

Baldor lay on his back looking up at the stars.

He'd never really been one for stargazing.

It was a pretty sight no doubt… But not so much that he'd be out and about watching it when he could be in a nice, comfy bed indoors.

Now though, he never got to sleep indoors during this march, so unless it was raining, he was more than content to sleep outside in the warm breeze, looking up at the stars above.

Bright, brilliant, and yet so far, far away…

They weren't any different than what they looked like back in the Shire, but looking up at them and what they represented, the enormous roof of the world, he was starting to get some semblance of how wide the entire thing was. Middle Earth's enormous weight and size.

He was not completely in the dark of such. He was a Stoor Hobbit after all, and he'd heard plenty of tales from before they went westwards and came to their home.

Wast plains, and wast dales, forests, and mountains they had crossed on the way.

And his father kept a map in their hole that showed how the Kingdom had been at its height.

Of that realm, the Shire, which he had always thought up as large, was but one part of a much greater whole. Not insignificant, but not truly a grand part of the Kingdom.

His King's tales of the wider world had opened his eyes to just how much bigger the wide world was compared to what he'd always imagined.

The king was trying to teach him much and more of the world… But it was the size of it all that truly stuck out in his mind, amongst all the tales of Kings and Heroes.

Beleriand, the land that had sunk beneath the waves and had risen again was over twice the size of the Kingdom.

That too was something that had struck him with awe and wonder.

For him, the Kingdom had always seemed like it must have contained the majority of the greater world.

He had always known it had been greater than it was now, and east of the great misty mountains, there was a great river from where the Hobbits had once come… But yet still he had thought of the conflict between Arthedain and Angmar as the most immense conflict that had ever been and could ever have been imagined.

Now he saw that it wasn't such at all.

Arnor, even at its height, had been but a small part of the world, and it had partaken in conflicts much, much greater than the one in which he had been a participant.

The war against Sauron had made the great northern wars against Angmar look like a skirmish by comparison.

And there had been wars. Far, far more wars than he had imagined there had been.

Beleriand and Eriador had both seen conflicts beyond count.

The ones the King told him of were but a fracture of them, he was starting to see.

It made him feel small… And to start to realise that his homeland WAS small. Not just compared to what it had once been, and the King hoped to make again… But compared to the outer world, the Shire was but a patch of earth.

And yet… Looking up at the heavens, he saw a beauty that the people of that time too had seen.

Beleriand, Arnor, or even the dark lands of Mordor, or the fair land of Valinor, beyond the world… All of them could look up, and see the stars above.

It was almost as unchanged now as it had been then… With only the Evening Star and the moon having changed from then.

Yes… The world was grand and terrible… And it did change. Even the moon, which the King described as having been unstained, was now marred by time.

Everything changed if you gave it long enough time.

His musings of the world were cut short as suddenly in the darkness voices began to be heard.

A number of the King's men had gathered to talk not too far away from him, probably thinking that they would be unheard.

It was strange. The Men were so skilled at moving unheard that he'd not heard them at all, and yet here, he had remained completely unseen as he lay on the ground, dressed in a dark blue cloak that hid him in the darkness.

And he knew that if he decided to get up he'd alarm the men greatly, for they had no idea he was there, listening to their talks. Better he just lay there undiscovered.

"Won't be long now… We'll see Annuminas on the morrow."

"Aye… Then we can finally turn south and actually enjoy this victory… If one could call it that. I truly hope Gondor's forces actually do break Angmar once and for all, for if we have to fight as we are now..."

A bit of silence ensued.

"Better not think of that. What we need to focus on is how to rebuild."

"Aye, that we do… I just wish I had more confidence in the King's plans. He says he has a plan, and I do believe he had one before we left the Grey Havens, but…"

"You think he's lost it?"

Baldor actually felt shock, especially at the casual it was said.

"The thought has crossed my mind, unfortunately…"

"Aye… Or he seems to be on the way there… I have no issue with the Hobbit Baldor but… Why does he seem so interested in things such as toilet paper in the shire? Or matches? Or fireworks? It boggles the mind."

"Maybe he wants to know how much they make. We are going to be dependent on them for such things, you know."

"Maybe so, but… Surely they make more than enough to accommodate us as we are now… It's just… That the King focuses so much on these matters now, when we need clear, decisive leadership is… Not encouraging.

Baldor had a number of thoughts on that.

He generally liked the men around him well enough… But listening to them in talks such as this, made him understand that they had a quite different perspective on things than he.

"And there is how he turns every night when visiting his sons… Grief can truly do horrible things to a man… We need to lay the princes to rest, the sooner the better. King Arvedui needs to begin to heal, and he will not do such when he has to see his boys every day."

On that point, Baldor DID agree.

Putting the princes to rest would be for the best for all… Including the men themselves.

On the morrow, they would finally do so, and then they would head home to the Shire.

---

Arvedui, as he always did each morning spent a bit of time lying in what passed for a bed, wracking his mind to see if today would be any different than yesterday.

It was not.

The voice that was the "Old" Arvedui was still nothing more than a faith whisper.

It was strange… Once upon a time, the two halves had been so strongly connected that it was hard to tell where one began and the other ended.

Now though… Now he, the "newer" half of this equation was both in charge, and the differences between them were stark.

He was still Arvedui, with the farmer from another time being but a distant memory… But he was not the "old" Arvedui either.

That older Arvedui was more… Reserved? Was that the way to describe it?

More prone to let doom and gloom cripple him, and make him doubt himself.

He by contrast was a more… Engaging sort.

He liked to see things done. You dealt with your problems by getting stuff done, big or small.

He rose from the bed(Really just a hammock), and after equipping himself, with the usual clothing and armor, he strode out, confident as could be.

He distinctly did not go to his sons.

He had an important day ahead of him.

There would be time for tears later.

Today was the day when they finally reached Annuminas, the Tower of the West.

The original capital of the High Kingdom of the Dunedain.

Much larger than Minas Tirith, and equal to Osgiliath, it was meant to be the crown jewel of the North.

Much and more had happened there, and his ancestors had made astonishing breakthroughs in science, art, and technology.

It was those advancements, diminished as they now were, which would hopefully save this Kingdom in its economic death spiral.

It was something the "old" Arvedui would never have considered, but he had seen it almost right away.

He was a capitalist after all. He understood the value of trade, especially when you had something the rest of the world wanted.

And if they didn't want it, you had to convince them that they wanted it.

Not a hard task for him all things considered.

As he strode out, he saw that many had decided to spend the night stargazing, or sleeping out under the open roof of the heavens.

He noticed one soldier who was currently by the shore of the great lake with his pants around his ankles.

The King of the North did not approach him and instead let his eyes go to the left, where Evendim's dark blue waters stretched on and on as if it was the sea itself 

Looking at it, you would never have known that it was not in fact the ocean.

It was the biggest, and frankly, the only lake in Eriador that actually mattered, with the only other one of any real note being Midgewater, a landlocked swamp whose contents only avoided being pure salt by virtue that there were no major rivers leading to it. Only dug-out passages like the one from Fornost.

Evendim was beautiful, mighty, full of fish, and deep, deep, deep.

Out on the middle, it was so deep that none had ever managed to measure it, and they had tried. Oh yes, his ancestors had tried, having let down chains that had gone down for well over a mile and yet not hit the bottom.

It was basically the equivalent of Lake Baikal of "modern days".

He wondered if that lake existed now, in this time.

Following that train of thought, he wondered how deep the sea of Rhun was.

That was one thing he could not check with his Palantiri, even if he wanted to. Their scrying capacity ended at water surfaces.

He was considering whether or not it would be worth it to invest in diving bell technology(As it wasn't exactly rocket science) to have someone explore the depths when his squire came up to him.

"Hail Baldor! How was the night."

"Well enough I suppose… The air is a bit wetter here than on the plains… Is it like this by the great sea as well?"

He smiled.

His body language was still a bit hesitant, with clear reverence towards him, but the lad spoke far more freely now than before.

"That it is, though by the sea the air has a taste of salt in it as well."

"That sounds… Absolutely dreadful."

He laughed.

"If you think that's dreadful lad, imagine dunking your face with eyes open in a cold bath of salted water. That's basically what the sea is. When you think about it, it's rather insane anyone would want to live by it, much less travel it for a living."

The Hobbit shuddered.

"Aye… Come to think of it, your stories don't mention the sea much your highness."

"Just wait until we reach Earendil. Now there's a tale of a lot of unnecessary sea travel. The man was a sailor beyond peer, but a good navigator he was not."

He supposed he was being a bit harsh, given Earendil hadn't possessed a compass(At least he assumed that was the case) but when amongst your accomplishments included accidentally rounding the horn of Africa, when your only job was "sail westwards" spoke of a man who really needed to be better at directing his ship in the right direction.

"Right…"

The lad didn't seem too enthused about that.

"Your Highness… There was a… Matter I must talk to you about."

"Certainly, what part of the tales do you wish to know more about lad?"

"Oh, oh it wasn't that your Highness! I was… Well last night I was sleeping out under the stars as I've come to do during this journey, and… Well I overheard some of the men talking. Your Men I mean, your soldiers."

His soldiers?

"What did they say, lad? Have they been mocking you?"

If so, he would put a stop to it.

"No, nothing such as that… Well… They were talking about you, and… Well… They didn't seem to like what you and I have been talking about…"

What they had been talking about?

Did him giving his squire an education bother them that much?

It was not even like he was the first Squire Arvedui had had over the years.

He had not treated them much differently.

"About… What you've been asking me about… About Shire life."

Ah…

"Oh that… That's alright lad. Once I reveal my plans, they'll come around."

The hobbit seemed taken aback by that.

"Truly? They seemed… Rather… Questioning about your…"

"Oh don't worry about that. I'll handle it later today."

He needed to speak with the Hobbit clan leaders he'd asked to come to Annuminas first after all.

But frankly speaking, he probably should talk to them about this and lay his cards on the table before more questions about his ability to lead were put forth.

The lad still didn't seem convinced.

"To be… Honest your Highness… They seemed to think you might be…"

"Going crazy? Nay lad, far from it. But let me worry about that. Today, focus on the fact you are going to get to see a wonder on the green Earth. Annuminas by Evendim's shores! Take in the aight of her aplonder Baldor, for unless you get to see the great cities of Beleriand, you will never see anything as beautiful and wondrous in your life! Do not squander such with worry about things that will be resolved before the sun sets."

---

As they marched, on the horizon there was to be seen to be a glint of gold, first speckles, then as they kept the march up, those speckles turned into bright, burning orbs in the light of the sun.

Not all in the company had actually seen the city before, and some wondered if it was actual, pure gold that shone on the horizon.

Those who were learned in the ways of Westernesse knew better, but that did not make the sight that appeared before them any less beautiful.

As they got closer and closer along the shores of Evendim, more and more she came into view.

Spires of pure white marble yet unstained, hundreds of domes of golden and immaculate steel that had neither rusted nor dimmed in the countless years since her sons had left her.

An outer wall of black stone, taller and thicker than the walls of Minas Tirith. Unbreakable, indestructible, unless something shattered the very stone the city was built on.

This was the city Numenor's men, the home that Elendil the Tall had built in the North, the capital of the High Kingdom, made with all the capacity and skills of the faithful when their power was yet undiminished and whole.

Near enough 6 times larger than Fornost and Minas Tirith, with 6 layers, one towering atop the other, 7 ports big enough to serve as a capital city port in their own right, it put even great Umbar to shame, with only Osgiliath coming close to its naval capacity.

A massive moat surrounded it as if it were an island, and beneath and underneath the stones the most advanced sewer system ever built by hands of man.

It was a wondrous sight, and left many of the people who came there that day with slacked jaws and wide eyes, as they beheld it from afar… Only to come inside and see that it was even grander than it looked from the outside, for almost all of the buildings there were 4 stories or more, and though many were overgrown with green or moss, the sheer scale boggled their mind.

For Annuminas was a city built to comfortably house over a million souls, and that had been its bane, as Arnor's population declined.

For as grand and impressive as this city was, it required a population in the several hundreds to run properly, which given the numbers of Arnor slowly but surely declined year after year, had made the continuous upkeep of this city a drain on both manpower, coin, and resources… Until the day finally came when it's monarch would abandon it for Fornost, Arnor's second-greatest city.

It could have been easy to simply lay the blame on that reasoning, and leave it like that, but there was another reason as well. Another reason that had kept this incredible wonder from acting as a beating heart that kept Arnor strong and alive.

For Annuminas was built as a port city… But it was not.

It was a city made to dominate the sea, but it was located far inland, on a lake, with an uneven river down to the sea, much of which could not be sailed by sailing ships of any size… And one natural ford, in particular, stopping any river traffic cold.

Elendil and Isildur knew this obvious weak spot well enough, and before the return of Sauron, they had planned to rectify it by dredging the entire river, so thoroughly that you could comfortably sail a galleon up while also sailing one as big on the other side of the river.

Alas, these plans had died with Isildur at Gladden's fields, and none of the Kings since had had the political will to see this kind of mega project through.

Arvedui did but lacked the manpower.

It would be several generations before Arnor had the kind of manpower required to even begin to truly dredge the Brandywine, much less completely remake it.

But that time would come… But not today.

---

In the center of the city, on the tallest level, there was a tower.

The tower of Arnor was the single best point of comparison between north and south, for the towers east and west of Osgiliath, from which their respective Kings and princes had always ruled from, had been made in the model of this one.

Tall and spectacular, and unlike a lot of the city, the vines had not conquered its steep, steep wall, leaving its pure white marble stone to shine above all like a spear, with the golden sides near the top, and the blue roof tiles yet unclaimed and overgrown.

Lots of the city was overgrown with weeds and vines and grass of green. The city had never been sacked, and though the buildings had stood up against the elements and tree roots remarkably well, there was no question this city had been abandoned for a long, long time.

The great park of gold, which had once been diligently tended to, was now filled with the remains of dead Mallorn trees, which had once been the pride of Annuminas gardeners.

Now, only two remained yet living, one outside the palace complex which the great tower was but the center of, and one further down in the city where the great park had once been.

Arvedui, King of Arnor, was letting his hand go over the mighty, ancient tree in the garden when he heard it.

A sound that made him stiffen and look upwards at the tower, along with many others in his company.

It was a song.

It was not the most beautiful song ever sung, neither in Annuminas, nor in Arnor, but it was a strong and melodious song, sung by a woman with conviction in her voice, and though feminine, was also far stronger than most women.

It was sung in the common tongue, not in Elvish, and so none there had a problem listening and understanding what it said.

It was a song of melancholy and yet glory… And as Arvedui left all his companions behind, and began the journey up the stairs to the top of the tower, it sunk in over him like waves over a beach.

"Annuminas by lake so deep,

Her spires blue, 

her stones so sleek,

her domes of gold and walls of stone, 

and 7 ports to rule alone,

The seat of kings in days long gone,

Before the break in Arnor's throne!

The seat of Elendil the tall,

The Edains' home since first the Dawn,

Galadriel she lingered here,

and faithful sought their refuge here!

Elves and Men and Dwarves all came to court when Evendim's sons were young and bright and bold!

Before the fights of crowns and heirs, Arnor's light was shining here!

7 kings, with scepter reigned, Mithril crowns, and starlit reigns!

Elendil, the Elven-friend so tall and fair, who fled Westernesse with faithful folk from there, across the waves and over doom, to Northern plains and ancient tombs. A fight he raised, and gathered folks, to fight the shadows under oath! But into darkness fell his star, in Mordor's land where shadows are!

Isildur, the never-crowned, who bested Sauron all around, who crushed the Dark Lord's army there, in southern lands where Kings beware! He took the Ring from Sauron's hand, and gelded Anband's whore and hound! But alas he fell on Gladden's fields, his bane and ring was lost in Anduin!

Valendil, of ancient reign, from boy-king young, to old greymane. His rule lasted there some twice and then a hundred years and unto it some forty years! An age of peace, a golden reign, when not one Orc or Troll, or Drake was seen on Arnor's plains!

Eldacar, the Elvenhelm, whose crown was Turin's Dragon-helm! He hunted Orcs through vales and dales, through Misty Mountains caves and hail! Then home he came the warlord strong, of 90 years he ruled alone!

Arantar, of royal calm with a Kingly face, a sterner lord was never made! A King of truth, of justice strong, but without mercy rope was strung! An age of peace, of justice tall, but prisons few and empty all.

Tarcil, of the runes then wrought, the singer King of spells and bonds! Western blades, with runes and wroth, and shields of stars that warmed us then from biting frost! Friend of Elves, and Dwares alike, the runes were his, and Arnor bright!

Tarondor, the king of roads, be marble pure, or cobbles bold! From farms to towns, to the cities went the roads! By stone or dirt, walked Arnor's folk! The crafters made, the people wrote, the mail was sent, the smiths they smote! The trade flowed west then east again, and all the way to Southrons realm! He ruled the land for many years, but last was he, who delved and lived and ruled from here!

Annuminas of elder days, 7 kings, and 7 reigns! A golden age, a time now lost, then Kings were bound to dike and frost.

But fallen now is old Erain! Fornost burnt, the Norbury gone! Our home now lost, yet we Edain we still live on.

The scepter here will came back again! The crown of stars, new Golden reigns! Her shining domes, the tiles of white, the forest Gold, and lake so bright! Our abandoned home of yesterday, here she stands, unspoiled, and pure and yet mighty and fair!

Annuminas by lake so deep,

Her spires blue, 

her stones so sleek,

her domes of gold and walls of stone, 

and 7 ports to rule alone,

The seat of kings in days long gone, and now and forever onwards on…"

Listening to the voice, the conviction, one would expect it to have come from a trueborn daughter of Arnor, who grew up on it's plains, who sailed it's rivers, and wandered it's forests.

But it did not.

For as he finally reached the top and walked into the room, though she was dressed in Arnor's style, and not shred remained of Gondor's clothing, the woman who awaited him was a trueborn princess of Gondor.

Queen Firiel was tall, slightly taller than even her husband, and he was tall indeed, if not quite on the same level as his ancestors of old.

Long, wavy hair of a dark red, and eyes of dark blue, flowed around her head like scarlet waterfalls, and on her head was a crown of silver.

There were tears on her cheeks, though she wore an expression of sternness. A true, stoic, royal Queen's face that was. Not once in his entire life with this woman had Arvedui ever seen her cry before.

She was dressed as any proper Arnorian lady could be, with what the newer Arvedui would have described as a pure ancient Greek style of clothing, as opposed to the mixture of Greek and Egyptian that was the style of Gondor.

But the newer model wasn't here right now, for then as he saw her, for the first time, the older Arvedui emerged in strength and as he embraced her, it was his tears that flowed, his grief that overwhelmed him, and as the two grieving royals sought comfort amongst the other, first through shared warmth and tears, then later in the matter that only two who loved each other could, the newer side fell completely to the wayside.

It would not last though.

The man who had robbed both of them of their beloved sons had also dealt a wound to the old King that could never truly heal… But for the moment as he lay there in her arms, the wound retreated for a time.

---

If one continued the comparison of the great towers of Arnor and Gondor, the room where the two crowned heads of Arnor now sat by the window watching the waters of Evendim, this would have been the room under where Gondor kept its one remaining Palantir.

Firiel's skin was darker than his.

It was a fact that Arvedui had always known of course, but as she was there, with nothing but her crown to cover her beautiful frame in the light of the sun, it was put in a contrast that it rarely had been before.

His skin was as pale as one could get, as pale as snow, while hers had a somewhat darker complexion.

The voice of the newer him noted somewhat amused that she did indeed look like a Greek princess, with the darker Mediterranean complexion.

He didn't care about the genealogical comparisons though.

She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

In his younger days, he had not always appreciated her sterner face and stoic demeanor, but he had come to love her nonetheless.

Now, however, he felt an appreciation for her strong heart he never had before.

He was weak. He understood that now.

He would diminish, and be overtaken again by his newer side… But his wife would still be here, strong as stone.

"I had a dream…" She suddenly confessed, not looking at him, instead her eyes looked across the waters into the horizon.

"The day the world was remade. It was not the urging to make a choice in my life that so many others had, nor a calling. It was more a warning I think. Or just telling me as it would be, one way or another"

"What did it say?"

"I saw two things. The first sight was of Aranarth. Tall and proud, with Arnor's Star crown on his head. 18 other crowned heads would bow before him on bended knees, and he would live and rule in Fornost."

He felt immediate pain at the mention, but his wife continued.

"The second vision was of a woman. A tall woman, higher than any other I have seen, with the star crown and golden hair, she would live here in Annuminas, and 16 crowned heads would bow before her."

He understood the implication.

Then realized one discrepancy.

Golden hair.

That was… Rather unlikely, even if his mother had possessed such.

Then he felt like an idiot.

Of course, she would have golden hair.

Unless he was completely mistaken, she had been conceived close to a Mallorn after all. Many of those who were had hairs of gold, bright and shining under the sun.

In another time, one such tree being planted in the shire, had completely remade the standard of Hobbit demographics.

The far more important part was Annuminas… And numbers.

"16… That would mean…"

"17 more children? Aye."

She did not seem entirely displeased with the prospect, though not quite happy either.

"A large number. But I suspect I shall be but one with such a brood."

He immediately felt awkward as her inquisitive look turned to him.

"I… I have some plans, yes… We… Need to remake our people, and there is but one way to do that."

The question was of course how to get his remaining folk behind the idea.

"I… Do you truly wish to discuss that… Now though? I am willing, but… This is hardly the time… We… We still have more to do today…"

For a moment he saw the pain return to her eyes.

"Yes, that we do indeed. But the matters of state does not wait for the grief and sorrow of parents, regardless of how bitter it is."

That was true enough.

"I… Have a plan. A grand one. One that will remake Arnor, first as Arthedain was… Then Arnor proper, and finally, stronger than we were at our prime… But it will take time. Centuries."

"Well, good for us, we're still rather young then. We'll see a good chunk of it done yet."

---

The funeral, as one could expect, was a somber affair.

It was a quiet one, where the two princes were laid to rest in the same resting place beneath the palace as the first seven kings of Arnor.

Under any other circumstances, it would have been a grand ceremony of putting two war heroes to rest and giving them a grand if somber send-off.

But not now.

Arnor's sons had neither the mood, resources, nor energy.

In fact, this funeral would set a tone going forward, as all of the Northern Dunedain's funerals going forward would become more and more like this one until the somber, and rather quiet affairs became the norm.

Like many things, the Arnorians would forget how it was like before, and it would be like how it was in the age that followed that would be how the nation was defined thereafter.

However, though the men there would remember the affair for the rest of their days the true thing that would define the nation going forward, came in the days after, as the party finally turned south, and together with the people who had come with the Queen, they finally began their journey to their home for the near future.

The lands once known in the shire as Bridgefields.

For on the way, their King Arvedui got around to talking with the various Hobbit clan heads there with him.

The rich folk of the Shire, such as they were.

Not all were amongst those Arvedui was interested in, as several of them just so happened to be families that owned a lot of land, but several of them were exactly what he was looking for.

Families who earned their wealth by being masters of a trade. One in particular owned a paper mill by the water.

Not paper for books, but another, softer kind.

One far, far more valuable.

---

The remains of Arnor's military might was about 760 strong.

461 of them were gathered just a bit north of the Shire as the King finally decided it was time to lay his cards on the table and begin explaining his great plan to save their kingdom.

One part of it anyway.

He'd gotten a table set up on top of a decently large, hill, where beneath his men were gathered, along with his wife, who was looking over at him with a raised eyebrow.

Still sceptical, at least in regards to the way the men would handle it.

More nervous were several of the Hobbits who he had been talking to for the last few days.

Young Baldor wasn't amongst those in particular, but he was also present, as well as he needed to be. Buckland was going to be rather economically important for his plans he had no doubt.

The most important part of those gathered though, was his men.

Several hundred men in mail coats and with swords at their belts.

They were the part he needed to convince the most.

Now then… To begin.

"I'm certain all of you are wondering why I have called this meeting. What my plans for rebuilding the country are… Mayhaps you wonder why I have called it now, rather than wait until we finally reach the shire."

There was some agreeing murmuring.

"The reason is simple enough… We are going to have a busy time forward, but the greatest burden, and the most important one, will fall on you."

It was pure lies of course. The truth was that he needed to quiet any dissenting and questioning voices as early as possible.

"There are so, so many challenges ahead of us… There are 243 married couples in the realm, which if we discount our children and young, means that well over half of our remaining population is unmarried. We have no infrastructure for how to feed our people, and until we fix that, we are completely dependent upon my Hobbits to keep us fed."

He motioned with a warm motion to the gathered hobbits, and as he had hoped there were some genuine warm expressions directed their way.

His men generally liked the Hobbits of the Shire.

"And of course there is of course our military strength, which is going to have to go through a complete remaking to deal with the inevitable raids from the east. I have a lot of plans for that, which will have to exist together with our agriculture, our repopulation effort, and of course the thing I truly wanted to talk with you about today."

He let the silence hand in the air a bit as everyone's attention was now directed at him and him alone, some with sceptical eyes, some with curiosity, and some with uncertainty.

He had to bring them hope.

"To finance all of this… Our agriculture, our military, and ensuring that we can in fact support our repopulation efforts, we need wealth. Our standard way of making such through the ages have always been to simply sell food to the Dwarves… But it will be 20 years or more before we make enough food that we can even contemplate selling it to others, rather than keep ourselves fed. And ao, we need to figure out some other means of making coin for the realm."

He grinned.

"Luckily, I have discovered a rather easy way to do such, which will not only make coin for the realm, but for you personally to use, and which can solve several of our other problems while we are at it."

He considered which to start with, and in the end, decided on something simple. Something all the men there were familiar with.

"Neither Arnor nor Arthedain has ever been big on exporting our goods outside the realm's boundaries, other than food at least. But that is the only way to earn enough coin to remake our nation. But lo and behold, there is a problem. An obvious problem that even the blind could see. Any trade we practised inside our borders is effectively dead. We have a total of 2 blacksmiths trained in our traditional metalworking left. 8 stonemasons, 3 seamstresses, and so on. And those 3 are only training in making carpets."

He grabbed the item from the table.

"Luckily, however… The technological advances and innovations we made in days of past, have also been shared with the rest of our countrymen, who have not been decimated by this horrible, horrible war… And so, we turn to them, to the Shire, to make the things we can trade."

He lifted the thing he had grabbed.

It was round, with a hole in the middle, paper wrapped around a base of darker, more solid paper, in a rough, but skilled manner.

"I'm certain you all know what this is. You should, for it is a common, common thing that even the lowliest and poorest family in Arthedain has had access to. Toilet paper. And it is but one product we can earn a fortune on."

Absolute silence.

This time the looks the men gave him were utter bafflement.

However, one of the men thankfully asked something.

"...How?"

He immediately pointed with his open and free hand at the man.

"Good question Denethor! And the answer is simple. No one outside of our Kingdom produces, nor knows that Toilet paper exists. Instead, they use sponges, or if they are not by the sea, leaves from plants, to clean themselves after each trip to relieve themselves. Leaves are not effective at the job, and you constantly have to gather new ones… While sponges are rarely cleaned, and shared amongst family members. I'm certain I need not explain why toilet paper is such an upgrade. Imagine cleaning yourself, with something your old man used before you that day."

He could indeed see that most of the men understood fully the reasons why.

His Dunedain liked cleanliness after all. That was the main reason their ancestors had invented toilet paper as well. 

"But toilet paper is not the only thing we are going to trade!"

He quickly put down again the roll and pulled up something else from the table, a little box that one of his hobbits had shared with him.

"You are also all aware of what this is. It's a box of matches. It is simple, easy to use, and effective at lighting a fire on the spot. Outside of our Kingdom, everyone, from elves to dwarves, to other realms of men, they use clunky tools they call firestarters, which are basically flint and steel. Effective in their own way… But in almost all cases far less so than matches. And it's not as if matches can be easily replicated either. It takes a bit of work to make matches out of Sulfur."

He saw in real-time as his men were starting to realise what he was saying.

He plucked up something else.

"Similarly, Tea bags. Not as wondrous and necessary for a good quality life as the two previous ones, but nice to have… and like the other two, not that easy to make oneself if one does not know how. All 3 are easy to carry in large numbers provided you have horses and carts, and will, if I have guessed correctly, sell for large amounts of coin, the moment it reaches a city in Gondor."

He put the tea bag down again.

"These are but what we will start with. Products that can easily be made inside the realm, easily transported, and very valuable in the wider world in relation to the small amount it takes to make them here at home. And it is here you come in. We will split the profit four ways. One fourth for the sales will go to the Hobbit families who makes these trade goods, one-fourth will go to the Bree men who will serve as menial labour, one-fourth will go to whoever amongst you that will serve as guards for the journey, and finally one fourth will go to me, for putting it all together, and organizing the great trade caravans that will soon enough begin to go from here to Gondor and eventually beyond."

His smile widened as his men FINALLY got it.

But he was not done.

"And of course, there is also how this is going to aid us in replenishing our numbers. For the men sent south, will of course be those amongst us who are unmarried. There are for all intents and purposes no women in the north to court, and will not be for many a year… But there are many such in Gondor, especially for those with coin to spare, as you will all soon enough have. Thus, with this, we will solve much and more of our problems. We will bind the remainders of the realm together through this shared trade, we will all earn money, which you can use to finance a family and yourself, and through this, we will hopefully see all of you married in the long run, thus drastically increasing how many more children we will be able to have in our quest to repopulate the Kingdom. And I will use it to finance the remaking of the land and our realm. And this is but the beginning. For we will expand upon this as our numbers increase, and we begin exporting other, valuable, advanced goods that are to be found in the Shire, such as clocks, door locks, sophisticated hinges, barometers, prcelain, and umbrellas, and other things that no one else in the world have, but we take for granted. Arnor's technology and advancements will be what we use to remake our realm and bring it back to wealth, strength, and glory!"

Chapter Text

Arvedui had a lot to do.

He had to go east to find those amongst the Bree folk he could hire on as manual labor for his trade caravan, he had to begin the process of bringing his people, currently living under the Hobbit's hospitality, to their new home along the Brandywine, make diplomatic overture to his neighbors, and all in all begin the long and painstaking work of putting his realm back together again, be it economy, cultural, population vise and of course military matters.

But before he did any of that, he had one task that he'd need to decide on first.

Where he would build his new home.

It would not be a city, for the Dunedain of Arnor would not need a true city for ages.

Cities were a luxury for countries with populations big enough to support them.

No, they would go in for villages, fortified structures, or at best, towns.

What he was going to build would be a castle of sorts.

Not something on the line of Winterfell, but a royal residence from which he could easily ride forth to elsewhere in his realm and also somewhere his people could reach him quickly.

Somewhere preferably both in the middle of his current crownlands, small though they were, but also close enough to the Shire proper that he could connect his castle to its internal workings.

The spot he eventually settled on wasn't perfect for all of these needs, but it fits all of the criteria well enough.

As he and his party walked along the side of the Brandywine, and across the water, they had to look upwards, for the isle they were looking at was surrounded on all its sides by steep hills.

Not enormously tall hills, but easily tall enough that they had discouraged the Hobbits from ever trying to settle it, and as for the Arnorians, they had never seen much use for it.

It was not supremely defensible, and though with bridges it could in theory act as a natural choke point for those wanting to cross the river, it could not do so for the simple reason that one could simply go around Evendim up north and come down the Brandywine on the opposite side.

Thus nobody had ever bothered to invest in it, and it just stood there in the middle of the Brandywine.

Girdley Island.

An island roughly the size of Hobbiton, overgrown with trees, greenery, and stones.

"I recall this island… It's never been settled."

His wife looked at the island with a curious expression, her eyes like those of a curious bird of prey scouring the plains for something smaller that moved.

"Aye… Hopefully, we'll be able to find at least one good water source for a well. For clean water, we'll need it on the site itself. We can import most else. Rock and wood we'll have at hand… At least for the moment."

Firiel nodded.

"There will be a lot of work… But I think I see what you're going for Husband… You said you plan to tear down the bridge of Stonebows downriver in favor of drawbridges to cross the river. This spot is much better suited for such than the spot downriver. The distance between here and the island is just a bit smaller than down south."

He nodded.

"Just big enough that in the long run, ships can pass through without having to widen the river. Not to mention that since it's two sides, it would make it much easier to use one side for traffic upstream and the other for traffic downwards. It would make the passage of ships less chaotic."

He said that, but just looking at it, he saw there would be quite a lot of work to set it up.

And that was just the drawbridges.

There would also be digging out roads across the isle from one set of draw bridges to the other set, setting up the structure of a castle, and then fortifying the island as a whole with a wall from one edge to the other.

This would be the spot from which his people would begin to spread out from.

It was, all in all, a great plan.

Except for one point.

Water power.

The Brandywine was not a great river as such went. It was certainly not the Anduin.

It only had 3 tributary rivers, and all of them, the Water, the Withywindle, and the Shirebourn were all downstream.

Across from where he stood to the Girdley Isle, was mayhaps 10-20 meters.

The river upstream wasn't much wider, either.

The reality was that without massive excavation to make the river wider, there was no way to easily harness the power of the river with mills, while at the same allowing for easy water travel.

His ancestors had chosen waterpower, which had allowed for only lesser vessels such as barges to go up and down.

He had seen a lot of them as they traveled down the river.

Whether they had been used by Hobbits or Men, they had been abandoned long ago… And would have to be dismantled to allow river traffic.

At the very least his people would not need to haul stones far to build their new homes, for this entire area was littered with abandoned buildings, the plague having left its cataclysmic mark on the land.

But they would need to make new mills… And those could not be on the Brandywine.

The river simply was not wide enough to allow large-scale hydropower and river travel.

So he would need to make it elsewhere, in this case on the water. The northern bank to be precise.

It was not a large part of the river all in all, but it would do for now, with their minuscule population.

The bigger issue was that it meant that what precious little was left of Arnor's Human industry would be located much further downriver than the cluster of farms that they would spread out from.

Another reason why he would need to make river travel a large part of their culture.

He had a lot of plans for the matter, but the first thing they would have to do was gather every single remaining Dunedain here to this spot besides Girdley Isle.

---

Baldor did not know how to ride a pony.

He had never really questioned that fact.

It was just something he had never had a reason to ever learn, and so he hadn't.

He did not even think about it… Right up until his King was given a number of horses by a company of Gondorian soldiers carrying back wounded from the northern campaign, now heading back to the ships at the grey havens.

"We are not going to race daring and with utmost haste across the land, but we are going to ride… And you cannot do such a thing lad, then I cannot take you with me for my trip to Bree…"

Baldor had not been particularly happy with this, in large part due to the fact that the King himself was the only real friend of sorts he had in his current company.

Now he was to be left behind to serve the Queen… And with the further demand he was to learn how to ride a pony while the King was away.

Utterly splendid that was.

The Queen though had not been eager to call upon his services, having given him free leave to explore the area around and get to know the land he was to live by for the foreseeable future.

It was Shireland.

It was nice to be home… But it did not quite feel like home without any other Hobbits around.

Still… It was nice to at last stop having to travel around, and just stay in one place.

That was the proper way to live.

Not as an endless caravan, but living in one, single place with good, proper roots.

Preferably by a river.

He knew that the more western Hobbits were a queer folk when it came to rivers, fearing them as dangerous and strange.

As he looked out over the familiar Brandywine he'd known all his life, he could not fathom why.

It was warm and welcoming, and as the beating summer sun shone down upon the merry world around, he felt no small urge to take a dip.

The world was fair, and the plains and hills were green, and the air smelled of summer.

---

It was almost a week gone by before the Queen finally called upon him.

The current royal abode was an old barn made of stone. Not a hobbit barn, but one that had clearly been used by men in days of old, given its frankly enormous size as he saw it.

Its roofs had long since rotted away, and so had been hastily replaced by a new one.

All remains of weather and time had hastily been scrubbed away, but though moss and overgrown greenery were gone, there was no hiding how bare and weathered the exposed stones had become.

In the middle of the barn were two chairs, one of which was currently empty, but the other one which was currently occupied by a woman with a large, golden crown.

She nodded to him, before turning to a man in front of her and gave a couple of commands before the man ran off to, at least Baldor assumed, do her bidding.

"Baldor son of Bucca."

Two stern, hard eyes went over him, taking in his appearance in full.

"I am, your Highness."

This for some reason brought a clear flash of annoyance unto her face.

"Use "your grace" instead. It's easier, and quicker to say."

"As you say your… You grace."

"Tell me Baldor… What sort of services were you planning to render to my husband as his squire?"

"I… I'm not certain. He… He more or less said that I would discover my duties in time later. For the most part, he spent our time together asking me about the Shire."

She nodded.

"Yes… He is very familiar with it by now. Though how much is through his own experience, and how much comes from you, I cannot say. Regardless, has my husband actually explained what being a squire fully entails?"

"Um… He wishes me to learn how to read, write… Learn of the elder days, how the world looks, and such."

The queen did not smile, but he saw the glint of amusement in her eyes.

"What that describes is a page…"

"A… Book page?"

"Nay, a noble Page, it is a type of apprenticeship amongst the nobility… Or was rather. I doubt Arnor will have such a thing anymore. The new kingdom will be so centralized that there will be no need for such wardships."

He wasn't sure what that meant, but her guards made nods and expressions that seemed to affirm it.

"Regardless… You shall have to continue learning what my husband demands of you in your free time… I have procured a Pony for you, so you can have some fun with that each morning… But for now, you shall serve me. I have been told you Hobbits can cook."

For the first time, since… Well, since he'd unexpectedly become part of the King's entourage, he suddenly found something he felt confident about.

"Oh, that. Yes, I can cook aye, of course! All Hobbit's can. It's something we learn in childhood before we even learn how to swim!"

"Good. Then amongst your duties, you shall take over as my household cook. My men know how to cook fowl, deer, and such, for they have all experienced out in the field. But from now on, we will live off more agricultural food and fish from the river."

"Wait… Is… Is that the reason we never had any fish on our journey? B-because no one else knew how to make a good meal out of fish?"

"No doubt you thought Venison and fowl was a standard of Men's diet? Aye, that be the reason. But you'll get the chance to prove your worth as a chef soon enough. We are getting some guests later today, and I want to greet them with a proper meal. In due time, we will hire on a more permanent group of hobbits as chefs, but for now, that will be your duty."

"Not… Not men your Grace?"

"Nay…" she seemed sad.

"No proper chefs, nor bakers survived Fornost… Not one. None who knew how to make Arnor's proper dishes yet live, and so far, we have found no cookbooks or the like… Hobbits are the last people alive who know how to make proper food in this land… Well… Them and Breemen I suppose."

He nodded, though he felt a bit sad at that prospect.

He had a sneaking suspicion that Hobbits would find a lot of work in the King's lands as chefs in the near future.

"What sort of guests should I prepare food for?"

"Some 20 dwarves or so. 13 from Khazad-Dum, and some 7 from Belegost… Though I rather doubt you knew the difference. You will though, soon enough."

---

The Queen was not wrong about that assessment.

He didn't know much about Dwarves, but just looking at them, it was clear that these two groups of Dwarves were from vastly different groups.

One was almost all golden-haired, and with silver rings in their beards. One was red-haired.

The other group however had dark colors, with brown being the most common, but also several with black hair, and one, the leader of the party even had blue!

That was something he'd never seen before, and for a while, he wondered if the man had dyed it to reach the color.

If so, he had done a remarkably good job though, for even his eyebrows were that deep, dark, but vibrant blue.

The blue-haired dwarf stepped forward before the Queen and gave a deep, respectful bow.

"I greet you, Queen of Arnor, on behalf of King Durin. We, the Longbeards are glad to hear of your nation's survival."

Baldor couldn't help but notice he said the word "Arnor" rather awkwardly as if he was not quite certain how to pronounce it.

"I thank you for your greeting, and I offer you my hospitality as such is for the moment, that you shall enjoy my fish, salt, and water while you are beneath my roof."

"I thank you… But before such, I have to deliver the letter that my King has tasked me with delivering, and we may discuss such matters as state, besides the table along with our western cousins, if so pleases your Highness."

At that, he reached down into a pouch at his belt and fished out a letter.

Upon being handed it, the Queen began reading.

Her rather stoic expression became more annoyed as she read the letter, clearly finding its contents to be less than satisfactory.

"So your King has decided not to heed my Husband's after all."

"Not at all! He is rather grateful for the King's warning, and has prepared amptly to face this Balrog of Morgoth when he awakens."

"...My husband made similar preparations before he faced the Witch King of Angmar."

Baldor felt a shiver of fear go down his spine at the mention of the old fear, memories suddenly surging back in a flow.

The dwarf, however, misread the intention of the words.

"Indeed! It surprised all of Khazad-Dum to hear that the old sorcerer was finally slain on the field at your husband's hands! "A glorious victory for Arnor's folk!"

Judging by the expressions, the men around all felt as awkward as Baldor did… If mayhaps not quite as threatened by old fears sneaking back in.

---

Over dinner, the Queen was polite enough, but even Baldor was able to pick up the undercurrent of her conversation with the Envoy from Khazad-Dum.

He got to hear the discussion well enough as after having made the food, he'd been given a seat by the Queen's table. Though once again, none seemed to take any notice of him.

Truth be told, he had felt far more comfortable making the food.

"Our agricultural production is, to put it simply, not going to be able to support exporting large amounts of food before at least 30 years Henceforth."

"30 years? That is… An astonishingly large amount of time."

"Yes. You'll have to turn elsewhere to feed your great city in the meanwhile years."

The dwarf seemed rather horrified at the prospect.

"Where can we turn? Gondor hasn't been doing so well lately… Will we have to turn to Dunland?"

"You'll figure something out, I'm certain. Necessity demands innovation, and you'll need that in the coming times I have little doubt."

"...I still can't believe your economy is in such horrible shambles. You have NEVER had any problems feeding our nation before, no matter how bad things got."

"Yea? Well, things change. And the tree that does not bend fore the storm, will find its trunk break beneath the force."

The dwarf cocked his head.

"I'm going to guess that's a Human saying of some sort. I haven't really seen a storm truth be told, though I have heard stories."

"Live your entire life underground have you?"

"Indeed! This is my first travel outside of Khazad-Dum. Before this, I never went further than the gates to meet traders or watch the stars."

That seemed… Bizarre to Baldor.

Living one's entire life underground?

It was true Hobbits lived in holes, but to live without ever seeing the sun? Or… Just walk through the fields, or… Come to think of it, how did Dwarves get food? Did they really trade for all of it? They couldn't be planting anything inside of those mountains, could they? 

Plants needed both plenty of water and sun to survive, he had a hard time seeing how they could get either inside of hollowed-out stone. Come to think of it, how did Dwarves even see in those? Could they see in the dark like a cat? Or did they constantly have to carry torches around?

As the Queen not so subtly kept suggesting that Khazad-Dum was in imminent danger, he thought more on such questions, wondering about the Dwarves, how they fit into the world and it's long, long history.

---

Khalad was not used to being invited to secret meetings.

Much less so by Women.

Usually, when the other sex asked a man to come meet him in the dead of night, away from prying eyes, there was usually an implication.

He had no illusions that the meeting he was being asked to come to that night was anything of that sort, and sure enough, as he sneaked off in the middle of the night out of the storehouse the Queen had commandeered as her current abode, he both saw and was seen by plenty of armed men, who motioned him to go to the instructed meeting place, a spot by two rocks.

The rocks in question were large enough that the Queen had seated herself comfortably on it, if a bit hunched over, fingers intertwined and fletched together as she looked at the new arrival.

He swallowed.

Even sitting, and hunched over, this heor of Elendil towered over him.

"I apologize for the gloom. But I would prefer this meeting, and its contents to remain between us."

"Aye…"

He sat down on the stone opposite to the Queen.

"There is much and more to discuss regarding the matters between Arnor and Belegost… But before that, I wish to ask some questions regarding the South. Khazad-Dum has rejected my husband's grave warning of where their current course is heading. Do you know why?"

The way her eyes bored into him, it was as if she was seeing into his soul.

Not that he had been planning to lie anyway.

"Well… I was not there when it was discussed… I just happened to come to the city on a diplomatic errand to discuss the situation in Eriador at the same time as your Husband's messenger… Much has changed since then though."

She nodded but did not reply in words.

"Well… From what I can tell, your husband did a mistake when he told the Dwarves that what lies beneath Khazad-Dum was a Balrog."

"There is much and more that is fouler than Orcs in the deepest roots of the Earth… Far more so than just a Balrog of Morgoth. But why was this a mistake."

Khalad pinched his brows, feeling a bit nervous.

"Well… To be blunt, there are no Dwarves alive who have ever seen a Balrog. Even if our first King had been reincarnated in the current day as Durin has been in Khazad-Dum, it still would not have been the case, as King Azaghal was our King during the First Age when we fought such creatures, and he was not one of the seven Fathers reborn."

The Queen nodded, her eyes narrowing dangerously in the moonlight… Though thankfully it was not at him she seemed to focus her anger.

"What you say then, is that they are not taking the existential threat seriously. They underestimate the monster and think he can be slain just by force of arms because Balrogs died in battles in days of old. I had hoped there was some other reason than what I heard earlier… But no. Fools, the lot of them."

He, as all Dwarves would have, felt an instinctual desire to defend King Durin, the Father of all Dwarves, even if he understood, and worried that her perspective was right.

"Durin is the most brilliant King of Dwarves! He is no fool."

The Queen was not swayed.

"Feanor was the greatest smith and maker this world has ever seen save for Eru himself, and yet he was the greatest fool of all the Noldor. The difference between a fool and an idiot, is that an idiot does not possess wit, and yet he need not be a fool, but a fool can be a simpleton, or a brilliant mind. It is his actions that define which he be. Well… I'll let history be the judge of him. I have better things to do."

"Such as…?"

"Such as making plans for how to deal with the aftermath of the coming catastrophe, the greatest tragedy that has ever befallen Dwarvenkind. Khazad-Dum WILL fall. It will fall 5 years hence, and the surviving Longbeards will be driven into exile. Durin will die at the hands of the monster, and later the next year his son Nain will follow, and only then, under Thrain the first will they finally abandon it, their entire people forced on the road, wandering for years looking for a new homeland."

She waved one hand eastwards.

"My husband has some ideas of where they can settle to recover in strength, but if they did not listen to his advice of how to save their home, I doubt they will care to take it, even when offered with no strings or stipulations. But where they failed, we might come to a better understanding."

This was the crux of the matter.

"Your thoughts… Is that if Khazad-Dum falls, Belegost and Nogrod will replace it as Arnor's great trading partner."

"Amongst the Dwarves at least, yea. And what fortuitous timing for you Western dwarves. Your ancient cities are finally reclaimed and as such, your numbers will explode in growth in the coming years. And you'll need food for those new Dwarves… Right as our farming production begins to recover. But that is for the future. For now… Tell me Khalad, you dwarves use crystal lamps with an internal glow to light up your home, yea?"

What a bizarre non sequitur.

"Umm… Yes, yes we do. Why?"

"Well… You still need to light fires though, for cooking food, lighting your forges, and so on.

She pulled something from the interiors of her blue cloak.

"Do you know what this is Khalad?"

It was a minuscule, tiny little box.

"Nay, I do not. What is it?"

"A box of matches."

Then she opened the box in a peculiar, sliding manner, and pulled out a little stick with some strange substance on the tip, before closing the box, and racking said substance across the side of the box.

With a snap, the substance caught on fire, and the match was lit alight.

The Queen held it up for him to see the burning stick.

"Take this box to your King. And show him how it works. If it pleases him, tell him that Arnor will be happy to trade such things with him, along with food, later down the line. We are in need of both gold and steel and will continue to be so for the foreseeable future."

Before the fire, which was burning down the match caught her fingers, she blew out the flame, and discarded the match on the ground, before tucking it into the Dwarves hands, then, without further ado, she left.

Khazad just sat there for a while, before fishing out the box, and with a tender hand that surprised even him, he fished out a match of his own.

It took several tries, but eventually, he did strike fire.

He stared at the little flame that lit up the night.

This… This was… Valuable beyond words.

It would make firestarters completely obsolete, and not gradually either. It would revolutionize the way you went about things in the mines and in the home.

No longer would you always need to have a lit candle at hand in case you needed immediate fire. Not to mention with this kind of control, you could light up fires from scratch with immensely greater control.

This little box was worth its weight in gold, if not even more so.

Chapter Text

The trip to Bree-Land and back again was, by and all measures, uneventful.

It went exactly as Arvedui had hoped, planned and prayed.

He had come, talked, hammered out agreements with the locals, and gotten the last steps of setting up his first trade caravan done by getting the locals to provide some 60 men in total that would commit to a year long trip south and back again.

Also they would be willing to teach his surviving Dunedain arts and crafts that they no longer knew how to do.

He needed some woodcutters at the very least.

He was lucky, he mused to himself, as his horse trotted it’s way back towards the west bank of the Brandywine.

Had the Bree-Landers had any political sense or understanding of their place in political ambitions, this would have been the point to squeeze him for every bit and promises they could have gotten out of him.

A true city charter, a local lord to represent them at the Kingdom’s council, a promise of leaving the forest north-east of Breehill alone.

They hadn’t asked for any of that.

He had given them a promise though, in that in the long term he would redirect the north-south road that it went through Bree itself, something that would indeed be good for them in the long term.

It had in fact, been a long time ambition of the Bree-Men, and giving the promise of it, as well as a promise of local, armed guards to keep the area safe, had been enough to get them onboard with the new status quo in this post Fornost age.

Of course it hadn’t been a time of joy and celebrations, given the sheer amount of death going on in the north… There were plenty of folks who were worried, sad, or confused about the new state of their land, But it had gone about as smooth as it could have.

But there had been no promises of rebuilding Bree itself.

Maybe turn it and its accompanying villages into a real city or the like, fixing up its street’s, reinforcing its hedge by turning it into a true wall.

That would come later, under another monarch, who cared little for unorganized settlements… But that was a tale for another time.

For now, Bree-Land's role in the reign of Arvedui, the first king of the self proclaimed restored Arnor, would remain as a firm, second rate population center, only noteworthy in that it was the largest gathering of Humans in the local area.

---

The clanking of steel on the anvil sounded through the barn.

Arathorn had grown up in a blacksmith far, far greater than this one. It had been his father’s pride and joy, and his father before him. With real, massive white stone walls, perfectly arranged windows, and a massive anvil that had been forged by dwarves centuries ago, and forged the best steel the northern realm could provide.

Today he was doing his work in an old barn, without glass windows and where the only well kept thing about it was a new, straw roof, on a small anvil he had hastily made with the melted down metals the King had provided him, and with only base, basic, impure Iron at hand.

He had never felt more alive in any forge.

Strength was returning to his limbs, day after day, and with every week and every bit of metal he pounded into shape, he found himself one step closer to perfection.

Ecthelion was similar, where he worked at the exact opposite side of the barn, with a whistling tune, where Arathorn worked in silence.

Both of them had known what it was like to lose everything, to freeze in the cold, hungry and gaunt, without food… And then finding salvation.

To relearn how GOOD it felt to live, to do an honest day's work, to have food 3 times a day, and to feel WARM again.

Only once you had gone without, did you appreciate it all as the one above all had intended for them.

There was one thing missing though.

One thing that he missed, and had not been replaced by anything.

The sound of other hands in the forge.

That would soon change.

The familiar sound of a bell from the door signaled that someone was coming in, no doubt a man with another request for something regarding the farms.

“Just wait! We have to finish this up first!”

When smithing Iron and steel, you couldn’t just pause the work.

“Aye.” The voice came from the other side of the room. “Just find yourself a seat over by the wall!”

“That’s all right gentlemen. Take your time. I would hate to disturb you in your work.”

He vaguely heard the sound of footsteps behind him, in between his hammer blows.

His current work was a larger set of hinges for a chest of some kind.

Didn’t matter how utterly devastated the realm was, so long as men were alive, they still needed somewhere to put their stuff.

Finally though, he was finished with all, both the steam and bucket and the hammering.

“Good work. Even with such limited materials.”

He snorted, but smiled as he held it up between his tongs.

“Aye… I can only get the best results with actual, proper steel… But I’m not some apprentice, green behind the ears, who never hammered a nail before. In fact, I never was. I had a hand for this even as a boy starting out under my Uncle’s tutelage over a hundred years back.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that… I still remember when you were a green boy. You almost took out your fingers many a time from what I recall.”

“Old friends I take it?” The man chuckled.

“Perish the thought!”

Echtelion agreed.

“Aye, there be no friendships here! We fought for customers and patrons for a century in Fornost! He always had a way with finer things… The kinds that maidens and women of rank liked… But I always made the stronger steel!”

“As if! Your daggers might have been the envy of the north, but MY swords were far sharper than yours!”

“And your mail couldn’t stop an arrow if it was loosened several hundred yards away.”

“And you-” “Enough!”

The voice was not louder, but it suddenly snapped into something strong and stern… A command to be obeyed, and obey both men did.

Echtelion had also been finishing hisnown steel, a set of nails, as the two of them, turned around as one to where, over against the wall, a tall man with brilliant blue eyes, ebony hair, and with not a hint of beard leaned up against it.

He was fingering a knife, which Arathor immediately recognized as his rival's work… But the item both of them immediately recognized was the one around his head.

A shining star on a line of mithril.

“Y-your highness… I…”

He was lost for words, and felt his cheeks flush, suddenly feeling like an utter fool.

“It’s fine. But I have no time for your bickering right now. I have a lot of things to do today.”

He raised his dagger, inwrought with gems and runes and twin snake symbols.

“I have been told you two can both make these… If maybe Ecthelion’s daggers might be the better of the two of you, you are both capable of making blades like this, yes? The steel Inrought with spells against evil spirits and wraiths and such we have faced many times.”

“I… Yes. We can.”

All false pretenses were suddenly forgotten by both men.

“I am better at swords though. That is not an exaggeration.”

“Good. I have work for both of you. I need twenty swords, spearheads, and daggers like this. How long will that take you? I have some good steel you can reforge from a donation from Bree… Though mayhaps not quite as well as the kinds we get from the dwarves.”

“I…” he did the math in his head.”

“Two weeks I’d say? For the swords.”

“I’d do the daggers in a bit more than half that time. As for the spearheads… Not sure. Maybe all in all it would take me three and a half weeks?”

“I’ll be generous and give you two months for all of it.”

He sighed.

“There is a second matter I have for you, you see. One that is far more time consuming, and equally important… But I need these weapons… But regardless, the other matter I have is apprentices for you two.”

“Apprentices your highness?”

“Aye. Right now… You two are our last smiths. The final men who know the secrets of Arnor’s metal crafting, our ancient arts. It is imperative that the art is passed on NOW. Hence why I am assigning 10 of the orphaned lads to you. I want both of you to train them in everything you know. In the future, in the next 20 years, Arnor will begin to adopt a… New form of metal smithing, involving water powered mills… But that will have to wait until our population is substantially higher than it is now. These 10 lads in turn, will be the smiths who will teach the next generation.”

“Water powered mills?”

That sounded… interesting. Very interesting actually. Simple and yet… In fact it was stupidly simple now that he thought about it. Why had no one ever had that idea before? It wasn’t like mills were anything new.

“Aye. But again, that is for the next generation… Just like it will be up to my heir, yet in the womb, to one day lead us back to settle Annuminas… Your task will be to keep the spark, and the knowledge of all you know, the millennia of knowledge we accumulated from Numenor and beyond, alive for that next generation.”

He paused.

“It will be a lot of work I know, and I'm sorry to foist all of this upon you. Training the next generation… my weapons… And all your other work besides…”

Echtelion chuckled.

“We have never scoffed at hard labor! Good steel is not made by those who dally and postpone.”

“Good. I’ll be assigning 400 of my men to build you two a proper forge, not a glorified barn, where both you, and your apprentices will be able to live and work under much better conditions.”

That sounded good. And it was clear that the King was investing a lot into them.

That said… There was a question in the back of his mind.

“Forgive me, if this is an impudent question your highness… But why do you require these kinds of weapons specifically? We have plenty of steel available… at least as far as weapons go. And our foe in Angmar does not seem like it will bother us in the coming future.”

“Aye… But the scars that the Witch-King made on this land yet remain… And until we have dealt with them, it remains beyond our grasp to recolonize almost a third of the realm.”

---

Arnui felt awkward, as he sat beside 20 other men.

He had ever since Fornost.

It seemed everyone else had just… Walked back up a road to where there was still sunlight and joy to be found.

He’d listen to them talk of the future, joke about whether they, old men all of them, would be amongst the men who would be sent to be the men on the King’s Trade Caravan, or just wondering how long it would be until the realm would be up and running again.

The hopeful estimate was 30 or so years. Not too long, and though they would not be there to enjoy it, most of the men would.

He couldn’t in his heart join them though.

There was a cold in him, that the warm sun could not banish.

A cold ever since that night in Fornost, when family and friends went to a cold grave.

The friends he’d grown up with and played with, whose marriages he’d attended, and who’s children he’d watch play with his own.

The baker he’d bought his bread from every day he’d been in the capital for the last 80 years or so.

The men and women from the White Glass, the Tavern he’d frequented for most of his life. Their laughter silenced forever.

His family… Galada… His wife… Her long, grey hair that he would always run his fingers through as he came home from his army duties.

The memories of growing old together, growing up in the countryside before, like so many before them, moving to the city, ran through his mind.

Their children, 9 there had been.

His sons who had grown up, proud, eager to all follow in his footsteps.

His daughters, all with men and their own families to raise.

His grandchildren… 

Becca with her scarlet hair and boisterous temperament… Elinor with the freckled face and crooked smile from when she’d broken her jaw as a child… Isildur with the quiet bearing who loved nothing better than to read and listen to tales of old… Arnor, who he and Galada had raised when Denethor and his wife had died before their time…

All of them, gone now.

As he sat, surrounded by his fellows, he could not help but feel cold.

Why are you here?

Why are you still alive?

You should have died at Fornost.

You should have died in the snow, your blood coating the white red.

Coward.

King Arvedui came into the small building’s main room.

All talk quieted.

“Gentlemen.”

He nodded, a smile upon his lips, to which his men, even Arnui nodded in return or gave a half bow.

“I'm sure you’re wondering why I have called you up today… It is important work… But quite dangerous as well.”

“Something that youngsters cannot be risked on, aye?”

One of the men said sardonically.

There was a lot of agreed murmuring, and Arnui, in his heart of hearts, had to agree.

The King looked a bit annoyed.

“I'm not sending any of you off to die… I both expect, and want you all to live long after this day… But yes, it is exceedingly dangerous work.”

“And the young are the future, aye. That’s alright your highness, no need to sugarcoat it. We 

Arnui wondered how long it had been since he’d tasted actual sugar. Some 60 years now.

He recalled sharing a cake of such, once with his family, with sugar they had bought from a merchant, a feast Galada had boasted about for decades after.

“Well… If you really want the brutal truth… Part of the great trade caravans I have is very distinctly for the men who go on them to seek brides on the trips. That’s why it will be the youngest and most handsome of lads who will go on the trip first. And those a step above them the year after…”

“And us old men some 20 years into the future, yes?”

There was a bit of bitterness in the voice, but mostly the speaker took it in good humor.

“Something like that… Regardless… The job I have for you cannot remain unfinished. It must be done in the next 20 years at least, because that will be the point when we will begin to settle small settlements outside the river…”

The King sighed.

“The lands of Arthedain will remain the backbone of our Kingdom going long into the future… And due to recent events outside my control…”

The King’s face twisted in anger.

“We will turn more westwards, rather than eastwards. But regardless… I have no plans to ever resettle the former lands of Rhudaur in full. Arnor’s eastern province will be a place where, outside of the road and the rivers, we will focus on replanting the great forest that once were there, to supply the Kingdom with as much wood and lumber as we could possibly want. That has its own problems and challenges… But those will not be your concerns. Nor mine for that matter. However… the other great province… Cardolan, is a very different story.”

Most of the men shuddered at the name, but not Arnui.

Cardolan did not hold any terrors for him.

“The Barrowlands? How can we settle them? They are haunted by evil spirits. Are we to slay them all?”

The king studied him, and his lack of fear.

“In the great remaking of the world… I was shown many things… Amongst them… Is how to break the curse the Witch-King laid upon the barrows and the spirits who rested there.”

At that, the men around suddenly paid a lot more attention.

“So you want us to break them?”

“Aye. It’s… Not the hardest task in the world… But it is dangerous in its own way. As it turns out, the way to break the curse is rather simple. One simply needs to take all the treasures, grave goods, armor and weapons inside the barrows outside and leave them on the green grass for anyone, man, hobbit, elf, dwarf or animal who finds them to take. And with such will the curse be broken.”

Silence hung in the air.

“Soooo… Your Highness wishes us… To break into the tombs of the Barrowlands… Plunder them for all their riches… And leave them outside on the hills?”

“Yes. You can feel free to take whatever you can carry with you back home though. You’ll have to do it during the day, when the sun is high and there is not a cloud in the sky. That’s when the wights' powers are weak. It is only when night falls and the mist is thick that they are truly to fear. Then, after dealing with one Barrow, you should leave and return to safer lands, before the next trip. Your safety is more important than trying to clear out as many as you can in one go. Without dealing with the Barrowhights for good and all, we cannot settle Cardolan… But We have a lot of time before we reach that point. As for equipment, I have arranged weapons capable of destroying wights, which will be done in two months' time.”

The faces of the men were not mollified much at that.

“Your Highness… There are THOUSANDS of barrows. Some smaller than others, but still…”

The king grinned.

“Look at the bright side… When this is all over, you’ll be the richest men in all of  Arnor. More than me even.”

Provided they survived that long.

---

Arthain swallowed.

Besides him, his brother Brondir shuffled his feet.

The two former farm boys, barely old enough to be considered men as far as Arnor’s laws were concerned, would soon enough get the honor of meeting their King, face to face.

He was tall. Stupidly tall compared to them, bedecked in his coat of mail, and that shining star on his head…

“Greetings! You two are the farm boy's I asked for, yes? Arthain and Brondir was it?”

“Y-yeah… I mean, yes me lord!”

“Good. I have a job for you two. I'm Sending you boy's off north to the lands around Annuminas along with some 20 of my men. Your job, which you two will be in charge of, is horse breeding. That is to say, I'm sending you off with every non gelded horse and mares we can be without. I want you two to teach my men everything you know of such. They’ll provide you with both protection and food, so I hope you like meat. You’ll be eating a lot of it.”

“And… What of after me Lord? I… I mean how long will we be doing this job?”

“Until I have thousands of horses. In the long term, we’ll be using the great, northern plain for horse rearing, but right now, we are too vulnerable. Only when I have a strong contingent of horses to use for cavalry will I be willing to risk sending men to rear horses, sheep and cattle there.”

He smiled ruefully.

“I have no doubt that Orcs, Goblins and Trolls will take that way. If so, they will get quite the pokes from our lances.”

---

Garret, the last Lord alive from the Kingdom of Arthedain, poured his King a cup of wine.

The King raised the glass of wine up to his lips with a frown.

“Where did you get this?”

“Oh, I asked a Hobbit wineyard if he had some to donate for this meeting. He was quite eager in fact. I'm certain that getting the reputation of providing wine for the King is quite good for business.”

The King nodded, then took a drought.

“It’s good… Sweeter than we used to make them before… Well… Regardless.”

The King put the goblet to the side, before he pulled out a map and unfolded it.

“We are settling the vast bulk of our people along the river here.”

He motioned to their current location.

“I’ll be turning Girdley Island into a fortress, and river-crossing, and in the long term, we will tear down the brandywine bridge and redirect the roads to go north instead. It will be the de-facto capital of the Kingdom for my reign. For the moment, we will stay on the west bank of the river. We have a lot of time before we have either the numbers, or the need to move to the east bank.”

He then tapped Bree-Land.

“Bree-Land is not very defensible, and I simply do not have the number of men needed to turn Bree Hill into a fortress for the region… But it’s easy to keep an eye for threats from the north and east. If the worst comes to worst, we can relocate the entire population west of the river to safety.”

His hand then went up to the plains.

“Our new way of waging war, using our new, hollow lances, will allow us to turn any raiding force on the northern plains into a fine, red paste to be served to the wolves, so there isn’t much to fear from that angle lest it’s a full blown army.”

His hand then went down.

“Which leaves us with two major weak spots. The first is the Brandywine Bridge. It is not particularly defensible… But if the worst comes to worst… We can rip it down behind us. It is not the sturdiest thing in the world as bridges go. Unfortunately…”

His hand went down further.

“Sarn Ford is not something I can just tear down. In fact, when we finally do dredge the river from Evendim to the sea, it is probably going to be the hardest part. The entire place is full of stones and rocks all along the riverbed, and the ford itself is very easy to cross. It is a massive weak spot any invader or brigand could use to move up and into our heartlands through the Shire. You need to do something about that.”

That was the crux of the matter he supposed.

He had not spoken as the King talked, but as the King had informed him he would be taking command of a post, and he had assumed it would either be to the north, weathertop, or somewhere in Bree-Land. 

“You want me to fortify both ends?”

“Aye. But more as well. You’ll be setting up a toll station as well. Nobody is to cross the ford unless they pay a toll. Both to earn some much needed coin, but also to direct travel north instead so it will pass through Bree. If there is a toll for the ford, going around will seem more attractive. Which means going through the shire will be a much more palatable way for traveling dwarves.”

“Makes sense. But there is more to this, I can tell. You mentioned you would be sending a sizable number of… Noncombatants with me.”

Arvedui nodded.

“Yes. I need this fort to be sustainable. And to be perfectly frank I simply cannot waste over two dozen men needed to keep it provisioned and garrisoned, when the single biggest thing that our future is dependent upon is increasing our numbers. Which is why I will be settling a small colony of men there along the west bank of the river. I have 38 married soldiers who have agreed to settle here away from the new center of our civilization. You will be responsible for all of them. A lord there, in fact if not in name.”

Garret sighed.

“I suppose asking for an actual Lordship to go along with it, would be a bit much.”

The King was not unsympathetic to his feelings.

“If it makes you feel better my Lord, I have no plans of not respecting your rights or your claim to your lands… It is your expertise as a governor of such that I mean to make use of after all… But let us be realistic. In the best case scenario, we might begin to recolonize your province some 100 years from now.”

Garret sighed, feeling a sense of desperate longing in his heart.

He missed his hills… And his people…

“I know. In regards to the actual colony, what should I know going in?”

“I will expect it to be a self-sustained province with food. Focus more on fishing, hunting, cow rearing than farming. You won’t have the manpower for large agriculture. I have another innovation for you in regards to hunting… Though I suppose it’s more of a throwback. You see, our ancestors back on Numenor had a type of… Bow, we used for hunting. I call it a crossbow. I will show it to you later. It will be great for both land and river hunting, but you will learn that for yourself.”

“I see. I am a master of the bow you know. I need not a new kind.”

“But your men might. As for numbers, I expect you to have reached at least six hundred souls or so in the next two dozen years.”

That would have seemed incredibly hopeful to him once. Now it was essential, and a matter of the very survival of their people and culture to sustain and keep up such growth.

“Hard to believe the day would come when the royal decree was that we needed to focus on producing more children by the score.”

“Yes… The world has changed quite a lot lately… but it is what it is. We will either live in it, or die with the old.”

---

Arvedui pondered the farm before him.

It was not the first bit of farmlands the Dunedain of Arnor had built or settled across the months… But it was the first of a new kind.

Or rather, it was the first proper farm along the river, using all the tricks and technological advantages the Dunedain had… As well as some innovations he had introduced as well, of which a four crop rotation was but one.

The building was in a classical Greek style, that was to say it was a commoners building, not a palace or temple with marble columns… But he could have imagined both Roman and Greek farmers living on them.

Tiled clay roof, two sets of levels, and made in stone from the Shire that his men had carved out of the Quarries located at a spot that in another time would have housed a town simply called Quarry, east of Scary.

His Hobbits had such adorable names.

Of course there was other things that most certainly would not have been found in any ancient roman or greek home.

For one, it had a Victorian styled metal chimney, which inside at the center of the building had a metal stove, both for heat, and to cook food on. Much more cost effective in both time, space, and how much fuel it consumed.

It also had something else that did not belong to antiquity, but had been used by the Numenoreans for millennia.

A venetian style cistern well, where a hole had been dug into the ground, isolated from the ground around by a thick layer of clay, built a well in the middle, then filled up around it up with sand, that acted as a filtration system, before adding a stony surface layer that had holes to allow water to flow down into it.

It was simple as far as such went, without any marble or taking care the stones had matching colors and patterns, nor any fanciful details on the well itself.

That would come in time he knew, but for now this would certainly do to provide his people with clear, easy access.

Then there was another detail he hadn’t quite imagined when he’d given the orders of construction.

An improvised irrigation system, combining a small, artificial, hollowed hill(With a basic wooden roof above the water to prevent flies and mosquitoes breeding) to the west side to serve as a water reservoir, a basic system of clay pipes, an artemis screw, and a treadwheel to power it.

It allowed a single man to effectively and reliably pump water from the river by running in what was effectively a giant, wooden hamster wheel.

Normally the giant, wooden thread wheels were used for construction, in a more slow, controlled manner to lift massive blocks of stone way up high with great precision.

He supposed that once he began building on Girdley Island he would need them for those, but for now, this use was far, far more important.

These water reservoirs would be used for both irrigation, and for the farm toilet to have running water that ran back to the river.

It was not safe at all for drinking, but that was fine. In fact, the waste that would eventually be coursing through the river as the population rose would be great for their crops.

It was not perfect… But it would work just fine, and as his men had assured him, they would be able to continue to build these, relatively quickly.

He had about half a thousand men(In good shape too given they were soldiers) set to the task of building, from getting the materials, transporting them, then building, all delegated into specialize teams to maximize efficiency 

Hopefully, in a year or two, this would begin to produce results.

Around the main building were four big fields, a stable for animals, and a storehouse.

Also, around that storehouse, and in fact, in all of their buildings, were another nifty little innovation of his.

Bucket traps for rats, using a rolling pin and two ramps.

You slattered the middle of the small, wooden pin, located at the top of the bucket, spanning the gap of it, with butter or the like, added ramps at the side, and waited.

The rats and mice would come sooner or later, would go out on the pin, then fall down into a watery grave they could not escape.

Easy to make, simple to empty without having to touch the disease ridden animals, and easy to refill, and hundredfold more effective than any mouse trap middle earth had ever seen before.

It was amazing that it had taken until the 21th century before someone had invented it.

Around the fields, seeds had been planted in rows for tall, strong trees to eventually serve as windbreaks.

All in all, he felt pretty good about this setup.

He just needed to keep them all alive until it began to produce enough food to do the job.

Until that time, they lived on hunting, fishing, and gifts from his Hobbits.

There would come a time, when there would be no more need for more farms at the moment. When they had provided every single one of his men who would become farmers with a farm, ready to house a family.

When that happened… There would be a point where it would be years before the next batch of farms needed to be built, as the next generation came into existence.

He had plenty of work to do to make that happen outside of all of this, but here, at his new home, when that time came, it would be time to begin building infrastructure beyond farms.

That was when he’d build a castle at Girdley Hill, amongst many, many other things.

Chapter Text

Khal heard another crash down in the city far, far below him.

At the start of the siege, that would have made him wince.

Several months in, the sound of crashing boulders had lost much of the instinctual dread it had once had.

Not that he was without such.

There was not a soul inside Carn Dum who did not feel dreads cold bite.

Khal more than most.

As the Blacksmith carried his crate,

 of junk that was to be melted down for arrowheads and swords, he felt its bite as certain as he felt the cool, summer air on his face.

It had been a cold summer this far up north.

Much more so than usual.

In another time, worries about a famine might have been on everyone's mind, and the fear that starvation would come, once winter arrived would have been palpable in the city, and in the countryside all around.

Not now.

There was a far, far greater, and more immediate worry on everyone’s minds.

The King’s great victory at Fornost had filled the people of Angmar with hope, a dream that maybe it would finally lead to lasting peace in Eriador.

And so it had led to a mood of celebration despite the cold, cold winter.

Spring had killed that dream dead. 

Along with roughly a fourth of every young man in Angmar, their King, and any hope for lasting peace to tend their fields, and raise family without the specter of war.

There would be peace though… But not for them.

All of Angmar, and Car Dum more than any part of it had felt the King’s Death long before news had trickled back to them of his death.

Their great sorcerer lord’s death had broken his hold on every Orc in the realm, who had subsequently begun to turn on their Human countrymen, some in great and terrible, and others more subtle.

Khal, having lived in the capital for his entire life, had never liked Orcs.

However, both sides had tolerated each other and generally kept to their own sections of the city… As their King had laid down in law long ago.

Now that he was gone… Well, it had been a civil war, as the sections belonging to Orcs had begun to first bully their Human neighbors, then assault them for belongings they did not get through threats.

After that, infighting had quickly taken hold in Carn Dum.

But as the city had several hundred thousands of Humans, and only some few thousand Orcs, it was not a grand contest.

The Orcs who dwelled there had either been slain, or driven out of the city.

Similar events had taken place across most of Angmar. Some places Orcs had won, and now lorded over their Human subjects. Other places they lost.

It had not mattered much.

The Black men cared little for making distinctions between Orcs and Men in Angmar.

They had come from the south like a storm.

A storm of steel, that had marched across the lands with great and no mercy for anyone they found, man or orc, old or children, men or women.

The people of Angmar did not know who they were.

All they knew was that they had come from somewhere and aided the terrible Arvedui in his destruction of their King and host at Fornost.

That would have left the people of Angmar in a bad place, with little defences left, even if the enemy had no more strength than Arthedain had once possessed.

They did not.

Their numbers were those and manyfold over.

Angmar would have had a great and terrible time resisting them, even if it had been at full strength.

But their young men had all gone to die alongside their King at Fornost, and so few remained capable of raising any defence against the invaders.

The split between orcs and men did not aid matters either.

That the invasion came in spring, rather than autumn or winter only made things worse.

Though, worse, would imply things could get even more horrible.

That they could not.

The black men, mounted or afoot, killed everything in their path like a forest fire consuming a long overgrown glade.

They sacked every town, put every person they found to the blade, burned every house, and tore down every structure until nought remained but rubble. Every bit of coin, metal forged, or precious gems were taken as loot by the invaders as trodden over bones and ashes.

Angmar was divided without clear leadership, the fear and respect that had held the nation in line had been broken.

Their terrible and evil foes were united, and went about the systematic destruction of their entire country with the precision of a master craftsman.

Khal did not know how things stood outside the walls.

They had heard a lot of things from the refugees that had streamed into the city.

The survivors of horrible sacks, who had fled here to escape their foes.

The tales they had to tell, of the tall men in black, with a grim white tree, crowned by a wicked crown, had sent shivers through his spine.clad in chainmail and armed with steel, they had destroyed Angmar’s countryside, and laid their cities to rubble.

Whether by design, or the fact that Carn Dum was the last city before the great cold waste of snow and ice, the army had left the capital for last.

Once word had come though, that the army was moving in to close off the city, a great pandemonium had swept the refugees.

A massive bulk of them, thousands and thousands had packed up supplies and left, to take their chances in the cold wastes.

It was suicide. All knew it, and yet to Khal’s and many other astoundments, they had gone with great haste as summer reached its end.

Such was their fear of the Invaders.

Those who remained was caught between a rock and hard place.

There was nowhere to go… But the enemy seemed far, far too grand to defeat.

And yet… There had been a point of hope he recalled.

Carn Dum was not a weak city.

It was strong. As strong as Fornost had been.

It had massive walls, in three tiers above one another.

Thousands of Men in the city was armed and motivated to the last, and they had actual supplies, both from one final harvest before leaving the lands around bare for fodder, but also from the fact their Lord had always kept wast storages of food in the capital. Enough to last at least a year, even with this enormous population.

If the enemy was here to take their home by force, they would have to pay a bloody price for their walls.

But the army that had come seemed very little interested in assaulting their walls.

First had come a score of men to cut off the west roads.

There had been an attempt at a skirmish then from the Angmarian side, but it had not gone particularly well.

After that… Host, after host, after host had set up camp around their ringed city.

There was no escaping them now. Carn Dum would either hold through the storm, starve through a siege, or be taken by fire and steel.

Neither had come.

What had come instead was stones.

Thousands, and thousands of stones.

The Black Army had set up catapults by the hundreds, and every day, every morning, every midday, every afternoon, every night, they had bombarded the city with stones, thrown so high, they smashed over the first tiers of the city walls with ease.

Only the highest one, the one that Khal lived on as part of the palace center of the city, avoided most of the stones… Except one, now and again that had hit just barely over the walls.

The besiegers had cared little about destroying that upper level, or at least after destroying their own catapults.

That had been a great priority for them at the start of the siege, when the Angmarians could still retaliate… But that had long since been finished.

Now they rained destruction down on the last bastion of Angmar’s people, as the Black men were content to sit behind their lines and lobby stone after stone.

Once they had destroyed the city’s catapults, they had moved much closer, and as a result, become far, far more accurate and deadly.

They had made plenty of rams, with thick roofs, but seemed rather uninterested in making use of them.

Why sacrifice men, when Angmar’s had plenty of nearby stones to use instead?

As Khal heard another crashing sound, he shook his head, and moved back to his own home.

“Khutla!”

He cried out, and dutifully, his daughter opened the door for him into his smithy, where he began to work.

His youngest(And only living son) was already at work within the smithy.

Temu didn't so much as look up when his father came in, instead continuing on his work of sharpening a sword at one of the room's two stone wheels, the methodical movement of his foot keeping the thing in motion.

Khal looked at him with a weary glance, but soon enough found himself settling into his own work.

He spent the next hours melting down metal then making steel arrowheads, before, once he was certain he was done with them, he began fastening them to shafts.

The entire time, it happened in silence.

Wel… As much silence as constant sharpening of weapons, the melting of metal and the hammering of steel could be silent.

Finally though, as they ended their work, his son spoke up.

“Think it will be long now?”

“Before what?”

“The assault.”

Khal sighed.

“Truth be told son… I think the Black men will keep hammering us with stones until the snows come. That’s when they’ll strike.”

Temu disagreed.

“No… They’ve been massing lately. That’s what everyones been saying anyhow.

Khal shrugged.

“They’ve been massing before. 8 times now. It’s just to trick us into thinking they’re about to storm, and get all ready to fight an assault that never happens.”

“Maybe so… But they can’t possibly have the supplies to hold this siege going like this all the way to winter. Have you seen their numbers?”

“I have eyes to see, yes.”

He said dryly.

Then he sighed.

“They’ll storm when they storm. Not much we can do about that. No more than we can stop the boulders below.”

“Mhhmmm… At least there will be an end to it all when it comes. One way or another. That’s… A much prefered thing than sitting around waiting for the grand blow.”

He… Had no idea what to say about that.

A while later, after the couple of guards who came for arrows and swords arrived to pick up what they had been making all day, Temu vanished off without a word of where he went, or asking permission.

There had been a time when Khal would have punished him severely for just walking off before dinner.

His own father would have tanned his hide had he done the same at his age… And that was without knowing where he went.

Another crash.

Let him live while he has time.

He might not have too much longer.

Last he checked, the Bloodied blade was still in existence down on the first level.

Temu would be back eventually.

As for him, he walked over to where his wife had been making food.

It was as barebones a stew as he’d ever had, but it was stew. It filled their bellies, and staved off hunger.

His wife glared over at the empty spot, then at him.

No words was spoken between them, but he knew fully well what she was thinking… and how she blamed him for it.

Khutla also ate in silence, but she didn’t have her mother’s glares, just looking rather down.

After the meal was over, he left behind both the ladies of his home, and walked over to a side room besides his smithy.

It didn’t take him too long of digging to find what he was looking for.

Though that could mostly be attributed to him having pulled it out and looked it over now and again for weeks.

“Shah?”

He stiffened, as the voice from behind was followed up by footsteps.

Small, light footsteps that could belong to no grown person.

“Yes Khutla?”

He turned around, and his little girl walked up to her, her blue eyes and long black hair spilling about her shoulders.

“What’s that?”

She nodded to what he held in his hands.

He smiled sadly.

“I do hope you understand what a sword is, little one… I would be a failure of a parent and a smith if you did not.”

The girl cocked her head.

“That’s not one of ours.”

She pointed out.

He sighed, and seated himself down on a chest, to get closer to her eyeheight.

Then, with a familiar sound of steel, he drew the blade, and quickly flipped it down so its pommel was upwards and the point rested gently on the floor.

“No… That it most certainly is not.”

The girl gasped.

“It’s completely black!”

And that it was.

It was also not one of the scimitars that the Kingdom of Angmar used for war, instead being a long, straight, narrow blade without a full.

His father had told him that was a sign of its age, for it had been forged before we or the Arthedains learned how to improve a blade with such.

“It’s… A blade that has been passed down through our family for a very, very long time. Our stories say we… One of our ancestors I mean… He was given this blade so far back the world was still young then… When the great black castle still stood in the west, before the waves swallowed them.”

He did not go into depth about that.

Khutla as well as every child of their people knew the tale of the old black castle.

Their people’s original home long, long ago.

Before the great sinking, they had come from the east for reasons no man now remembered… and there they had sworn themselves to a mighty lord, in a castle unlike any this world had seen before nor since.

There were many names for it and the lord they had served, amongst their people… The one his father had used when he told Khal this story was “Iron-Hell”, and the lord was Malko.

Regardless of what it and its lord had been called, the story went the same.

There had been great battles, one where the dead had been piled up so high they formed a mountain, and another time there had been decades of war between their lord and his family from even further west, from across the great sea.

They had lost the war, and the very land had fallen into the sea for… Reasons none were quite clear on.

Then they had fled back the way they came… Until they found a land here, to call their own in Angmar, where they had lived since.

That would probably not be much longer, he thought glumly.

His child cocked her head.

“He was given it? Did he do something grand?”

He chuckled.

“He was a captain of sorts… In the Lord's army. This was the sort of blade they used for captains in that great war. It’s good steel. Better than anything I have ever made… Nor my father, or his father before him…”

He raised the blade up so he could look it over better.

“It’s sharp too… with enough force it can cleave mail… The way the Arthedains swords can, and ours cannot.”

It had always been a grand mystery that… One he had always wished he knew the answers to. 

He had once been called a master smith by his father… But he knew better.

Even the best blades Angmar had to offer could not cleave through steel. Arthadains could… Provided it was swung with enough force behind the blow.

There was a secret here, which none in this kingdom had ever been able to replicate.

That… That frustration of old… Felt like such vainglory now. A pointless frustration.

“It’s been passed down from father to his eldest son, and occasionally a daughter, who in turn passed it down to her oldest son… All the way until me…”

He stared at the depths of the blade, the dark ocean that glimmered in the light.

Somewhere close yet far away, a voice said:

“Shouldn’t… Shouldn’t it have gone with Berke Then?”

Yes… That was the crux of the matter wasn’t it.

Berke. It should all have gone to Berke.

His house, his smithy, his… Everything.

“It was suicide… Wandering into the great, grey waste… it’s a cold Hell… Filled with drakes and other monsters… And the cold. Cold my child… There is nothing on this Earth that burns like the cold… And there is an unbroken line of unscalable mountains flanking one all the way until you reach the sea after a year of travel. The King might have boasted of making such a travel, when he told us what lies to the east, north of the mountains… But mortal men cannot. There is no escape to the east…”

Giving this blade to his son… Would just have meant that it would be clutched in his bony fingers somewhere in the cold east, picked apart by crows and wolves.

The thought… Nauseated him.

His brave boy… Making a trip that could not be made. 

“There is… SOME hope here at least… We might survive this siege yet…”

“Do you think… We’ll win, Shah?”

His little girl’s voice again seemed fsr, far away.

“...I don't know… I… Just don’t know.

Outside, the rain began to pour.

---

Catapults sang.

They kept singing throughout the night.

As they had for weeks now.

The captain of Gondor who was now in command grit his teeth as the catapults reloaded in the pitch darkness.

The waiting was done.

He had grown tired of it.

He’d been waiting… And waiting… And waiting…

For a night where the clouds blocked out the very skies.

He had long since pounded the first and third levels to a degree he was satisfied with.

He had the siege equipment. He had the ladders for the second and third walls. He had the battering rams for the gate on all levels.

Carn Dum was strong.

But it was not Minas Tirith.

No more than Fornost had been. And it had proven less defensible than its owners would have liked.

The outer wall would stop any siege ladders dead in their tracks… But he had located several spots where his men could scale the walls to the second and third levels once inside.

The key was to get inside those first walls.

Crushing their ability to retaliate had been step one.

Then hammer the city day in and day out until they got used to it and stopped treating it as something out of the ordinary.

Just another part of the siege.

Now he just needed the final requisite to start the assault his men had wanted to launch for weeks.

Then, a night had come when the moon did not shine.

Every man in the army knew, long, long before the orders came, what that meant.

By the time everyone got up and ready… The rain began to pour.

A rain from the west, accompanied by a cold, howling wind.

---

The great battering ram began moving forward without warning.

The men on the walls didn’t even see it initially, blinded by rain as they were.

As the ram came some 15 meters before the walls, a great, black silhouette that towered up like a moving building… And behind it, a small sea of black followed behind and around.

The hue and cry and horn exploded into song.

Before the city’s defenders had managed to muster though, the battering ram began smashing into the gate.

“BOOOOOMMM!”

Sixteen, massive booms followed as stones, arrows and several attempts at cooking the attackers in boiling oil ensued… But the wooden roof of the battering ram had been long prepared and stood up to the surprised assault.

Had the city walls been held by strong men in their prime, it might have been a different story, but the men on these walls were old.

The city behind them had been ravaged by siege equipment and countless buildings had fallen down, and it took a while to gather a full blown defence.

All the while another, final catapult assault battered the guard tower around the gate with enough force to make the mighty stone shake everything inside as if they were a drum being pounded by a mighty hammer!

Then, on the seventeenth strike, the black gate of Carn Dum broke.

In poured an army of grim, angry men with sunkissed skin, and black surcoats and in their hands were blades of steel.

Thousands streamed forward, tens of thousands followed as the towers above were taken with blood and steel, and the ram pushed into the street so it was no longer an obstacle to get around.

Gondor’s army had come north to save Arnor’s folk.

They had succeeded in that.

Barely.

Now, their hearts were set on a grimmer task.

Avenging their fallen kin, and their slain prince.

The people of Angmar would suffer the same fate as the army of the Witch-King had dealt out to the Dunedain of the north.

It was a slaughter the likes of which had not been seen from Gondor, since Romendacil II had put the Easterling population all around the sea of Rhun to the sword… But even that had paled in comparison to the butchery they had unleashed here in the north.

Here Gondor's army showed no quarter, let none escape if they could hinder it, and level Angmar to the ground, to prevent it from being settled for centuries to come, if ever.

It was fueled by hatred, knowledge that these men served the Witch-King, and through him, their ancient foe of Mordor.

As far as they were concerned, these folk were little better than Orcs.

It was fueled by the rage for their dead Prince.

Of the equal slaughter of Fornost that was similar in its brutality.

And it would have consequences.

For as much as the Gondorians felt they had all the right in the world to exterminate the common people of Angmar, they had as much right to that, as the Witch-King’s force had to exterminate the people of Fornost.

Which was to say, none whatsoever, regardless of what their armies had done.

And so, as these men tainted themselves with  unjustifiable sin by willingly partaking in the greatest crime Gondor ever did, their inborn gifts, that great blessing they had inherited from their ancestors, would begin to fade, as it had on Numenor, when the people of the isle had partaking in similar acts against the “barbarians” of the mainland.

In the following generation, these mens children would grow up with half the lifespan of their fathers, and in turn, their own children would be similarly diminished, and so would a long march begin, until the gifts of the Valar, faded completely in the south until Gondor’s men would not tend to live much longer than other races of men.

Such was the price of the mighty Kingdom of Gondor unleashing it's great wrath in full, unbridled by any chains of decency, and untamed by mercy, as the streets of the city of Carn Dum, the last settlement of Angmar, was coated with blood of every man, woman there.

The total death toll of this invasion and the fall of Fornost had been near two and a half million Human souls.

Two nations had been leveled from the earth.

Two new ones would begin elsewhere.

Two new civilizations would rise from the ashes.

---

Berke took a deep breath.

A warm breath.

He smelled the last vestiges of summer in the air.

They had done it!

Despite their fallen lord’s insistence that these mountains had no holes between them, they had managed to find a pass through the Grey Mountains… And they had found a lush, green Vale.

It was beautiful.

It was warm… Much, much warmer and more fertile than Angmar had ever been.

They had marched through Orc, Troll and Drake infested hills and dales… They had lost thousands… But they had found a new home.

Over twenty thousand of them yet lived and drew breath.

He felt a pang of sorrow for his family, thinking about the horrific fate that would have befallen them…

“Why didn’t you come with me?”

He muttered to himself as he had, all too many a time since they came to this valley, as he began to work in his makeshift smithy, as all around him a town began to form, and around it fields became tilted.

There would not be enough time for a final harvest… But they would be ready for next year.

Despite everything, they were still alive… And that, despite horror and sadness, was a thought that still lit hearts aflame.

Chapter Text

The great trade caravan that set out from Bree was a methodically planned out affair.

93 roofed wagons, filled with provisions, anything they might need for repair for wheels, tent equipment to allow their travelers to set up a camp, lanterns, wooden boards to deal with holes and such on the great stone road, and of course the trading goods themselves that the entire trip was based around.

Flanking the large caravan on either side of the road was large war horses who astride sat riders in glittering steel armor, full mail coats, topped with winged helmets.

In all their belts hung sheathed swords, and strapped to the saddle of a few, were bows.

However, none who saw them would have given much care to either. In each of their hands, every single man carried a lance.

A lance pointing skywards, so long they were longer than most pikes and spears a footman might have used with two hands.

There was a wooden ball at the lower half, marking the point which beneath their grip rested.

At the top were wicked, shining points of steel, though at this point it looked no different than any other spear in the world.

Inside they were hollow, and the two halves that had been cut in two to allow the removal of the center had been glued back again, making them light, and despite their ridiculous length, relatively steady and easy to use for war.

It would, in time, become the superweapon of the age, the weapon that all forms of grand warfare, be they tactics, the use of equally long pikes to counter them, ranged weaponry, or adopting them for yourself, would revolve around.

Cavalry would become the dominant force of the age.

For now though, as the men of Arnor began their great trek south, they served both as a means of defence, but also of intimidation, as few of those who saw the party of riders took more than one look at those spears before deciding that they wanted little to do with the party.

Then of course there was the occasional wild bear and wolf, who was about as able to defend against the long points as they were from arrows.

Arrows though rarely killed a bear in one single blow.

These spears did so with ease, and many a fur pelt was added to the things that would come back home with them(Though the curing process took place quite a distance away from the rest of every camp) and the red meat of wolves and bears alike was roasted over a campfire, alongside birds and rabbits.

Their only downside was that they were not quite as easy to make as regular spears… But the large party of ox driven wagons and horses that patrolled behind, besides and rode in front to scout out the day's march forward, had plenty of them reserved amongst the wagons.

The king had left nothing to chance in that regard.

They had set out from the north as the snow snows began to fall on Annuminas, though for the populated parts of the realm it was instead just marked by a cold spell and less rain than fall.

They traveled far, using the old road of stone and marble, though here and there, as they knew, it had been left in various degrees of disrepair after the plague had decimated the southern part of the realm, and they sometimes had to go around holes, though the great planks did not have to come out.

Not yet anyhow.

That was for when they passed through Enedwaith.

But before the great party reached that place, they needed to pass through Tharbad.

---

Tharbad, as far as settlements were concerned, was by any and all accounts a stopping place to rest and regather supplies.

It was a large, fortified town, centered around a rather formidable stone bridge and port.

However, the town was not relatively self-sufficient the same way the Shire and Bree land were.

It relied heavily on outside influences to both supply it with resources, but also the manpower needed to keep up its ancient and eternal battle with the river.

Gwathlo was a mighty river, far, far more powerful, naturally deep and manyfold more formidable in power than the Baranduin.

That allowed ships with smaller draughts to travel all the way up to Tharbad, provided they had strong winds at their back or oars to push against the stream… But it also meant floods.

The town around the great earthworks had been built around a set of dykes that had allowed the raising of lands and the construction of civilization at this place, where before fens covered the plain.

However, this meant that water had to be continuously pumped out, and if the dykes were not maintained rigorously and repaired with every spring, the entire town could easily find itself flooded.

In the days when Cardolan had been heavily populated, that had not been a problem, for there were always willing and able hands that could get the work done.

It had been a problem all throughout the Angmar wars as the region became less and less rich in people, but it had still managed to operate relatively well.

The great plague had put an end to that, as it wiped out the last remains of Cardolan, and the de facto ability to upkeep the town had fallen into Gondor’s duties, even if it had never officially annexed the Town.

Those who lived in Tharbad now was the last remains of Cardolan’s population, those in whom the blood of Numenor and its blessings still ran strong, if not mayhaps as powerful as their Arthedain cousins.

They, and two other groups. The first was of course the Gondorian garrison, only there to ensure the town’s ability to keep functioning as a bridge remained intact, and another group of folks, who also shared a blood link with the people of Arthedain, though from a much, much older root.

---

Gar-Trak-Bant raised an eyebrow, leaning up against the wall of a shop as the rather large caravan filled barrels and wineskins with water.

They had provided quite a sight for the locals, but the Druedain did not focus on the long spears that baffled their countrymen, or their trading goods, which had amazed the Tharbad folk, and a few crates had shifted hands as a result.

He instead saw their attitude.

He’d heard what had gone on up north.

Death.

Death on a level not seen since the dark years.

He’d thought they would be despairing. Listless. Without hope.

The men who talked with the men of Tharbad and the Gondor folk seemed nothing like that.

There was a darkness, yes… One he could clearly see on many of them… But there was hope. All of them had hope. A belief that their journey forward would lead to betterment and prosperity.

They believed in their futures.

Curious.

His thoughts considered the implication, as his companion came up to him.

Gak-War-Dar was younger than him, but not much shorter.

He lacked a beard though, which marked his lack of age rather severely, showing all his emotions clearly on his face.

As the younger, he did not wear the raincoat made of thick woven together straw, but instead such only around his waist, instead keeping warm through applied grease that made his muscled frame shine in the sun.

Also as the younger of them, the duties of carrying fell on him, and over his shoulders he carried a long stick, set from side to side, with bags hanging heavily long from both ends.

“Gar-Trak-Bant, what do you think it means?”

He shrugged.

“It means they think this great journey for trade is important. It gives them hope.”

He shrugged.

“And who's to say they're wrong? We do the same work after all.”

The clinking from metal in their leather bags, traded for fish from the sea bespoke of that truth.

The youth however had other thoughts.

“That is obvious for all to see Gar-Trak-Bant… I mean what does this mean for us?”

A good question.

The Druedain who lived by the western sea were not many, but they could be divided into two kinds.

They lived by the mouths of the grey river, the Iron river, and the coast lands in between.

The divide was between those who had crossed the grey river to the north as their ancestors had, and those who had not.

The lands between the two rivers was the best ones for fishing, as they knew better than anyone, being temperate, relatively free of storms, and full of animals be they fish or others, but it also was more exposed to the Hill folk to the east, who lived in the shadows of the misty mountains.

Those never dared to attack them south of the Iron river, the hills and glades that had been their home since the beginning of days, where they were still very strong in power, but the lands between the rivers were a different story.

Raids were a frequent danger for those amongst the Druedain who lived on that bit of coastland.

Hence, why some had chosen to cross the river to the north, and establish themselves on the northern bank of the Grey river.

That land had once been part of a great and much more powerful realm than anything the Hill Folk had ever ruled, but it had declined over the centuries.

First breaking into three, then the southern part that controlled the coast finally ending their days during the grand sickness.

That had allowed the Druedain to establish themselves unchallenged along the coast on both sides of the river… But now that despite all odds, Arnor was getting back on its feet…

“I suppose we’ll have to wait and see… Much will depend on how well the Stone folk do it. If they begin to reach all the way down south again… Well, the world will change. One way or another.

---

The men of Arnor had little difficulty spotting the men of lands they called the Gwathuirim, a name they had borrowed from the Sindar Elves.

They were a poor, and compared to most men in Middle Earth, very primitive people as far as technology and societal development went, living in the hills beneath the Misty Mountains in the lands east of the region of Enedwaith.

Neither folk had much good to say of the other, though actual conflicts between them was not a part of living memory on either side.

The Gwathuirim or Dunlenders(Or variants thereof) as the Northmen east of the Misty mountains called them, had been one of the original people of Eriador, who had long long ago quarreled with the colonizing Numenoreans for lands, a conflict they had decisively lost, and been pushed to their current home.

Their relatives in the north however, had managed to establish a much warmer relationship with the Faithful who formed the northern kingdom, and had formed the local backbone of the three provinces that became Arthedain, Cardolan and Rhudaur.

All had intermingled and been culturally assimilated into the Dunedain in their own way and to different degrees, with the folk of Arthedain being the most decisive… And all that now remained of this blend of cultures.

That there was a shared blood between them, distant though it was, was not something either folk had much knowledge of it those days.

For the Gwathuirim, the Armorians(For which they had never distinguished between the three main cultures) were not friends… But as they had little interest in expanding beyond the Grey river, not a faction they had much contact with… Beyond an occasional raid against travelers between them and Gondor.

For the Arnorians, their only relationship with the Gwathuirim, was that occasional bit of banditry, and it was with that in mind that the riders showed rather unsheathed hostility to clan scouts and the occasional sheep herders who lived in Enedwaith.

Though there was none who died or were actually hurt, the Arnorians did not hesitate to send arrows as warnings to any scout who dared to sneak too close to their caravans or camps.

And if there was any other parties of folk that came close to them for whatever reason, their lowered lances ensured they did not come closer.

The Gwathuirim were not a bad folk as scouts and rangers went, and in stealth their men were formidable enough in their own way… But here, on the open plains, against men on guard, sitting on horses with both experience and the training to act as rangers themselves if need arose.

Much better than the Gwathuirim at that.

After all, their ancestors, just as the Gondorians and the people of Umber had learned their arts from their fellow Edain, the Druedain, in the days before the darkening of the isle, and the splintering of their people north, south, and in between.

Still, there was no attempt at actual stealth, and as the year ended and a new one began, every clan knew well that a large, strong, and well equipped caravan of folks from the North was making their way over the plains.

---

Beren, the Captain in charge of the King’s trade caravan had expected to travel far, far into Gondor’s land before he had exhausted and traded away all the goods they had to offer. 

Him, the King, and all that remained of the Arnorian leadership had debated this topic heavily, and with some passion, before laying a clear route where the caravan would go, to what towns and cities they would visit, and restock at, before moving on.

As Captain, it was his responsibility to see everything would run smoothly, but also to determine when the Caravan would make the choice to turn around to head on home.

The plan was to make their first stop at Isengard, the capital of Calenardhon.

Calenardhon was Gondor’s current northernmost province, a green land of Hills and plains, fertile and warm, but not to the degree of the irrigated farmlands of Gondor’s heartlands around Anduin, to which, though it passed through in the east, Calenardhon’s population was not centered around.

They instead lived on the open plains or in the hills and dales.

Now however, through events Captain Beren had no knowledge off, Calenardhon was much better off than it’s usually more prosperous southern neighbors, for the Anduin was greatly reduced in strength and would remains so for a long time until the great hole that now stood where Dol Guldur and southern Mirkwoof had once been had been filled by water and become a lake.

Only then would the water flow anew in strength from the north, and once it had filled and cleansed the lands of the Dead Marshes by turning it into another lake, would Gondor’s farmlands return to their full capacity, and with it, their return to eminence as the great power of the known world.

For a time… A crucial period of time, Calenardhon was thus the most stable of Gondor’s provinces, unburdened by famine and lack of easy transport along the river.

That would become an important matter for the Caravans that set out in the next few years, but for now, it was not that important for the Arnorians.

For they did not get further than Isengard.

---

Isengard was a large, circular fortress with formidable stone walls in a perfect all except one part of the northern edge where the stones instead ended at an out jutting section of mountain.

Inside those walls was an open plain, with a lake to the right, fed by a stream from that out jutting part of the mountain, crisscrossed by a rather basic road network.

Those were not what drew his eyes though, nor was it what all the men in the Caravan had gazed upon for miles.

In the center of the great ring, jutting out like a great, black, stony spear, was a tower.

Massive, towering, crowned by four towers at the top, and shaped in the form of a four pointed star when seen from above, it looked like someone had carved out a tower out of some enormous mountain, hewn the stone away until this thing with no joints or exposed cracks or weaknesses in the bare black tower remained.

The men in the Caravan knew better.

The Dunedain of their company recognized the black stone immediately.

They had all seen it before.

It was the same black stone as the walls of Annuminas were made of… Only whereas their ancient capital had been laid when the lost art was at its peak, and looked a masterpiece of the highest caliber, Orthanc, as the great tower was called, looked rough and unpolished, like a stone carver had been in a hurry, and once he had reached this point, had declared “Good enough”.

It was a fortress in its own right, and the centerpiece of this entire fortified circle.

It was this tower, where Beren had expected to find the people he had expected to do business with.

His King had told him several hundred people lived in that tower, and was responsible for the administration of this entire province.

There would be wealth here, and people who would be more than willing to buy from them.

And it was indeed from this tower that the steward of the tower had come to greet him… But it was from another source that people actually streamed to come take a look.

The circle of stone.

It had been an afterthought both now and in the planning of this trip.

Just a wall, to serve as more protection for the tower and its garrison.

Just behind those walls however, was buildings.

Chambers for the visiting nobility of the province who came to their appointed overlord for this and that, halls for their garrison, as well as workers of the southern crown who lived here between projects, stables for hundreds of horses.

Smithies, woodcarvers, storage buildings.

All this and several others were to be found here in Isengard.

This place might not be a true city… But there was a true castle town beneath the tower itself.

And in the days after their arrival, it did not take too long before they managed to barter away everything his king had sent him to sell… And for good prices too.

The people of Isengard were wild for everything they had to sell. From umbrellas to toilet paper, everything was snatched up as soon as a price was agreed upon.

There was a lot of Gold and Silver that would come home with them… And more important than all of that, he also managed to secure some 32 marriages for his men.

When they returned North, they would do so with 32 ladies, just short of their 20th birthdays.

He had spent a decent part of their winnings on securing those marriages… But his king had invested him with the power to do so.

It was not as perfect as it could have been, for there were still a lot of his men unmarried… But he understood it was time to go home.

He had sold all he had, a lot of his men had brides, and would not be returning south on the next trip, and he’d gotten a lot of new, more up to date information from the nobles who had been here where they came.

The fortress of Aglarond in particular sounded quite… Interesting.

Where they would go though was up to the King. He was but a vessel for his monarch’s will, and he would go where he was ordered.

He would resupply here, and the marriages would be arranged and carried to terms… Then it was back home.

---

Women, Barrfind mused, as he narrowed his eyes, looked over the distant plains.

He had good sight, and his eyes told him quite plainly that the company who were making their trip back across the plains now had a substantial number of more people with them than the last time he had seen them.

People who wore what he assumed were long, black dresses, and had long hair.

Women.

Were they the spoils from a raid?

No… These were traders.

Did they… Buy them?

No… The Arnorians didn’t have thralls.

But if they were exchanged for whatever the men had brought with them…

He felt his hand under his chin as he considered.

A dowry of sorts… That had to be at least part of it. They had bought brides… They would have had to pay a substantial sum too… The men of Gondor were not the sort who gave their daughters hands to just anybody… Much less for something without value.

Not to mention their women were proud folk… Not the sort who would willingly travel hundreds of miles without a good prospect at the end.

An arrow embedded itself in the ground near his foot, white goose feathers shaking before they and the small rod stopped, and stood still as a stone in the ground.

Hmmm… What did all of that mean… And how could they use that to the Clan’s advantage?

Seven more arrows found themselves joining the first.

He raised himself up and began jogging away.

No further arrow came after him, nor was he pursued by men on horses. Good. 

It was going to be a long trip, several days of traveling on his feet… But assuming he was not accosted by another clan, he would bring this bit of news back to his chieftain.

He would know what to do with it.

Chapter Text

The life of the Monarch who would one day be known as Luthien Morning-Star, began early in what in another time would have been known as 1977 of the third age, but would be marked by future calendars as year 1 of the Fourth or final age, depending on what Millennium the writer wrote the record in.

It was the first new year after year 0, and the first year of the new calendar.

The babe was the first Dunedain born into the North since the fall of Fornost, and for the first time in a long, long time, the heir of the Northern throne had a name not beginning in “Ar” as had been tradition ever since Arnor split, to harken back to their right of rule to the entire realm of Arnor.

Such vanity was not required now, as for all their problems now and in the days to come, none questioned or disputed their right to rule.

And if anyone questioned the fact that they now, for the first time in Arnors entire history, it had a crown Princess, it was not a topic of too great discussion.

Survival, and “The great labor” as the men of Armor called their tireless work to remake civilization along the Baranduin took up far too much of their time.

As for those who did question it, it was, as with many other things, a sign that this was a new age. Both for the world, and the North.

The birth of their future monarch however, was by no means the only, nor the main thing that was on every mind as winter ended, and spring began 

For along with the return of those who had gone south with carts and carts of Gold and Silver, the war that had consumed their nation and spat it back out as ashes, came to an end that year, once and for all.

There would be no further conflicts with Angmar.

---

The army that returned from the North was a grim one, and did not linger longer than necessary.

In fact, the vast majority of them was already on their way back to Lindon, not through the Shire, but instead having gone the route north of Evendim. 

Of their foe of Angmar they simply said “Not one Orc or Man of that realm remains west of the mountains.”

They had come, they had seen, and they had conquered. Now came the journey back home.

However, there remained one, final task for the men of Gondor before they could return to the south after their butchery, and it was this task that had brought countless carts to the Baranduin besides Girdley Island that late spring.

---

Tons, and tons and tons, and tons of black steel and cold iron, was unceremoniously left within carts of various levels of quality on a green field beside the barn that was the King’s castle.

Captain Barad overlooked it all with great precision, and made sure to count every single cart from a vantage point of the barn’s roof as it passed the spot he’d designated as the “entrance spot” to the king’s residence.

Prince Earnur had promised King Arvedui that every bit of steel, iron, and such materials they took in the war as booty was to be given to the northern realm… Such as it now was, while Gondor was to be allowed to take all silver and gold and gems.

A less scrupulous man might have reneged on such a promise, but not him.

He was not one such that he would have allowed himself to go down in history as the man who broke a promise between his slain prince and Arnor’s King.

His commitment to that was proven in particular by the cart he had ridden in on himself, which was parked beside the Barn’s entrance.

Looking no different than all the rest.

Only he knew what it contained, for he had packed the content inside all of them himself.

Finally though, as the last of the carts(The 863th to be exact) that had once belonged to the people of Angmar, passed, he nodded to himself, and he made his way to the ground floor by way of a ladder.

A tall, red haired woman was inspecting a sword she had pulled out from a chest in one of the now abandoned carts, its rider having dismounted, detached the cart from his horse before saddling them with proper saddles, then ridden off.

She raised the blade high as Barad came up to her, and stood at attention to the Queen.

Queen, not princess, he had to remind himself, as she turned around to look at him.

Firiel had always looked like a Queen in Barad’s eyes… But the woman who had left Gondor’s fair coasts and riverlands for the cold and frozen north had changed quite a ways from the young woman he’d known from so long ago.

Tall, stern, beautiful but cold, with her dark, scarlet hair tumbling about her shoulders like waterfalls from the mountains.

There was not an ounce of weakness on her stoic face… And none who saw her then could have guessed from her face and how she stood that less than two months ago she had given birth.

“This is not good steel.”

She commented as she tapped the iron rim of the cart’s top with the blade.

“I could put all my strength into a blow, and it would not cut through the equally bad iron of these carts.”

He smiled.

“You have gotten mighty used to Arthedain’s blades I see. Most swords wouldn’t be able to either.”

“Do not speak as if Gondor’s blades would not have been able to do so either. They may not be a great match for northern, elven or dwarven steel, but they are at a far higher level than these.”

“True enough I suppose. We had little trouble cutting down the men of Angmar, that be true, clad in mail or but surcoat, it made no matter to us. We cut them down like a scythe does a field of grain.”

The words made him recall the first time he had swept across an Angmar town.

It had made him feel sick, and weak inside as he spilled blood…

The next time had been easier, and eventually, it had been like second nature to him.

He could not say he had enjoyed it… But he had managed to stop being squeamish as he cut down the Orc’s kinsmen of Angmar, one village and town after another.

He was looking forward to going home though.

He was sick and tired of the cold north and it's dark shadows.

Out loud though, he did not bother Firiel with such talk.

The Queen had her own worries to handle, if she was not to be bothered with his melancholy, and dreams of warm winds.

“I'm sure you’ll be able to make better use of the steel itself compared to the Angmarians. And besides… It might be bad steel to you, but it’s still sharp and strong. They will cut sinew and flesh just fine… And it is better to have a coat of mail and helmet of dark iron, even if it cannot stop an elven blade guided by a strong hand, than it is to be unarmored.”

“Not untrue that is.”

She admitted, as she tested the point to see how well it would stab through wood.

Not well, but it did lodge itself into it fairly well with enough force.

“Not planning to keep these carts around, I take it?”

“They will serve us well, as this steel and iron will. Though theirs shall be a more momentary use, to be cut to pieces and lit aflame to cook our food.”

She looked out over the field where rows and rows of carts, some with a roof of cloth, and others bare before the blue sky.

“You have not taken great care to prevent them from becoming waterlogged in the winter I see.”

“Aye, it was a cold winter, filled with other things to take up one's time.”

Hunting down Orcs and theirs, seeking shelter in caves for one.

“Hmmm… We will get to forge a great number of things from these… Better swords and spears and axes, but also so much else. My husband has plans for some… Interesting things.”

“Oh? Such as what? A new throne to replace the one that was lost in Fornost?”

“He did make a jest that we should use them to make an enormous throne of iron, 30 feet tall, with steps of hammered iron and back of flaring blades.”

“That sounds… Rather inane.”

“Aye. For one, we’d need a dragon… Or a wizard to melt it all together. And it would be both uncomfortable and dangerous. Not to mention an astonishing waste of good metal. Even a bad sword can be remelted into ingots.”

He nodded, but Firiel continued.

“He does have grand plans for a throne though… But it will not be a thing for many a year. For one, we do not require a grand seat now, and will have neither the need, nor the wealth for it for a long time forward. What we need now is practical resources to survive and live. Not grand symbols for all to see.”

He stiffened at that, but nodded.

His eyes went over to the cart he had personally ridden in on… Then looked around to see that no one else was close by.

“Do you recall the cart I rode here on? Where it is amongst these others?”

“Aye. What of it?”

Her eyes, for just a moment, went over to said cart, before returning back to him.

“There is… Well, I shall not call it a gift… For it is part of the terms his highness laid before your husband… But… It is a worthy prize for your… Um… Little one… One worthy of her name.”

Firiel actually smiled at that, and for a moment the cold, stern and regal woman gave way to a more mischievous and boisterous young girl that he had known in the House of Kings.

“She has quite the name does she not? My husband has some audacity for a man who reigns from a barn.”

Her girlish expression became more subdued as she continued, though the uncharacteristic smile did not fade.

“That is one of the things that I love so, about him. Even now, he dreams of grandness… Arnor as it can be, not what it is, as so many others focus on.”

He would take her word for it, for he knew the King precious little.

“I'm glad to hear your marriage was… A happy one.”

Her smile faded, and once again she was a Queen.

“You doubted it, did you?”

“We all did so.”

He confessed.

“None believed you would be happy up here… And even less so once your claim to Gondor’s crown was rejected.”

She shook her head.

“I have little interest in Gondor now… And it has less than that in me, now. Arnor is my home. The true home to which I now belong in heart and soul and body. It was where my sons were born, and it is where I put them to rest… And it is where my third child will one day rule all the lands of vales, plains and hills between the mountains.”

Her eyes hardened.

“One day, on golden locks the Northern Star will be set around my daughter’s head… And Luthien will rule the High-Kingdom of Arnor from Annumias of old, and all men west of the misty mountains will be hers to command.”

---

Arvedui looked down on what rested beneath him.

What had Gandalf said?

Worth more than the shire and all that therein is? Or something along those lines.

He picked up an ingot, that shone like the purest and most shining silver, as if he was bathing it in a desert sun as the sun was at its highest in sky, and not a modest light that shone in through the hole with open shutters that was his window.

“We could make a lot of Mithril armor with this…”

Like equipping every single man of a fortress garrison several hundred strong, with ornate helmets made of the stuff.

He had never really questioned where Gondor’s rulers had gotten the source to equip so many men with Mithril equipment.

The answer lay beneath him, and seemed obvious to him now.

The original Earnur had returned home to Gondor with all spoils of war, be they cattle, weapons, armor, gems and gold… And Mithril.

All the Mithril there had been to be found in Carn Dum, or elsewhere in Angmar if there had been any.

He doubted it.

Stamped on the ingot, was Angmar’s fortress symbol.

It was mocking him.

He felt a tight and painful knot in his heart at the sight, and what it represented.

“You do not look like a man who was just handed incredible wealth, my love.”

He closed his eyes, then he gave a sigh as he leaned over the chest in front of him, one of several.

He looked over them and nodded to himself as he saw the same symbol on all of them, and understood what it represented.

“The fact all of these have that… Damnable symbol stamped into them for markation… Means they are new. Probably remelted sometime in the winter or early spring, before they would have been shipped off to Mordor.”

She understood what he meant… But did not seem to care about it the way she did.

“Aye, these are all obviously from Fornost. That much should be clear enough. That would be the only way Carn Dum would have ever been able to obtain such a vast amount of it. Why does this bother you so? Is it not better that we got it back, rather than our enemy retaining it?”

That was true… But it was the logical argument.

Not the emotional one.

“Arnor… Then Cardolan and Arthedain… Traded with Khazad Dum for our entire existence. The moment the war of the last Alliance was done… Trade between us flourished. We gave them wood and food… And they gave us steel, iron, gold jewels… And Mithril. All of this…”

He motioned powerlessly with one hand over the bars.

“Originated from that trade… Two thousand years worth of trade and friendship between us and the Kings of Khazad Dum.”

“Aye. And due to the Dwarven King’s refusal to heed your warnings, that trade is going to stop. This is valuable far beyond anything else now… When the gates close as you have foreseen… It will be wealth beyond measure.”

That was true.

Mithril was more valuable than anything in the known world, save unique artifacts like Silmarils, the Arkenstone and other such wonders… And it would become even more so in a few years, when it would become near mythical and reach a scarcity on level with Valyrian steel from Martin’s attempt to mirror Tolkien…

But that wasn’t the point.

It was not the monetary wealth or what he could do with these that tore at him so… At Arvedui, King of Arthedain and Arnor.

“We folk of Arnor… Did not use Mithril for war, the way the Dwarves and Elves did. We had both faith and capacity to make steel we trusted for such purposes. The Mithril we traded from Khazad Dum… Whether it was as commissioned works, or as bars… Were works of art… Of wonder.”

He closed his eyes again and suddenly he was back home again… Fornost, during his youth.

When he was still a young prince, laughing with his friends and companions.

“Lord Edainur… You would not have known him… He died before we married… But he had this… Enormous shield. A… Disc of sorts.”

“I think I recall it. It was inlaid with gems was it not?”

That was one way to put it… Like saying that the sun like a torch.

“Yes. It was twice as tall as I am… And inlaid around it on the rim was a many layered ring of pearls his family had traded from the Elves for centuries. And across it, it was studded with brilliant diamonds and sapphires in the shape of Arnor’s star… It was wonderful and beautiful… Like looking at a mural… But it was when the sun shone on it, and the light reflected in hundreds of gems and pearls sparkled like a thousand stars that I thought, that surely, this wonder had to be something as grand as any Numenor ever made… As close as we ever came to making something as wondrous as the three gems of Feanor.”

Firiel nodded.

“I expect that all those gems will be finding a new home in Gondor.”

“Yes… They are welcome to it. The wonder that was the Firmament of Edainur’s line was shattered by Angmar… These bars proved that much… Gondor had no hand in its destruction.”

He sighed again, feeling the weight of his fallen people on him.

“It… Was certainly the largest of these works… And in pure wealth, the grandest… But it was only one of many. Hundreds of artworks… Lovingly crafted and handmade. Rings embedded with gems, and amulets with patterns of stars and trees and animals… Small statuettes of long dead Kinsmen and Heroes of olden days… All gone now. Along with so much else… Almost all of Arnor’s art and works and wonders are gone… Smashed to bits, or burned to cinders, or melted down by callus, uncaring hands.”

“Aye, our home suffered the same fate as Gondolin long before it… Tragically fitting I suppose, given how much inspiration it took from that city for its layout, for it to suffer the same fate as the hidden city of old… Yet the moral of those days remains the same as now.”

He opened his eyes and looked at her with melancholic curiously, genuinely not entirely sure where she was going with this.

“The true treasure of the Gondolindrim was just that. The Gondolindrim. It was not their art, nor their weapons, nor even their famed and beautiful city, the second fairest in all the lands east of the true west. It was their people that ultimately mattered, and it was not Turgon’s death in the defense of his city, however glorious that it might have been, that let Gondolin live on in a new form. It was Tuor who saved the legacy of Gondolin when he led the flight from the city, and his son in turn who crossed the sea.”

She raised a hand and pointed an elegant finger at him as if it was a spearpoint.

“Earendil the Mariner was born in Gondolin, and he and those who fled with him was of their culture and blood, and when his son in turn founded Numenor, he based all of their architecture, clothing and culture on what he was taught by his father and their fellow refugees from Gondolin. And they in turn passed that on for thousands of years until the faithfull left the Island and sought their refuge here in Middle Earth be it north or south. Even in Umbar you will find the same architecture and clothing there as you would find both here and in Gondolin. The men of Gondolin used mail overlaid with panopys’ of multi layered paper that would stop arrows dead in their tracks. Today that art has been abandoned, but we still use the same knowledge to make every bit of paper Arnor ever made. The leaf shaped blades we often use also have their origins in the Hidden city’s weaponry. Gondolin lives on long, long beyond its sack.”

He smiled at that though the melancholic feeling did persist.

“That was a very pretty way of saying that we can rebuild Arnor better and stronger than before, despite everything.”

“Yea, that it was indeed.”

She moved her hand down and picked up a mithril bar.

“These were all pretty enough two years ago, the conclusion of millennia of work and effort, I have little doubt of this. But the most beautiful thing in this barn is not the crown upon your brow, nor these bars, nor the broken shards of Narsil that rests underneath our bed.”

“Aye, it be our little girl, you need not tell me that. One day, when I am dead and gone, she will rule and inherit all that we rebuild now. She is Arnor’s future.”

She actually smiled at that, though she tried to hide it… And he knew the reason why.

For all that she hid it quite well, it had always galled her to no end that she and him had been denied rulership of Gondor in favor of her distant kin.

It had poisoned her love for Gondor.

“Luthien will rule Eriador… As befits a woman of such a lofty name.”

He smiled at that.

“Beren is one of the most common Numenorean names there are… Yet Luthien is almost never used as a name, by nobility nor the common folk. Why is that, you think?”

His wife’s smile did not fade, but her tone turned sardonic.

“Mayhaps for the same reason there was never an Earendil the first, Elendil the second, or Romendacil the third. It sets an impossible standard for the crown’s heir to live up to.”

Her smile widened a bit.

“It may also make a man look conceited and arrogant, that he would have the gall to say that his child was as grand at birth as those mighty heroes of old.”

“Had she been a son, I would have named him Elendil.”

Firiel stepped around the table, and put her hand over his.

‘Yes… That is a part I adore about you my dear husband… I have missed it sorely…”

She leaned closer to him.

“That same audacity you showed when you pressed my claim to Gondor against the jackanapes on the Council of Gondor… The will and the dream to shoot for the stars when all tell you it’s meaningless… Just as Earendil did so long ago when he challenged the ban of the Valar and sailed across the seas to Valinor…”

She leaned forward and kissed him as her arms closed around him in a warm embrace.

---

In the end, the chests of Mithril joined Narsil’s shards underneath the bed.

And there they would remain for many a year, unseen and undisturbed, the wealth it contained, hidden from the grander world, until one day, Gondolin would have risen anew, and the last surviving smith of olden days, he who once forged Ringil that gleameth cold and blue for High King Fingolfin, was called upon to come visit Arnor.

Three blades the line of Isildur would be famed for.

The first was Narsil, the broken blade of Earendil, who’s steel would only be reforged anew on the finding of Isildur’s bane.

The second was the blade of Mithril that Orcs would call Sugg-Ghash, the Blue Blame.

And the third was currently resting in one of the countless tombs of the Barrowlands, having once been wielded by several Princes of Cardolan. An old sword, who’s now broken twin had been famed as the sharpest blade that ever was.

One was the broken remains of something old that awaited to be made anew into something more wondrous than it ever was.

The other was something new, something that had never been, but would define the land to which it was forged.

And the final one was a relic of old that yet remained alongside many other treasures across the lands of Arnor… As perfect and wonderful as it had been as the day it was made.

Chapter Text

The rest of year 1 went by relatively well for the people of Arnor, be they man or Hobbit.

A number of families in the Shire got a rather substantial amount of gold, and being Hobbits, these families were not inclined to sit on their newly acquired wealth without spending it.

Thain Bucca spent his part of the wealth(For he owned several workshops along with his not insubstantial farmlands) on building up the newly made Thaindom of Buckland, and beginning the work of Colonizing the lands on the east side of the Brandywine.

Some families invested their share of the money into their own endeavors, be they improving their homes, workshops, or commissioning something grand and wondrous from the dwarves of the Blue mountains to the west, for those had come and gone frequently throughout the year.

Most however, were more open handed and threw parties for friends and kin, or bought gifts. Several dozen weddings of some splendor were financed by the influx of wealth.

All in all though, the newfound general wealth of the Shire was spread around far beyond the families who actually earned the money directly for their hard work.

A boon for all that made all richer be they butchers, farmers, craftsmen or of other professions better off.

Bree was not quite as well off, for the Breemen were not in any position to as easily take advantage of newfound wealth as the hobbits were, having a far lesser population and as such their internal economy was far smaller in scale.

Those who came home though, did do so with a far more safe future for them and theirs, if mayhaps not as luxurious as the Hobbits of the Shire.

The Dunedain danced a different song.

For they used little, if any of the gold they earned, instead putting it aside for another day.

They had little use for gold as it stood right now, and all the coins they made, they instead prepared for their children to inherit, or they set it aside as a dowry for their next trips down south if they had not come home with a wife on their first one.

But there would come a day when they all needed money, and the Shire, Bree, Nogrod and Belegost would be flooded with coin for goods and services to expand upon the farms the King gave freely to any who had a wife and was ready to start a family.

As for the King, in whom one fourth of all the winnings belonged, he alone was disappointed.

For though great riches had come home to all, it was not quite as lucrative as he had dreamed.

The problem, as he saw it, was numbers.

No matter how well it went, he did not have enough men to increase the size of the caravans, and with it, how much goods could go one way or another.

That meant a limit both to how much he could trade, but also how much gold they could carry back with them.

The system though, was working wonders, and joining countless steel and iron bars in what passed for his hastily constructed royal vault(A well made, if entirely basic warehouse truth be told), were a sizable number of chests with gold and silver.

His warchest as it was. The first funds he would use to build a new state… Though exactly what he would use it for in the short term he was not quite sure, beyond some technological projects he had planned for year 2.

In the short term, he had little need for money, for his men were paid in land, buildings, clothing and animals, and though all men had to work, all had plenty to eat.

Money would be greatly important later though. Especially once the Elves finished setting up their Kingdom in the west… But that was for a different day.

For now, he immediately organized the second grand trading expedition, and began overseeing the work on the first harvest along the river.

There was not much else to do at the moment. Certainly not something he could use his money on yet.

That was what he thought anyway.

But then, as the year went on, and the second expedition set out to return to Gondor, his peaceful times were disturbed by a messenger who came from Tharbad.

A messenger with a letter from beyond the Grey river to the south.

A Tharbad man he was, and one uncertain about the Northern King’s living accommodations, and whether he was to address him as his actual sovereign or not.

Arvedui thanked him nonetheless, and took his letter before offering him a stay at his home.

---

“To King AVEDUI, great sovereign of the North. I, Chieftain BRON of the Flame-”

Arvedui squinted his eyes as he looked down at the letter in his hand.

“I think it says.. rain? Flame Rain Clan.”

“A strange name for a people.”

“Assuming my reading is correct. The writing behind this is not good. It’s thankfully written in great rune letters so it’s easy to read… But the writer does not strike me as particularly good at writing. Regardless… Of the Flame Rain Clan, has heard your plight. Your men will have grand farms, and fertile fields… but no wives to settle down with on them. As such, your coming says will be without fruit, and your numbers will remain small. My clan can help you with this however, as I am willing to aid you fix this great endeavor.”

Firiel sighed.

“Well, at least he is honest.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“And what does he want in exchange for setting up these marriages?”

“Well according to this, a dowry prize of a steel sword, a mail hauberk, and a helmet per bride paid to her father, as well as a promise that the young ladies in question will be set up on a sizable acre of land to live on with her new family. Also, the Chieftain will get a sizable sum of gold for setting them up.”

His wife cocked her head.

“Will you agree?”

“For 300 new souls to our lands? I would have agreed in a heartbeat, even if he had required tenfold more gold than what is written on these terms.”

He raised an eyebrow at her expression.

“You disagree?”

“Nay, I agree… But this is not a permanent solution you understand? These are not Dunedain like us. They will age quickly, and in a mere 40 years they will more like than not, all be dead. And their husbands will be widows anew.”

That… Sounded incredibly amusing to his perspective… But he did not speak of that, and instead attacked the argument from another angle.

“That might be true, but their children will not. The Dunedain of Arthedain intermingled and integrated the people who lived here in these lands before us into our own people, and we live long lives yet. As did King Eldacar of Gondor, despite having a mother from Rhovanion.”

“...That might be true, and yet that point illustrates the downsides of this course, rather than seeking out brides from our kinsmen in Gondor. For when Eldacar had to flee Gondor for Rhovanion, all his contemporary kin were dead by old age, and he had to trust in his then old grand nephews and cousins to rally behind him, not his brothers by blood.”

“Somehow I don't think the day will ever come when Arnor has to rely much on the Gwathuirim for help in war. This is not a political alliance after all, even if we do provide him swords and armor to deal with his rivals. I have no plans to set up any sort of engagement between Luthien and any relations of his after all.”

Firiel nodded.

 “Good… In regards to this clan though… What will the impact of this trade actually be in the Gwathuirims lands? I am not familiar with their people, beyond them being a rather poor folk in the mountains.”

“I don’t rightly know.”

He confessed. 

“But somehow I don't think 300 mail suits and armor is going to let them conquer every other clan in the area. Bron will benefit greatly from the trade though, I have no doubts about that.”

He paused.

“Bron…Hmmm… I have a mind to give him a gift though, just in case this does lead to a more permanent friendship… Never hurts to be diplomatic.”

“What sort of gift? Gold?”

“No… Just something pretty that might fit the clan. ”

A banner of sorts.

A flaming arrow on gray.

A fitting gift for a no doubt ruthless man who wished to get ahead.

---

The sun was shining bright above, and there was not a cloud in the sky.

That part was important. They would not have been out if it was cloudy.

Arnui recalled the day when they had made that mistake. When they had so underestimated how quickly the hills could suddenly become covered in mists from seemingly nowhere.

It had been a wicked day… And only the King’s compass had allowed them to escape that bitter cold by having a clear direction to go.

No wonder the Barrowlands of Tyrn Gothad was considered a place of dread and death.

When you could not see more than the man in front of you, you had no way of knowing the way back to safety, out of the cursed lands.

But it was more than that.

The barrows WANTED you to come to them.

They had realized that quickly enough when the ones in front had constantly tried to steer away, off the beaten and true arrow pointed way north.

Even in the bright daylight of high summer, the hills had a queer feeling about them. 

It was a feeling that something was just… Wrong.

There was something off about it all.

The hills, the green, the grass and tuft… The winds didn’t blow quite right and the mists were always a danger.

It was impossible to shake off the feeling that something did not want them there.

Something that wished them ill, and was an all consuming danger if they made the mistake to be in this place when the sun went down and darkness fell.

Of course that went for the land itself.

It was a somewhat different story if one sought out the darkness directly.

The party crossed the lower end of the green hill, and climbed over the crest.

To either side, countless stones, monoliths of grey and black were splayed out over the landscape from one end to the other, and over in the distance, on the other great set of hills that formed the opposite wall of a large corridor of a plain down between them, an equal number of stone on those hills.

There was one difference between the two sides though, even as they stretched on and on into the distance.

On their side, behind them, monolith after monolith had a layer of bright red, a clear scarlet painted across all sides in a haphazard manner.

The one they had stopped at did not, but besides them… The one they had finished last week, did.

Over the course of roughly three quarters of a year, they had finished some 74 different burial mounds.

There were literally thousands of them left, on either side of the two sets of parallelling, and often broken sets of hills. 

Anduin chuckled.

“Well look at that, what an amazing progress we have made in less than a year. With this speed, we’ll have the rest done and over with, in but a… Oh mayhaps 60 years give or take.”

Arnui chuckled mirthlessly.

“You say that in jest, but that’s probably about right.”

In honesty it was likely too optimistic an outcome.

Darmil, the oldest and coldest member of their group responded in his jest with a cold rebuttal.

“We need horses. These treks back and forth by foot take far too much time.”

“We’re gonna have to wait some 3 more years for those. Horse breeding isn’t like raising cats.’

“Aye, but cat’s don’t kick none in the head strong enough to crack their skulls. But we need them anyhow, the sooner the better. We can still clear out Barrows, and will for a while yet… But there’s going to be a point where trying to commit this cycle by foot is tantamount to sleep outside in a blizzard.”

“Maybe so Darmil… But I don’t suppose we’ll-”

And there he stopped.

Arnui, who had been leaning over had found the “doorway” into the barrow, and his hand had touched upon the stoneside of the square.

His hand, and soon enough his body was suddenly wrecked with shaking.

All the men went quiet, as Arnui quickly, and without further words stumbled over and sat down on the grass a bit further away.

The shaking did not go away immediately though. It never did, and the cold feeling that came with it, now clawed at his stomach.

Slowly, slowly memories began to creep back into his mind, and out of the earth he began to hear far away screams, cries and…

The old bastard… I always knew he’d betray us.

He clenched his hand as his wife’s voice came from the ground.

Craven… You always were such…

More voices, but that was all they were.

He clenched his hands, and forced himself to look down, down on the green grass, and remind himself of that fact.

Only voices. They are not there.

They cannot harm you.

Suddenly, they vanished, and he let out a deep, deep breath as life returned anew.

The shaking slowly, slowly began to recede.

Besides him, his compatriots began to lay things down on the green grass.

Diamonds, rubies, sapphires and amethysts embedded in wonderous colden clasps… pearl necklaces… Silver clasps… and rings.

So many rings.

There were always rings in every barrow.

For every barrow had at least one wight bound to it.

The Barrow wights were the spirits of evil men, demons or Elves bound to the body of someone long since departed, bound in turn to some place.

None of them were of equal power and strength… Some were weak as a small breeze as long as the sun shone high, and others yet possessed the wicked strength even as the sun shone high and no mists covered the lands… But regardless, as the sun shone down from high above, all of them were sluggish.

All of them fought when the men of Arnor came.

Destroying their bodies would not do it however, for as night came they would put the broken bones back anew as their terrible, cold powers awoke…

But whatever devilish spell or sorcery had bound them to these barrows, the King’s words spoke true.

The moment their grave goods and buried treasure was put on the hills beyond their tombs, the curse was broken in a moment, as when you cut through a spider’s lone thread that kept it aloft.

He honestly did not know how it worked… But a large part of him believed that one did not need to take all their grave goods for the way to break the spell to to work.

He had never told his companions such though.

Not that they would have taken any chances regardless. Nor did they take much of the fancy part of the treasure either though.

Their king had given them leave to take whatever they wanted, but none of them took any of the rings, the jewels, the amulets, weapons or shields.

They left those on the green fields for later hands to pick them up.

No, they only took coins, silver or gold, as much as they could carry, leaving the masterworks of old behind.

Not a one of them trusted that there would not be some curse upon them.

They felt far, far too… Personal to believe such.

Today’s highlight was a perfect example, as Anduin buried a long, black blade into the ground, where it sank almost halfway before it stopped, having no difficulty in digging its point through the grass and soil.

The blade’s jewels were coated in dust… But the steel on the thing was black as the darkest night, and gave off a pale, white light.

They had found many such things… Clearly made of magical arts, for some long, dead prince, or lord or another important fellow who now was buried here in these green hills.

“You did well.” 

Anduin said.

Arnui snorted.

“I buckled over and had to sit down. I have little for your pity.”

“Still… It’s only thanks to you that we have early warning.”

Yes… Only his blasted weakness of his soul allowed them to feel the truly powerful wights before they saw them.

That was important. They were on guard, and ready… All thanks to him. Him and his weakness and uselessness.

He suddenly felt small again.

Coward.

You are such a craven Arnui.

Andui knelt down and clasped a strong hand around his shoulder.

“We need you Arnui… We can’t afford another lost eye or broken wrist, or worse. Without your shakings, we have no warning when one of the dozing things are truly powerful.”

That was true, and slowly, he nodded in response, giving his companion an affirmative, if weak smile.

He tried not to let it show how he resented him for it.

He shouldn't… They needed him.

He was their only early warning.

Only his blasted weakness that allowed for it. It was something none of the other men were as him… Truly broken inside.

Still… He could not help but feel… Resentment.

They used him. Like a cat that hunted mice at the farm, or the sheepdog guarding its flock.

Like an animal.

No…

The voice inside called him.

Animals are not like you, Arnui. Not like you at all.

The hound of the shepherds with their spiked collars of wicked steel will stand against the wolves when they come.

The cat that hunts the mice protects his master’s food, and thus ensures survival.

You are nothing like that.

You are lower than that.

The lowest of the low.

The worst man in Arnor.

Eventually Anduin left him, seemingly satisfied with Arnui’s mood, and he went to join the others.

As they continued pilfering and bringing out more and more gold and precious things, he tried to think back to something more cheerful.

Like the battle of Fornost in that wondrous spring.

He should not think of it as such.

It had been a brutal battle that had killed Arnor’s two princes… But he could not help it.

He recalled the feeling. The joy and warmth he had felt, so much more… Alive then, then any other time since Fornost fell.

He had come there to die.

He had wanted it.