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Chapter Text

Part One: Bitter Victory

February 7, Year 1975 of the Third Age

Fornost Erain

A pale winter Sun shone on the Fields of Fornost, throwing the tortured ground into sharp relief. What had once been a green, pleasant land was now desolate, a sea of bodies on frosty earth. Injured men cried out as pain and battle madness took them, and the hale searched for survivors with grim faces.

Prince Aranarth of Arnor surveyed the scene with keen grey eyes, his mouth tight with bitter satisfaction. For one year, one miserable year, his people had lived as refugees in Lindon, praying that their king would survive the cold of the Ice Bay, and waiting for overdue help from the South. Today, the North had been cleansed. The Witch-King had fled, and his army was defeated. The combined armies of Arthedain, Lindon, Rivendell, and Gondor had destroyed them to the last man.

“Prince Aranarth!” called an urgent voice, and he spun at the sound of his adjutant, Borondir the Tall. The giant of a man was on his knees, holding a blood-stained, child-sized warrior in his arms.

Aranarth ran to them, guilt eating away at his heart. Halflings had no business here, but the stout little archers had insisted, nay, pleaded, to help the kingdom. Now their stout commander lay dying in Borondir's arms.

The halfling, Bungo Took by name, fought to breathe under his sturdy leather armor. A poisoned Angmarim arrow lodged in his chest, another in his thigh. He struggled to speak.

“Don't, Master Halfling,” said Aranarth quietly. “You have done your share today, more than we'd any right to ask. You have earned your rest.”

“Mu—Mungo,” he wheezed, barely audible.

“We'll find him,” Borondir answered.

Bungo didn't answer. His eyes stared unseeingly at Gate of Elendil and the banner of Angmar flying in the wind. The prince's adjutant stood, still carrying the hobbit.

“I'll place him with the others,” he said gravely.

“Have you found them all?” Aranarth asked.

“Nay,” the older man replied. “Of the fifty, only six are in the healing tents.”

The conversation was cut short as two riders approached, one on a nimble white horse and the other on a gigantic black steed. Lord Glorfindel of Rivendell and Prince Eärnur of Gondor slowed to a stop beside Aranarth, both weary from battle but victorious at last. Borondir took Bungo's body to the healers' tents.

“Well met, Dúnadan!” cried the elf-lord. “My congratulations on a well-fought battle. Fornost Erain is yours again, though doubtless you'll have to wash it free of the filth of Angmar.”

“Indeed,” Aranarth replied, glaring at the red and black banners of the Iron Crown. “What news of the Witch-King?”

“He fled,” replied the prince of Gondor, clenching his fists in rage. “He would not face us, the spineless coward!”

“He will not return,” Glorfindel assured them. “He has no power here anymore; Arthedain is weakened and Arvedui lost, and we have destroyed the sorcerer's northern army. Some far-off doom awaits him, but not here will he fall.”

“So thou hast said,” Eärnur cried hotly, “but he lives yet, and while he lives he will hinder the works of the Men of the West.”

“I do not deny it. Nevertheless, he has fled and the field is ours. Now, where is Lord Círdan?” asked Glorfindel.

“Lord Círdan took an arrow to the shoulder,” replied Aranarth. “He is in the officers' tent yonder. Lord Elrond has seen to him.”

“Good,” replied the elf. “I'll see if he needs assistance. There are fewer casualties than I expected, but enough to keep a healer of his skill busy.”

“We appreciate the help,” replied the prince of Arthedain honestly.

The golden-haired elf rode away on his white horse, and the soldiers searching the battlefield looked up and cheered as he went, for they had seen him in action. It was Glorfindel who had cowed the sorcerer and driven back the dark army. None would forget his skill.

There was a brief silence as the prince of Gondor and the prince of Arnor looked at each other.

“Well,” said Eärnur finally. “Thy city is returned to thee, cousin,” he told Aranarth. “I am glad we could assist with this campaign at last.”

“As am I,” the northerner answered. “Gondor's full strength must be mighty indeed if you can spare enough to fill Círdan's harbor. I am envious.”

“It is the mightiest army of Men,” Eärnur replied proudly. “But you Northerners are valiant even in small numbers. We all have our battles, and I fear this Witch-King will return, perhaps to the Black Land. He will look to Gondor then.”

“I don't doubt it,” Aranarth replied, looking at the proud walls and gate of Fornost. “There is little to tempt him in the North; he made sure of that.”

“Thy kingdom will heal,” Eärnur assured him, clapping a hand on the younger prince's shoulder. “This foul creature of darkness will learn that the Dúnedain are not so easily defeated! Now, let us find some food and we can exchange stories of the battle. Our cavalry charge from the north will be worth many a song!”

Chapter Text

February 9, Year 1975 of the Third Age

Fornost Erain

The army of Gondor was gone, leaving a cloud of dust in the western sky to mark their passage. Their wounded would stay behind, and a small group of ships remained at Mithlond for their voyage home. Now the Dúnedain of Arnor were left behind with the elves, to bury the dead and do with the city as they saw fit.

The Fields of Fornost, once the bread-basket of the North Kingdom, stretched far to the south of the gates. These Aranarth had ordered cleared of bodies and left alone, to heal from the scars of battle without interference. Sixth Company had dug a series of mass graves northeast of the fields, to bury the enemy in all their numbers. To the northwest, Fourth and Fifth Companies had prepared smaller graves for the fallen Men Arnor and Gondor, the Eldar, and the hobbits.

All fifty halflings had perished, six in the healers' tents and the rest on the battlefield. Many men had wept at the news, for the hobbits had brought good food to their bellies and cheer to their camps. It had been Prince Aranarth's sad duty to oversee their burials. The halfling commander Bungo Took, and his brother Mungo, had been buried with Stars of Westernesse, the highest military honor available in the North Kingdom. The prince had placed a carved gravestone on the Halflings' Barrow, proclaiming the bravery of the Shire Archer Division for the world to see. 

It had been a long week, full of grief, as the living buried their fallen friends and allies. There were no songs in the camp those nights, and many lay yet in the healers' tents, too weak to attend the burials. Snow fell over the new graves as night approached, and Aranarth held council in his tent with the elves and surviving Lords of Arthedain.

“What news from the healers, Elladan?” asked the prince, wrapping his winter cloak more tightly around himself and wincing. The movement had pulled at one of his new wounds.

“Seven and thirty are in critical condition,” answered the elf. “Eighty more will mend in time, but must not move for weeks. The rest may travel—slowly—as early as next week. My father suggests you put the hale soldiers to building wains, and stay in Fornost until the majority can travel safely.”

“Staying in Fornost may pose a problem,” Glorfindel objected. “We don't know what sort of horrors Angmar may have left for us in there.”

“I sent First and Second Companies inside to look,” Aranarth supplied. “Lord Anborn, what goes on in the city?”

“We've found nothing on the lower level,” said the First Company captain and Lord of Ost Ardúlin. “Some caches of loot and supplies for a long-term stay, but no traps or wraiths. If there are any, we will find them tomorrow in the upper level.”

“Good,” Aranarth answered. “Then we may move the wounded into the lower level for now. Is the water clean?”

“Clear as Nenuial,” Anborn replied. “These were no orcs. The hillmen and Angmarim need water as much as we do; they did not foul it.”

“That's a relief,” sighed Beren, the elderly Lord of Carnoglin and captain of Fifth Company.

“My lords, if I may,” said Lord Anardil, Steward of Arthedain. “We have reclaimed our capital and destroyed Angmar, it is true. Yet Angmar was only one of the Enemy's many servants. He has not forgotten the Elendili, nor will he ever. We could not defend Fornost with our full army; how shall we do so now, with a tithe of its former strength?”

There was a long pause, as each man at the table remembered the horrifying defeat of King Arvedui's forces, and their desperate flight from the city. Aranarth cleared his throat.

“I will decide nothing so important,” he said at last, “until we know what has befallen my father the King. If storms defeat the ships of the Eldar, we must send men over land. I will accept volunteers for this mission, of course.  While they ride north for news of my father, we must take care of things here."

Borondil spoke up softly from his corner of the room. “My lord, one of the scouting parties found our store of winter supplies, nigh untouched. Shall we send the food on to Lindon?”

“With all haste,” Aranarth answered. “It's been a hard winter for our families, and we have our own supplies now that we've taken Angmar's. Gather as much as can be done in haste, and we'll send it on with the first group of wounded.”

Borondir bowed in reply.

“Tomorrow we must search the High Streets while the most severely wounded move into Lower Fornost. I want the Forochel expedition ready in two days. Good night to you all.”

The lords and captains returned to their own tents, leaving the elves to contemplate matters over a cup of warm cider. One of the men, the white-haired Keeper of Records, walked slower than the rest, favoring arthritic knees and looking up at the stars with failing eyes.

“Much sorrow and many lives of men shall pass, until the Dúnedain arise and are united again,” quoted Malbeth sadly.  It was the prophecy that he had been given at King Arvedui's birth.  “So it begins. Elbereth Star-Kindler, grant us thy blessing and watch over our young prince.”

Chapter Text

April 17, Year 1975 of the Third Age

Fornost Erain

Prince Aranarth stood in the King's Garden, enjoying the sun's warmth as he took a break from healing. The folk of Rivendell and Lindon had gone home, leaving the Dúnedain to recover in peace. This meant that the son of Arvedui, as the only royal present, was the most skilled healer available. Most of the army was on its feet again, but a few would need the newly constructed wains to travel past the gates. The House of Peace, where healers tended the wounded and ill of Fornost, had nearly exhausted its supply of athelas, and other healing herbs had long run out.

For two months, the prince and his council had waited for news of the Forochel expedition and the fate of the king. It had been two months of loneliness, as the wounded men pined for wives and children in Lindon, and Aranarth wandered his home alone. Fornost had been declining for many years, as Angmar ate away at the army and the population of Arthedain and Cardolan dwindled. After the devastation of 1974, the Dúnedain could not fill a quarter of Fornost, and even less of Annúminas. The silent streets were falling to ruin as he watched, powerless.

“Highness!” called an urgent voice, and the dark-haired man turned to face the full Council of Arnor, led by his father's steward.

“Yes, Lord Anardil?”

The man brought two others dressed for travel. Both soldiers knelt with hands clasped at the breast.

“Highness, Lieutenant Haerdor and Sergeant Laegened led the expedition to the Ice Bay. They bring tidings from the north.”

He had suspected as much. Aranarth bade them rise and speak.

“Prince Aranarth, we met with Chief Hasikkä of the Lossoth; it was his people that gave our king shelter, and saw Círdan's mariners come for him. Before boarding the ship, the king gave him this.”

Silence reigned as Haerdor held out an emerald ring. “King Arvedui explained it was worth little except as an heirloom, and that we would ransom it back with food and supplies, as thanks for the aid they rendered him. A storm destroyed the rescue ship and its crew, and the palantíri of Annúminas and Amon Sûl were lost in the water. I am sorry, Highness. The king was aboard that ship when it foundered. We ransomed back the ring with the extra supplies, as His Majesty had promised.”

“King Arvedui has fallen, then,” said Anardil solemnly, then took the ring from Haerdor and gave it to a rather numb Aranarth. “May he find peace in the halls of his fathers. Prince Aranarth, take up the Ring of Barahir and the Sceptre of Annúminas. Hail to the King!”

“Hail to the King!” repeated the council members and soldiers. Those within earshot on the lower level joined in.

Malbeth the Seer came forth bearing the Elendilmir and the Sceptre, the two heirlooms that Aranarth himself had saved from the fall of Fornost and taken to Lindon. Now they belonged to him.

“What is thy will, sire?” asked Lord Anborn. “Shall we send for the women and children and resettle the city after thy coronation?”

Aranarth turned back toward the garden balcony. Soldiers went about their duties in the lower level, exercising wounded limbs or carrying provisions. The new king beheld the scars of battle on the walls of grey stone, and wondered if Fornost would ever see peace and prosperity.

“No,” he said finally, turning back to his council. “I will not have us trapped here for the next enemy that Sauron sends our way. We have done naught but dwindle since Arnor divided, and if there is an end to our fading I cannot see it.”

“Sire, with plentiful harvests and children we could regain somewhat of our old strength,” cried Lord Beren. “Wouldst thou have us leave Fornost to the beasts, while our wives dwell in tents?”

“It would not be the first city the Dúnedain have abandoned,” Aranarth sighed. “I am not a self-sacrificing fool, Lord Beren. I would have lived quite comfortably in the Palace of Amlaith. But the Arthedain we knew, and the Arnor we lost, are in the past now. It is time for a new approach.”

The councilmen, sensing a serious discussion, took seats on the stone benches as their young king paced back and forth.

“I spoke with Elladan and Elrohir, before they returned to Imladris. Only the peoples of Men, at the height of their strength and power, do as we have done and keep fortresses out in the open. The Eldar and the Dwarves prefer secret strongholds to our brazen towers, and the elves harry the enemy by stealth rather than open war. When our numbers are so few, the elven way appears to advantage.”

The lord of the Northern Dúnedain paced a bit more, and looked over his council with haunted grey eyes.

“My Lords, at present our people are too few to resettle Arthedain, let alone Arnor. We have sworn to protect the people of Bree, and the little folk of the Shire. We also have a duty to our families in Estolad. Therefore, I propose that the Dúnedain disappear into the shadows, just as the Eldar do.”

Lords Beren and Beleg looked at each other in horror, but Anborn and Galdor nodded in appreciation. The Steward Anardil frowned in thought, and Malbeth looked at the king with a sad, knowing smile.

“To our enemies, it will appear as though the Men of the North are well and truly defeated. There will be no king in Fornost, and no army such as we have today. Instead, our people will trade plate armor for leather and swords for bows. We will patrol all areas of our kingdom, and eliminate threats to our people, whether they be goblins or wolves.”

“Sire, what of our families?” asked Anardil. “Shall our children wander the Wild while the homes of their fathers fall to ruin?”

“Nay!” cried Aranarth impatiently. “We shall not be homeless; we will need small settlements for our families, and places where we might herd cattle, and grow crops to trade for supplies. It will be a hard life, full of toil, but we shall protect Eriador and disappear from Sauron's view, until the time comes for the Dúnedain and the Line of Elendil to reveal themselves.”

Slowly, reverently, Aranarth removed the Star of Elendil from his brow, and placed the Sceptre back into its box. He had carried them them for less than a quarter of an hour.

“The realm of Arthedain is ended,” he said solemnly. “Therefore I will not crown myself king. I and my heirs shall be Chieftains of the North, and Rangers of the Wild, bearing only the Ring of Barahir as symbol of our lineage. Heirs of my line shall go to Imladris in their youth, for safekeeping and education. Our families may remain in Estolad, or travel in small groups to other settlements, where they may live in peace. The army is now disbanded; I will take volunteers to form Ranger companies, and ask the Eldar to train us.”

“Sire,” objected Lord Beleg. “What is to become of our homes, our lands?”

Aranarth was immovable. “If you wish to return to Henneth Rhún, you may,” he said bluntly. “You may find that the invaders have raided your larders, burned your fields, and stolen your silver. If you can recover from all of that, you must become self-sufficient. There will be no Fornost Market anymore, or centralized crafting guilds. We will do what we must, Lord Beleg. I myself will leave my father's palace and live in the Wild.”

The new king watched as his council members stared at each other in alarm or relief, as their nature dictated. He had known there would be opposition, but he was not fool enough to ignore foresight when it was given.

“Remember, lords,” Aranarth continued. “There is no North Kingdom anymore. We are but hunters now, rustic folk with a noble heritage and the hope of better days. We will ever remember our history, but to the world, we will be nothing more than a memory—until the time is right. Now, let us adjourn, and Anardil and I will look over maps and see where we ought to settle.”

Chapter Text

April 23, Year 1975 of the Third Age

Fornost Erain

“Aranarth, Aranarth!” called a little boy, chubby and dark-haired. “Where are you hiding?”

“Worry not, Arveleg,” a beautiful woman answered. “If your brother does not appear in two minutes, we shall dine without him.”

“Come, Fíriel,” said a man, familiar and warm. He took the lady's arm in his, and an emerald ring glinted on his finger. “Prince Arveleg, what have I told you about dusting the floor with your clothing?”

The little boy jumped up immediately, looking sheepishly at the dirt on his tunic.

“Sorry, Ada!” he said quickly.

“Gloriel, will you change him before supper, please?” the Queen of Arnor and Princess of Gondor asked the boy's nurse. She nodded and bowed, taking the little prince by the hand.

“I wonder where our other son is,” the lady Fíriel sighed. Casually, she steered her husband toward a large linen cupboard. With one swift move she opened it, watching in amusement as her eight-year-old son tumbled to the floor.

“Ah,” said Arvedui, raising an eyebrow. “Do we know this little urchin wearing the circlet of a Northern Prince?”

“Ada, we were just playing,” Aranarth protested.

“I know you were,” the king replied. “But you've left dirt and grass on Dame Ivriniel's clean linen, and she will have my head for that.”

Aranarth winced. The king's housekeeper was a formidable old lady.

“Go and change, darling,” Fíriel ordered.

Aranarth woke, trying desperately to hang on to his dream. He was the only one left now. He had lost his little brother to the Fall of Fornost, his mother to grief and the harsh winter, and his father to a shipwreck in Forochel. His mother's brothers had died in a faraway battle, leaving no heirs, and his father had no surviving relatives. Never had the burden of leadership felt so heavy as now, when the Dúnedain were about to leave their beloved city for the woods and mountains, at his command.

Am I doing the right thing? he wondered for the thousandth time. He had felt in his heart the certainty that Sauron would send army after army at them until they died in truth; the foresight given to his people urged him to take them all into hiding, and preserve the blood of Elendil until the right time. It still felt like the coward's way out.

Now, surrounded by the splendid tapestries of his father's house, he dreamed of happier days and wondered at his own intuition. Was it a fool's gambit, or a true visionary's plan for the future? He had pondered all of their options; rebuild Fornost with a tenth of their former numbers, fly south to Gondor and add to their strength, or disappear into the Wild and become Rangers?

No, he reassured himself. The Dúnedain of the South would not welcome them, not after rejecting Arvedui and Fíriel's claim to the throne. Gondor had already struggled with kinslaying; it was not the place for a prince who could claim the Northern sceptre and the Southern crown. Aranarth had no wish to drag Gondor into another civil war, and he did not have enough men to press his claim.

With a sigh, the former prince hauled himself out of bed, sparing one last look around the bedchamber he had occupied for over thirty years. His bright chain mail hung from a stand in the corner, freshly polished with a gleaming adamant star on the collar. The wardrobe was open, and formal robes of all colors hung there. He would not need them anymore.

Aranarth's longsword, newer and shorter than the famous Narsil but of similar workmanship, he wore on his back. From his rack of weapons he took a pair of daggers and a Númenórean bow, a six-foot behemoth of black lebethron that none but the tallest and strongest men could wield. The Southern army had few archers large enough for such weapons, as their blood had mingled with that of other Men.

He dressed in a woolen shirt and a simple green tunic, sewn in haste by the army tailors. Green winter leggings, brown leather boots, and a leather jerkin and arm guards completed his outfit, all underneath a heavy cloak of a leafy green. While the bitter snow had melted, April was cold in the North.

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts, and Borondir entered. He was dressed similar to his lord, in hunter's greens and browns.

“Sire, the captains are assembled.”

“Good,” said Aranarth. Taking his army pack from the dressing table, the crownless king followed his adjutant to the throne room. It was a large, airy chamber, with colored glass windows arranged in intricate patterns. Behind the carved golden throne hung a banner with the device of Elendil, a black square with a white crown, seven stars, and the Tree of Gondor flowering underneath. On the opposite wall hung the device of Arnor used by Valandil and his heirs, a single silver star on a blue field. Below it hung the deep purple banner of Arthedain, and the red one of Cardolan.

Everyone bowed as Aranarth entered, and he restrained the urge to scold them. Most of his captains were far older than himself, and they would be slow to change in this new world.

“My lords, today we say farewell to our beloved Fornost Erain and head for the Wilds of Eriador,” the king said briskly. "I hereby dissolve the Royal Army of Arthedain and Cardolan, and relieve you all of your commands therein, with my gratitude for years of faithful service. As discussed with the Council, we will form six Ranger Companies, to protect our ancient lands from the Great Sea to the Hithaeglir. Our people will scatter, and settle in small villages that are harder for the Enemy to find.”

“Henceforth,” he added, “I will not answer to Prince Aranarth or King Aranarth. I am a Chieftain of the Rangers only, and I will begin my training as such when we reach Estolad Elendili. Now, let us organize ourselves and our resources. Lord Anardil, if you please.”

The Steward stepped forward, clad in green and brown and carrying a large, rolled-up map. A table had been placed in front of the king's throne, and there it was that Aranarth and his men gathered to look at it.

“Green Company shall have the heart of the kingdom, including Fornost,” Aranarth instructed. “I have chosen Captain Amlaith to lead it. Your duty will be to guard the lands between the North Downs and the southern Ered Luin; the Shire and the Bree-landers are under your protection from this day henceforth. Choose one or two secluded areas, and have your men build a home for the women and children. Do not draw attention to yourselves by opening trade routes with the Pheriannath or Bree, and do not trespass on Shire lands except at need. You will be their invisible guardians.”

Amlaith nodded sharply.

“White Company shall patrol the lands north and west of us. It is not Arthedain territory, but there are plenty of holes for goblins to lurk in those mountains, and I want our people protected from all sides. You are to befriend the Lossoth if you may, and establish a settlement in the North for our hardiest people. I have promoted Haerdor to Captain for this role, and would ask that he build on his friendship with the Lossoth.”

Haerdor joined Amlaith at the table. He was of an age with Aranarth, much too young for the severity of his features.

“Blue Company will have the largest territory to patrol, but the fewest dangers,” the king continued. “They shall have the land between White and Green Companies: West of Baranduin, including the Emyn Beraid, Annúminas and all of Nenuial but excluding the Shire. Naturally, their families may stay at Estolad Elendili. They may trade with the Anfangrim or with Círdan's people if they wish; the Enemy has few spies in Lindon, and Estolad is well hidden. Lord Anborn shall command Blue Company.”

The older nobles raised an eyebrow at this. Before the invasion, Lord Anborn had been one of the wealthiest in Arthedain. That he was willing to leave his lands and move west was a blow to any that may have dared to protest.

“To the east of Bree, I will send Lord Galdor and Brown Company. They shall patrol from the North Road to Imladris, and from the Ettenmoors to Tharbad. With their watch we shall have warning if any trolls come down from the mountains or hillmen from Rhudaur, and you may trade goods and news with the Dwarves of Hadhodrond or the Eldar of Rivendell.”

Captain Galdor took his place with the other three Ranger Company leaders, staring impassively at his new command on the map.

“To the lands between Baranduin and the Sea, we shall send Grey Company. I intended Lord Beleg for the post, but he wishes to retire. Therefore, this post will go to Captain Gilthador. Finally, Lord Beren will take command of Red Company and head northeast, to patrol the territory of Angmar and keep a watchful eye over the Witch-King's former dwelling place.”

No one missed the baleful glare Lord Beleg shot at Beren. He had counted on the man to protest this harebrained scheme, not go along with it! Now the fool had accepted a command post, leaving Beleg as the lone dissenter. How was he supposed to save face now?

“Lord Aranarth,” said Lord Anborn slowly, unused to the title. “Is it...wise, to send men into the Witch-King's domain? We've all heard the tales of the tortured wraiths and monstrous beasts the Enemy had under his command.  We're lucky to have found none in our own city.”

“I know,” sighed the former prince. “I was reluctant to send anyone there, but we must not be caught napping again. If there is anything stirring near the old fortress of Carn Dûm, we must know immediately. All of the men in Red Company are volunteers. They go with their eyes open.”

“Very well, my lord,” Anborn replied softly.

“Remember our purpose,” Aranarth told his captains, looking each of them in the eye. “Our task is to keep the last of the Northern Dúnedain safe, while at the same time protecting our lands and the folk that dwell in them. It will be hard, and ere long we shall forget what it was to live in a prosperous city of stone, but I would rather sleep under trees and keep our children in caves than see them slaughtered inside the Gate of Elendil. By the grace of the Valar, we shall endure.”

“Hear, hear!” cried the lords of Arthedain.

“And now, we march,” the new Chieftain ordered. “Captains, assemble your companies immediately. Lord Elrond's finest huntsmen await us at Estolad Elendili, and our training begins the moment we arrive.”

Chapter Text

August 5, Year 1975 of the Third Age

Estolad Elendili

The shores of the Gulf of Lhûn were beautiful to look at, but not particularly comfortable in the dead of summer. In an overcrowded, hastily-built refugee camp there was little escape from the heat, and the buzzing of insects was a constant annoyance. The hardy Dúnedain endured it in silence, blessing their strong constitutions and praying to the Valar for patience.

At the practice grounds, the twin sons of Elrond Peredhel drilled a hundred green-clad men in archery, watching for errors with keen silver eyes. The surviving archers of Arthedain's army had been split amongst all companies, but the vast majority of the new Ranger force had once been infantry and cavalry. With help from the Eldar, they were learning to rely on their bows as never before.

“Loose!” cried Elladan. A hundred arrows thudded into straw targets.

“Raise your elbow a bit, Nothendil,” advised Elrohir, watching the golden-haired youth on his left. The Ranger obeyed at once, ignoring the trickle of sweat on his face and neck. “Good. Now try again.”

“Loose!”

This time, Nothendil's arrow struck the center of the target. Elladan picked up a hunting horn and blew, signaling the end of the lesson. Men scattered in all directions, desperate for a cool drink of water.

“Well done, lad!” cried Elladan, inspecting Nothendil's target closely. “You have a keen eye and a steady arm. Are you sure no one has taught you?”

“Yes, my lord,” replied the boy. “My father taught me some swordplay before his death; nothing more.”

“Then you're a natural,” praised Elrohir, saluting Captain Gilthador in the elven fashion as he approached.

“Another fine lesson, my lords,” the captain said honestly. “When Grey Company formed, some of them could not string a bow, let alone shoot it. We'll make marksmen of them yet.”

“I have no doubt of that,” Elladan answered.

As the men of Grey Company headed for a nearby mountain spring, Captain Haerdor rode up on a white horse. He saluted the twins and Gilthador briskly.

“I bring word from Lord Aranarth,” he said without preamble. “A scout from Rivendell spotted a large orc-band moving south from the Ettenmoors. Brown Company is riding out as we speak, and all other companies are to speed up their training.”

“What of their families?” asked the forgotten Nothendil, whose best friend was the daughter of a Brown Company sergeant. “Are they to ride out with them?”

“No,” answered Haerdor. “The families of Grey, Brown, and White companies will ride out in two weeks, as planned. Lord Galdor means to settle his people in the Angle, so Green Company will escort the women and children of Brown as far as the Weather Hills, and their men will meet them there after hunting those orcs.”

“I half-expected Aranarth to have us escort them,” Gilthador mused. “We'll be skirting around the Blue Mountains and coming down to Minhiriath from the seashore; won't the waggons of women and supplies be too conspicuous in the Bree-lands?”

“Oh, they won't see them,” Elladan said, grinning. “My father's people have been training the women and children in stealth, and the young ones are very good, for humans.”

“Yes,” Elrohir agreed. “Unlike their fathers, the children will pass unnoticed if they wish.”

“Oh, good,” Gilthador said, his expression clearing. He turned to his young recruit. “Come, Nothendil; let us have a cool drink before the sword-play lesson. Farewell, my lords, Captain.”

With a friendly wave, the two men of Grey Company departed, leaving the captain of White Company with the two half-elves.

“What will become of your own people, Captain Haerdor?” asked Elladan.

“I've chosen the North Bend of the Lhûn for White Company; it's a hard climb to a secluded valley, with no roads nearer than the Dwarves' Pass,” answered the man. “It will be lonely but quite safe.”

“That's good to hear,” Elrohir replied. “Are your people confident about their survival skills up north?”

“We will do what we must,” Haerdor said carefully. “Lord Cirdan's people and the dwarf delegation have imparted what knowledge they have; now we must use it.”

A distant bell rang out, heralding the lunch hour. The Peredhil walked beside the captain, who led his horse in the direction of the cooking-fires. Women walked to and fro, carrying baskets of bread, pitchers of water, and pots of steaming vegetables and meat. There was no high table at this open-walled mead hall, nor tapestries and carvings. It was just a roof and posts, giving shelter to dozens of rough wooden tables. In the center, wearing no tokens of his noble house, sat the Chieftain Aranarth.

“Ah, there they are,” said the prince. “Come, Haerdor, my lords, there is room enough at our table.”

The half-elves sat gracefully, Haerdor less so. Immediately, the serving women gave them plates of food and crusty bread. The captain's horse needed no order, but returned to the stables alone, carefully skirting around children and chickens in his path.

“Has Brown Company gone, then?” Elrohir asked his cousin.

“Yes,” replied Aranarth. “This may be naught but smoke and rumors, but I want our eastern borders protected. In any case, our veterans are chafing at the bit. Estolad Elendili was never meant to hold this many people for so long,” he added with a sigh.

“Indeed,” said Elladan, raising an eyebrow. The refugee camp was bursting at the seams.

“Well, Green Company will be out of everyone's hair soon enough, m'lord,” Captain Amlaith said from his seat on Aranarth's left. “We leave next week.”

“Yes, you leave us for the woodlands of the Shire and the Bree-lands. We should all be so lucky,” Captain Beren joked. The former lord of Carnoglin was a hundred and fifty-six years old, but neither age nor war wounds had dulled his sense of humor.

“You did volunteer,” Aranarth pointed out. “Lord Beren, if you wanted an easier assignment, you had but to ask. I could refuse nothing to such a valiant man, and friend of my honored father's besides.”

“My prince,” the silver-haired noble said, forgetting Aranarth's new title, “I will do my duty by Arthedain, whatever it be. There is no shame in a noble death in battle. At my age,” he added ruefully, “it is the best end to which I could aspire.”

The younger captains bowed their heads, humbled.

“Now, what's this?” the captain of Red Company said, frowning. “Let us have less moping, if you please! You are young men, eager for adventure! Now drink your ale, and off to your lessons!”

August 12, Year 1975 of the Third Age

Estolad Elendili

As the next batch of Rangers and the women and children of Brown Company prepared to march out, the scouts on the western palisade beheld a strange sight. A small figure struggled up the hill to the gates, hooded and bare-footed, and carrying a pack half his size. Polite but firm, he insisted on speaking with the camp commander, and was shown into Aranarth's tent.

The prince looked up from his paperwork. “May I help you, Master Perian?”

The halfling lowered his hood, and Aranarth's breath caught. It was a face he'd seen before, on a bloody battlefield.

“My name is Longo Took,” said the visitor. “My brothers Bungo and Mungo led a group of archers to Norbury last winter, and we've heard naught from them since. Please, captain, what has become of my family?”

The Chieftain of the Dunedain looked away briefly, composing himself. “The Shire Archer Division arrived indeed just before the battle, and would not be gainsaid. I hoped they would listen to my father and return home, but they refused. The city fell not long after, and they were with us through the long winter.”

“But?” Longo asked, wanting confirmation.

“In February we took back the city, with reinforcements from Gondor and Rivendell. The halfling division fell in that battle.”

“No!” cried the hobbit, tears pooling in his eyes.

“I am deeply, truly sorry,” Aranarth said. “We built a barrow for the halflings outside the Gate of Elendil, and awarded them the Star of Westernesse for bravery. I know it is cold comfort, but they died for the kingdom and we will honor them always.”

“Was it worth it?” Longo Took wanted to know. “The word from Bree is that the North Kingdom has fallen, and its people are dead or scattered. There is no King in Norbury anymore.”

“Only time shall tell,” Aranarth admitted. “Arthedain may be gone, but its people endure, as does the royal line. We shan't abandon the North in any case, I promise you that.”

The Took family was well known for its wealth and love of adventures. Less known perhaps was their intelligence, but Longo Took was no fool. In addition, his family was one of the few Shire families to have visited Fornost in its heyday.

“King Aranarth?” he asked, thunderstruck.

The man's eyes met the hobbit's, and his stern mien softened as he smiled. “Well spotted, Master Perian. Alas, I cannot be a king, for I have no kingdom. I am a Chieftain of Rangers, nothing more.”

“Have you no kin in the South, your highness?” the halfling asked, falling into informal address in his curiosity.

Aranarth grinned at the suggestion. “Imagine, Master Hobbit, an old family with two sons and many grandchildren. The elder son left the ancestral home with his children, leaving the younger son and his heirs in charge, until his return. He never returned, and the younger son's children have grown proud of their heritage, while the older son's family has fallen into difficulty and lost his wealth. What sort of reception might the older son's descendants expect from the younger?”

Longo winced.

“I do not carry my sire's sceptre,” Aranarth continued, “but I do carry his responsibility. The wilds of Eriador are mine to protect, and it will be done whether I am king or not. That is the task of the Ranger Companies, and so it will be until the time when the Dúnedain come together once more, or until we all perish.”

The hobbit watched, speechless. As Aranarth spoke, it seemed as though a light shone from his grey eyes, keen and pure. He felt oddly moved.

“Please, sire,” the poor hobbit offered, kneeling. “Please accept my service, such as it is. I would be honored to fight alongside your highness.”

“No,” Aranarth said firmly. He left his chair, walked around the desk, and knelt by the halfling. Even kneeling, he towered over the halfling, who could not have been more than a tween. “Enough Shire blood has been spilled on our account, Master Took. I am humbled by your offer, but I will not accept it. Go home and be happy, for yourself and for the brothers who will never return.”

As Longo struggled to voice a protest, the long-limbed chieftain reached into a trunk at the foot of his bed, and withdrew two small metal objects.

“Give me your hand,” he ordered, and the hobbit extended a small, trembling hand.

“These are Stars of Westernesse, the highest honor the North Kingdom can offer a man in the army. Your brothers and the other hobbits laid to rest in Haudh Periain earned them. Take these home with you, so the Shire may know what their archers did, and remember them with pride.”

Longo said nothing, looking down at the exquisite stars in his hand. Unlike the dull star-shaped pins the Rangers wore, the Star of Westernesse was made of bright silver, with a white gem at its center. They shone with a pure light, even in the confines of Aranarth's tent.

“Will you do this for me, Longo Took? Will you carry the thanks and condolences of the Dúnedain to your kin?”

“Yes,” said Longo finally. His eyes, now rimmed with red, met the Chieftain's. “I will.”

Chapter Text

November 3, Year 1975 of the Third Age

Gath Forthnír

Deep in the Mountains of Angmar, above the waste of Gorothlad, there was a cave. This ancient refuge of the Dwarves, long abandoned, had become the headquarters of the former Lord Beren of Carnoglin, now Captain of Red Company. It was a small ocean of peace and civilization in the ruins of Arnor's last and greatest enemy.

The aging captain sat at his table, reading the latest news of Brown Company by the light of a single candle. Outside his small office, the forty men stationed at headquarters talked over bowls of soup and bread, missing their families and thinking of their next missions. Chieftain Aranarth and Lord Beren had refused to settle Dúnedain families so close to Carn Dûm, leaving them in Green and Brown Company lands while their men marched north.

A sudden shout interrupted the quiet scene. A lone Ranger, his clothes tattered and stained, burst into the large dining-hall of the cave. His horse followed, eyes huge with fright.

“Where's the captain?” cried Heledir breathlessly, for that was the Ranger's name. He belonged to Squad Seven, on duty near Barad Gûlaran.

“What is it, Heledir?” asked the Squad Two sergeant.

Beren heard the commotion and left his office. Seeing the young rider in such a state, he approached slowly, and gave him a drink from the nearest table. “There, lad. Drink, recover your breath, and tell us.”

As Heledir drank, the Squad Five sergeant took the man's frightened horse and soothed him. Only when Heledir had drained his cup did he speak again.

“We're overrun, sir,” he said finally, looking at Beren. “We found strange tracks outside the accursed fortress, and the sergeant ordered us to find the source. We met Squad Eight there.”

He paused for a moment and shuddered.

“They came in the night. I was scouting, and returned to find our two watchmen dead and the other seventeen missing. I've used every tracking skill I learned from the Eldar, sir, and I cannot find them. I searched for two days.”

The captain considered this information carefully. Heledir was one of the best trackers in his squad; it was unusual for prey to elude him thus. “How were the watchmen slain?”

Heledir swayed on the spot, looking ill. “They—they were beheaded, sir. I found the heads on spikes near the tents.”

It was moments like these that separated the veteran soldiers from the young recruits, thought the captain. Young Heledir was only nineteen, an orphan of the Fall of Fornost. Beren held back a sigh as he held the Ranger steady, mentally cursing the filth of Angmar for stealing the innocence of so many children.

“Captain, Squad Four is ready to move out,” Sergeant Idhrenion offered, predicting the company's next move with his usual shrewdness.

“Good,” Beren replied, slipping into command mode. “Squads Four and Six, postpone your scouting. You will form the rescue party; Heledir will lead us. Caranthir, have your men load a pack-horse with all of the healing-herbs and bandages we can spare. Galdor, the hounds. Eledirn,” he finished, and the Squad Nine sergeant jumped to attention, “take command of the camp until we return.”

Beren pitched his voice lower, so that only the sergeant could hear. “Should we not return, send word to Lord Aranarth immediately, and recall the scouting squads. You may need their strength.”

Eledirn nodded silently. The fourth and sixth squads of Red Company sprang to their feet, eager to rescue their lost brethren. Heledir, once he had recovered, thanked Gaeron for looking after his horse and joined the departing squads. It took less than an hour for the assembled men to leave.

Lord Beren rode at their head, his steel-gray hair gleaming in the dying light, and his hand on his sword-hilt.

November 4, Year 1975 of the Third Age

Gorothlad

After a full day of hard riding in the bitter cold, the twenty men of Squads Four and Six, the company captain, and Heledir found themselves dismounting near the abandoned Squad Seven camp. Smoke rose from a hastily-built funeral pyre, and two headless bodies lay on it still, not yet consumed. The deceased men's armor and weapons lay in a neat pile.

“You built this yourself,” Beren remarked, impressed. Despite his fear, the boy had taken the time to care for his companions' bodies, as was proper. “It was a good deed, Heledir.”

“Thank you, sir,” he answered, subdued. “I could not leave them for the beasts.”

The squads dispersed with practiced ease, letting their horses rest as they scoured the campsite for clues. Galdor searched the tents for small items for the scent-hounds. Caranthir disappeared into the healer's tent, hoping to add to his own supplies.

“Captain,” Aelin called out, “you'll want to see this.”

Beren, Heledir, and Idhrenion followed the battle-scarred Ranger, who pointed to a forgotten sword on the ground. It was not a Ranger-issue weapon, nor was it Arnorian at all. It was long, black, and adorned with strange letters, and the hilt was icy to the touch. The blade was stained with blood, now dry.

“There is evil written on this weapon,” the sergeant said, pulling back his arm. “I've seen those markings before, in the hands of Angmar's host.”

“Is it Black Speech?” Aelin asked.

“Perhaps,” Beren replied, “I cannot read it. Nevertheless, this tells us somewhat about our enemy. It was no orc-scimitar that felled our men, but a man's weapon.”

“What man would remain in this desolate place?” Aelin argued, looking at the hills doubtfully. “Angmar's army was destroyed months ago and there is little food; surely any survivors would have moved south?”

“Clearly we've got some murderous rats hiding in a northern nest,” the Captain answered, scowling. “Galdor!”

“Yes, sir?”

“Have you found a scent trail we can follow?”

“Yes, sir. The hounds will lead.”

“Good. Squads, mount up!” ordered Beren, mounting his own horse as he spoke.

Night had fallen, but no man asked for a rest. The wind would turn even more bitter as the night went on, and no one would rest easy in the open until their kinsmen were found. The barren lands of Angmar seemed even more unfriendly at night. The horses turned skittish, and the dogs fought valiantly to keep to the trail. Gloom lay heavy on the dark road.

Suddenly, the dogs stopped. They stood very still, trembling, their eyes fixed on a dark tower directly ahead. Galdor signaled to the captain, who ordered the men to dismount.

Quickly, Captain Beren assessed the situation. Had the men been alone, he was sure the hounds would have run to the tower as they usually did, eager to complete their task and receive their rewards of food and praise. It was likely that his men were held prisoners of the accursed tower, and not by ordinary hillmen.

“Ready your swords,” he ordered his men quietly, “and follow me.”

They walked towards the building, making no noise. The black tower had no windows near the ground, and only one entrance, a heavy iron door that would take two or three men to open. They would lose all chance of stealth the second that heavy—and probably creaky—piece of metal swung open.

The sergeants organized their squads, leaving the best archers to cover the door and the swordsmen in front. Then, with a nod from Beren, Idhrenion, Lanthir, and Heledir pulled open the door.

To their great surprise, no one was there to greet or attack them. The room was silent and utterly dark. Slowly, the two squads of Rangers and Captain Beren stepped into the cavernous entrance hall, lighting torches and scanning each corner for dangers. The men held their breath, uneasy but unable to explain it.

Only when Aelin had shut the door behind them did they notice what lay on the floor, in the center of the room. Heledir and some of the other young men recoiled in horror.

Nine men, all familiar, lay in a circle, naked but for some scarlet rags tied around their waists and shoulders. All were still as death, with wide, horror-struck eyes and gaping mouths. All had a brutal gash across the neck, most likely a sword-cut.

Caranthir the healer checked each man anyway, his face grim.

“Saeradan!” gasped one of the Rangers, rushing forward as the torchlight revealed a friend's face. “No, it cannot be!”

Sergeant Idhrenion held back a young Ranger's hair as the boy heaved into a corner. A few others looked as though they might need the same service.

“What is this devilry, Captain?” asked a Squad Six man, trembling. “What manner of monster did this to our friends?”

“They're all dead, sir,” Caranthir confirmed. “By the looks of it, they've been dead two days at least.”

Before the captain could reply, the men heard footsteps on the stairs leading to the first floor of the tower. With eight men still unaccounted for and unknown enemies nearby, the Rangers raised their swords, watching the bottom of the staircase.

What came next was so unexpected that young Heledir almost dropped his weapon.

Chanting.

The men did not recognize the language; it was neither Westron nor Black Speech, and it was far too harsh-sounding to be one of the Elven-tongues. There was something vaguely familiar about it, like a half-remembered nightmare.

Many feet were descending the stairs, stomping rhythmically to the chant. Finally, their foes appeared.

Lord Beren's face turned pale.

Eight men stood there, wearing Ranger uniforms. Their eyes were oddly blank, their mouths moving in unison as they chanted in that strange language. Behind them, barely visible in the torchlight, a small army of wights surveyed the scene.

“Captain?” prompted Idhrenion quietly, waiting for orders.

“Try to disarm them, if you can,” Beren ordered, just as quiet. “Mayhap they can be freed from the spell. As for the wights, I doubt our weapons will bother them overmuch, but we can still try.”

With a roar of “ARTHEDAIN!”, the old warrior jumped at his bewitched Rangers, eager to reach the spirits that had captured them. As one, his men followed. The captive soldiers fought back, showing neither recognition nor remorse. Their rescuers wept as they dodged and blocked, crying out to their friends to remember.

“Hurin!” cried Galdor desperately. “Hurin, it's Galdor! Would you slay a childhood friend?”

Sergeant Hurin of Squad Seven did not reply, but attacked anew. Galdor defended, tears of sorrow coursing down his weathered face. Nearby, a blank-faced Rossendil attacked his brother, ignoring his pleas and striking him down.

Lanthir screamed as one of the lost men stabbed deep into his leg. Sergeant Idhrenion rushed to his soldier's rescue, clobbering the bewitched Squad Eight man in the back of the head with an apologetic wince. It gave him seconds to respond to the next attack.

Beren surveyed the battle in dismay. Half of his men were fighting their old friends, not the accursed wights, and the other half were having little success against the creatures. His own blade, Forotirn, passed through the wights without harming them at all.

“Captain,” called out Maecheneb of Squad Six, “take this, sir!”

He tossed a sheathed dagger over the heads of several battling soldiers, and the old lord of Carnoglin caught it. Confused, he looked to Maecheneb for an explanation.

“For the wights, Captain!”

Quickly, the captain looked down. The dagger was quite old and finely worked, but he did not see how this would aid him better than his trusty sword. With little time to think, he raised the dagger and stabbed the approaching wight, reeling in shock as it hit its mark, and the wight shrieked in rage.

Armed with this weapon, the captain wove in and out of the mass of Rangers, striking down opponents while his men fought for their lives. Maecheneb, armed with a second dagger, assisted. Sixteen wights fell to their blades, until the remaining creatures retreated back up the tower.

“Sergeants, to me,” ordered Beren hoarsely. “How many losses?”

Idhrenion and Caranthir searched for their men, scanning the tower with tired eyes.

“Squad Four is down by three men,” the blond Idhrenion said with a grimace.

“I've lost four,” Caranthir added. “And we've yet to see if any of these men might be saved.”

He spoke of the surviving Squad Seven and Eight Rangers, who were unconscious or otherwise incapacitated.

“I'm sure there are more wights in this place,” Maecheneb said, approaching slowly due to a leg injury. “We cannot fight them like this, not without the proper weapons.”

“What is different about these daggers, Maecheneb?” asked the captain eagerly. “Nothing we used had any effect, except these.”

“My sire's family came from Cardolan, years and years ago,” the man answered. “There were smiths there who crafted weapons woven with spells—or so the tales say—for defeating the wights and wraiths of Angmar. I imagine the art of making such things is long lost to us, but we might find more of these weapons in the old armories of Cardolan.”

“It was providential that you had the daggers, Maecheneb,” his sergeant commended him. “If there are any more to be had, we must write to the Chieftain at once. For now, Captain, I suggest a quick retreat.”

“I agree,” Beren said. “Company, we retreat! Quick and careful, now! Watch every shadow!”

Chapter Text

November 5, Year 1975 of the Third Age

Bree-Town under Bree-Hill

Aranarth, former Crown Prince of Arthedain, looked up at the town with critical eyes. He had visited Bree many times, with his father, with trade delegations, even with friends as a teenager. While the long war against Angmar had often enveloped the town, Bree had remained unscathed, protected by the swords of Arthedain and Cardolan.

Still, the chieftain could see boarded-up windows, furtive glances, and an ugly trench of bare earth filled with sharpened logs around the walls. The town was prepared for an attack, not realizing that the war was over. No news had reached them of the return of the Dúnedain from Lindon, or their battle at Fornost and its favorable end. The North Kingdom had disappeared, seemingly overnight.

Aranarth and Borondir approached the North-gate slowly, palms open and facing out as a gesture of peace.

“What do you want?” asked the guard, sharp brown eyes roving over the pair. “We want no strangers here, fair or foul.”

“I bring news for Mayor Burr,” Aranarth replied politely. He recognized the guard, but the Bree man showed no sign of the same. Ruefully, the Heir of Isildur admitted to himself that he no longer looked the part. “Will you not let me speak with him?”

Bob Appledore relented, opening the lower gate for the Rangers and their horses.

“He'll be at supper now, and no power on earth will take him from it,” Bob offered. “You might as well head to the Pony for some supper of your own.”

Aranarth thanked the guard and led Ohtar his horse to the large inn, while Borondir followed with Tirion, his strawberry roan. They knew the place well, having tasted far too much of its excellent ale. Leaving the horses with the hobbit at the stables, they entered the large common room.

“Greetings, masters,” called out Butterbur, the innkeeper. “What might I do for you?”

“Supper for two, stable-room for two horses, and two beds, please,” asked the Dúnadan. “Just for the night.”

Without asking, he withdrew the exact amount of pennies required, and paid the owner, who raised an eyebrow.

“You've stayed here before, then?” he asked companionably. “I don't recall seeing you before, Master...?”

Aranarth felt the pull of duty. Butterbur was just as important hereabouts as the mayor, and it would be a mistake to leave him out. “If you've a minute free, Butterbur, I would speak to you in private. You're right, of course. I have visited before, many times, on official business and otherwise.”

Despite his good nature, Bourtree Butterbur was an incurable gossip. He knew what to do.

“Well! In that case,” he offered amiably, “what about a private dining-room? I'll have some of my best ale sent up with supper, and we can sit down for a chat after.”

The three men left the noisy common room, and soon the innkeeper had settled Aranarth and his adjutant in a small but cozy room, equipped with two beds, a dining table and chairs, and a cheerful hearth. The prince removed his cloak, and faced Butterbur to thank him.

“Bless me!” cried the man, stepping backwards. “Prince Aranarth, and I spoke so free! A thousand pardons, highness! We thought the West-men were dead!”

He spun, meeting Borondir's amused glance with wide eyes.

“Peace, my good man,” answered the chieftain. “I know you meant no harm, and I no longer live as a prince. I can hardly expect the worthy folk of Bree to treat me as such.”

“What happened, sire?” breathed Butterbur. “Arthedain disappeared before we knew which way was up!”

“I am sorry,” Aranarth told him. “Truly I am, that we did not send word to Bree sooner. That is my purpose in coming; I mean to speak with the Mayor, and tell him what has become of us.”

“Shall I have my man fetch him?” offered the innkeeper. “While supper is brought?”

“Bob Appledore informed me, at the gate, that nothing will disturb that good man when he is at meat,” the prince said dryly. “Perhaps after we've all eaten, Butterbur. I thank you.”

Some time later, the Dúnedain sat at the table, enjoying the warmth of their fire as the wind howled outside, slamming shutters and shaking trees. Aranarth was penning a letter to Anardil and taking an occasional drink of wine, while Borondir mended a rip in his winter cloak. It was this scene that Mayor Burr and Bourtree Butterbur interrupted, followed by Guard Captain Longbanks of Staddle.

“Your Highness,” the mayor greeted the prince, bowing as was proper. “A thousand pardons for my delay.”

“It is no matter,” Aranarth replied easily. “Please, be seated, all of you.”

For a moment, the tall man regarded his captive audience, silent. Butterbur could hardly sit still; it was not in his nature, especially when there were news to be had. The mayor sat in polite silence, while the guard captain and Borondir waited, watchful as only soldiers could be.

“First,” began the chieftain, “I must inform you that my sire is dead. He retreated from Norbury during the worst of the attack, and misfortune befell as he attempted the journey home by ship.”

“Long live the king,” murmured the shocked Bree-landers.

The prince smiled ruefully. “As to that, there is no more King in the North,” he told them, ignoring their frowns of confusion. “I will not rebuild Fornost, only to draw another larger attack against us. We would not survive, and I will not have the goodly folk of Bree and the Shire slaughtered. The Witch-King was driven out this past winter, and wiser men than I have foreseen his final defeat, many years from now. He will not return to the North, and so you may sleep in peace.”

“But—sire,” protested Burr. “If the sorcerer is gone, why not resettle Norbury? What will become of the people?”

“The Witch-King is but one of the Enemy's servants, and he has many,” Aranarth answered. “My people wintered in Lindon with the Elves, and some will remain by the sea. I've ordered the rest to scatter across the kingdom, and build smaller settlements that are harder for enemies to find.”

“Will none of them settle in Bree, sire?” asked Butterbur. “We've room enough for sturdy folk, and warriors besides.”

“I thank you, but no,” the Heir of Isildur said firmly. “Bree was here when my people first came from the Sea, and Valar willing, it will remain after we are dust. Any who aid the Dúnedain must surely suffer the wrath of our enemies in the end, and we will not have Bree and her people sacrificed for our comfort.”

“Where, then?” asked the guard captain. “Beyond the Shire, there is no home for civilized folk.”

“Your information is good, but outdated,” Aranarth told him. “My folk have been settled in their new homes for weeks now. We've lost our ancestral halls and treasures,” he said, “but civilized we remain, though we sleep under stars and not halls of stone.”

“But sire, how can a kingdom function in such a way?” the mayor asked.

“There is no kingdom anymore,” Aranarth sighed, sitting and resting his palms on the table. “We will patrol, on foot, all of our ancient territories, hunting creatures of the Enemy. We'll come to visit Bree on occasion, but no longer will royal trade caravans, census-takers, or army divisions come out of our lands. If anyone asks, the Men of the West died in battle or disappeared, and no one knows what became of them.”

Captain Longbanks looked at the crownless king and thought he saw a flame flickering on his brow. His heart was heavy for the young man, who had lost his family and his kingdom in just one year.

“How will we find your people, sire, if there is need?”

“We will find you,” Aranarth promised. “But you will see us, Bill, never fear. Seek for the green-cloaked wanderers, and forgive our wild appearance. We have traded our lutes and embroidered robes for bows and simple tunics, but we will not let Bree fall to enemies. You may rest easy once more.”

Moved with gratitude, Mayor Burr rose from his seat to kneel before the king.

“I thank you for the courtesy, but pray, don't. I am no king,” Aranarth pleaded. “I am entrusting you with this secret—that the Dúnedain live, and our royal line is unbroken—but you mustn't let on. I am a Chieftain of Rangers only, a wanderer in the Wild. Will you keep the secret of the Men of the West?”

All three men nodded their assent.

“Good. I suggest we take some rest, then,” the Dúnadan suggested. “Thank you.”

Mayor Burr was a kindly soul, but forgetful at the best of times. He had thrice forgotten his own birthday, and nearly fainted when he'd returned home to surprise parties. On his desk in the Town Hall of Bree, he kept two large books to aid him in his office: one was his appointment-book, and the other was a blotted, often crossed-out collection of notes to assist his faulty memory.

Alas! Mayor Burr had brought neither to the Prancing Pony. With the revelations of this evening buzzing in his head, he went to sleep, for once not keeping his heirloom dagger under his pillow. Bree-town would transition back to its usual, peace-time habits under his leadership, slowly but surely, yet unable to explain why they'd done so.

One could hardly wonder, then, why Mayor Burr's successor knew nothing of the Dúnedain's fate, or the true identity of the Rangers. And if Mayor Redleaf chased his town's protectors away, it was done entirely out of ignorance, and not malice. So would the Rangers tell themselves for the next thousand years, when the people of Bree, Combe, Archet, and Staddle threw them out into the cheerless dark.

Chapter Text

November 5, Year 1975 of the Third Age

Gorothlad

When Lord Beren gave the order to dismount, the men of Squad Six could hardly contain their relief. Halchon and Aegnor rushed to Maecheneb's aid, lowering their friend from his horse. The usually loud man was quiet and grey-faced, and his bandages were soaked through. He uttered no complaint, but another hour's ride would have been his end.

“Sergeant!” cried Halchon, worried.

The Squad Six sergeant—also Red Company's chief healer—had many to tend, but few as grave as this young Ranger. There was a risk that he might lose his left leg above the knee, and Caranthir cursed as he saw the blooming infection. He went to work at once.

“You'll have every girl in Eriador fawning over you,” Aegnor joked, gripping his friend's hand for comfort as Caranthir cleansed the ugly wound. Maecheneb grunted in pain, but did not answer. “They'll say you saved the squad with your daggers—and you may very well have—and then took a stab wound for m'lord for added heroism.”

“I was nowhere near Lord Beren,” Maecheneb gritted out, frowning. “What are you babbling about?”

“Just a bit of nonsense, to keep your mind away from this,” Aegnor admitted, wincing as he saw his friend's raw, mangled leg. Forcing his eyes back to Maecheneb's pale face, he grinned reassuringly.

Caranthir worked quickly, saying nothing. He had protested loudly against Lord Beren's orders to ride all day without proper rest, and had been overruled. The captain and most of the men wanted as many miles between them and the wights as possible. The healer couldn't fault them for that, but the situation did not make his task any easier.

“Well, go and spout nonsense somewhere else,” Maecheneb said jokingly, though in his state the words came out harsher than intended. “Get some supper, Aegnor.”

“I've taken care of that,” offered Halchon, appearing with two bowls of stew. “Tonight's delicacy comes from the cooks of Squad Four,” he said, sniffing appreciatively. “Come, Aegnor, eat this, and then we'll force-feed Maecheneb. It smells a good deal better than Edwenor's usual slop.”

“A wight nearly cut off my leg,” their friend protested. “I haven't become a willful child. I'll eat anything you like, as long as it's not too nauseating.”

“I'll make you a healing tea, to ease the pain and help you sleep,” Caranthir spoke up, now packing up his healer's bag. Maecheneb's wound was clean, stitched, and bandaged anew. “If you can drink all of it, you may have some stew.”

“Very well,” Maecheneb agreed. He felt more sleepy than hungry, as did most of the men. Shivering, he sat up gingerly and removed his blanket from a pack. His leg throbbed from the slight movement, but he bit back the scream and lay down once more, now covered up to his chin.

Caranthir flitted about from injury to injury, re-sewing stitches that had burst during the ride, checking for fevers, and cleansing road grit out of wounds with the last of the drops in his spare water-skin. His supplies were running dangerously low, but there was no point in saying it; they'd find none in the wild.

He had volunteered Edwenor and Fánarain of his squad to watch the rescued men, while Idhrenion had ordered Aelin and Lanthir of Squad Four to do the same. The lost men had been bound tightly and mounted on the horses of the dead and the healthiest for the retreat, while their surviving owners marched beside them. Now, they lay in a corner of the campsite, still bound. None of them had moved a muscle since the battle, a fact that worried the others.

Captain Beren sat upright near the fire, composing the day's report for Chieftain Aranarth. As all but the watchmen drifted off to sleep, the only sound was the crackle of the fire and the scratching of his quill.

As Aelin stood to stretch his legs and relieve himself, Hurin of Squad Seven began to stir. The man had an enormous lump on his head from the battle in the tower, but was otherwise uninjured. Slowly, his eyes opened.

“Hurin?” asked Aelin quietly. “Do you know where you are?”

The eighty-year-old Ranger turned his glassy, blank eyes to the dark-haired youth. He did not speak, and did not appear to recognize anything. Others twitched or moved near him; Limdor and Merendir, his squad-mates, as well as the five men of Squad Eight.

The tiny hairs on Aelin's arms stood up. The unnatural stares of the rescued men were sending chills up his spine, and he could hear the company hounds whining piteously.

“Lanthir, Edwenor!” he hissed. “Are you seeing this?”

Edwenor's hand was already at his sword-hilt. “I see them.”

“What goes on here?” asked the captain, skirting around the fire pit after noticing the guards' movements. “Are they awake?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Lanthir, “but they haven't said a word.”

Before the captain could reply, all eight of the rescued men shook their arms, apparently angered by the cords that bound them. With inhuman strength they pulled their arms apart, hard enough to break the ropes, then sprang to their feet. Snarling with rage, the lost Rangers attacked their guards.

“We're under attack!” cried Lord Beren, waking the rest of the rescue party. “To arms!”

It was a battle of which no one would ever sing. Half-asleep, exhausted, and badly injured, the men of squads Four and Six defended themselves from their friends, who fought without mercy or recognition for a second time. The dogs trembled, wanting to help their masters but too confused about the enemy's identity to attack.

Heledir cried out in pain as his best friend Merendir cut off his right arm, but was forced to pick up his sword at once (with his left hand), or lose his head. Dizzy with shock and bleeding heavily, he parried strike after strike clumsily until Aelin came to his aid. The older Ranger announced his presence by slamming into Merendir with all his strength.

“Go to Caranthir, quickly!” he ordered, now standing between Merendir and the wounded Heledir. “Go!”

Heledir obeyed, swaying slightly and leaving a trail of dark blood. The healer ran to him, pulling strips of clean linen out of his pack as he went.

Maecheneb, unable to stand but wanting to help his friends, used his right arm to trip Hurin as he ran straight at the captain. It was the last thing he ever did, as the enraged Hurin switched targets and plunged his belt-knife deep into the injured Ranger's throat. Aegnor's shout of horror echoed terribly in that dark valley, and then faded amidst the battle cries of the others.

Halchon tore his eyes away from his friends as he struggled to break free from Amandur of Squad Eight, who had taken him by the neck to choke him. They had disarmed the bewitched men back in the tower, but the malicious force that controlled them had given them strength beyond their own natural powers. They attacked unarmed, eerily silent and expressionless, a nightmare come to life.

As Halchon's vision went dark around the edges, Aegnor struck Amandur hard with the hilt of his sword, then stabbed him in the chest. Weeping and stained with Maecheneb's blood, Aegnor pulled Halchon to his feet, holding him steady as his friend gasped for breath. The captain and sergeants had been screaming out commands, but neither had heard in their struggle.

Captain Beren surveyed the scene in dismay, after warning Galdor of an attack from behind. Fánarain had just drawn his last, painful breath, and Muinior would not long outlive him. Caranthir was fighting to save the boys Ruimben and Heledir, while Idhrenion's men tried everything in their power to subdue the others without killing them. Aelin's horse had broken free of his ropes and done his part, kicking Hurin unconscious.

Lanthir, already injured from the previous battle, dodged around a tent to avoid Rossendil's killing blow. His bad leg failed him, sending him flying sideways into the tent, and bringing it crashing down around him. Before Aelin or Idhrenion could stop him, the bewitched Ranger had crushed Lanthir's skull with a sickening crack.

Then, as the stoutest of the survivors lost hope, the seven remaining attackers dropped. Like marionettes with their strings suddenly cut, they fell bonelessly to the stony ground and did not move. Silence fell over the camp.

“Are they dead?” Idhrenion asked finally.

Caranthir and Edwenor checked them quickly, keeping their swords close.

“There's a pulse,” the healer said, taking his hand from Limdor's wrist. “I don't understand. Why did they stop?”

“It hardly matters,” Lord Beren said heavily. “We've lost half of our rescue squads to this madness, and I don't know that these men can be saved.”

“Please, sir,” begged Galdor, whose sister had married the bewitched Feredir of Squad Eight. “Please, let us not give them up for dead. I'm sure Lord Elrond or the Chieftain could free them from this enchantment.”

“Mayhap they could,” Idhrenion argued, “but another night like this, and we will never find out. We can't hold them!”

“We could ride through the night again,” offered Aelin, “We are weary, but if we make it back to headquarters, we'll have fresh men to guard while we rest and heal.”

“Or we could doom the rest of the company,” objected Ruimben, who was deathly pale from blood loss.

Caranthir had kept an eye on Muinior during the conversation, and closed the older Ranger's eyes when he had finally passed on.

“What say you, Caranthir?” asked the captain.

“The most seriously injured are already dead,” he answered, looking at Maecheneb and Lanthir's bodies. “None of us survivors will die from another night's ride, though we may fall asleep in the saddle and fall off our mounts. I will need several halts to check on the wounded, however.”

“Very well,” Beren said grimly. “Let us build a pyre for the fallen, and we'll move out as soon as that is done. Tie these men up anew and treble the ropes!”

November 6, Year 1975 of the Third Age

The Last Homely House, Imladris

Lord Elrond of Rivendell sat in the Hall of Fire, listening as the folk of his valley sang the songs of the High Elves, praising the Valar. It was hours before the dawn, when Men would lie abed, but his household was wide awake. Long would they sing to Elbereth, Queen of the Heavens.

Sitting between his sons, the peredhel had allowed the music to sweep away his cares for the time being. That made it all the more shocking when a horrible, unforeseen dread grew in his heart. He leaned forward, gasping, as visions of blood and death flooded his mind. The torch-light and hearth fires seemed to have gone out; all he saw was a menacing power in the darkness, reaching with pale fingers.

His sons noticed at once.

“Ada, what is the matter?” asked Elrohir.

“I do not know,” the elf-lord replied, shaking himself back into the present. The other elves had noticed nothing, and the torches were yet ablaze. “Please, leave me be. I must find a quiet corner.”

The twins watched, concerned, as the master of Rivendell left the music hall for his favorite garden, planted by the lady Celebrían, his wife. He met no one on the way, since the household was all gathered for the singing. Elrond was glad his sons had obeyed him for once, and stayed behind. He needed peace, not their anxious hovering.

At last, Elrond sat cross-legged by a sweet fountain, breathing in the scents of the garden and closing his eyes. He could hear the hymns, faint in the distance. Slowly, he released his breath and his tension.

Lady Galadriel , he called.

Elrond, what is the matter? he heard Galadriel ask in his mind, for the High Elves could speak to each other across the vast distances of Arda.

I was given a premonition of terrible deeds, he answered.

From Dol Guldur? she asked, immediately alert. The dark fortress of Mirkwood had been poisoning the forest for centuries, and none knew which dark Power was the cause of it.

I know not, replied Elrond. I did not see the trees of the Greenwood, but it was a small glimpse only.

I have seen nothing, the Lady of Lothlórien told him. Perhaps your Dúnedain kin have fallen into danger, my son. You are near in both blood and distance, and have much to do with their safekeeping.

Will you look for them in your mirror, my lady? asked Elrond.

Galadriel agreed to do so. Although you well know, she added, that not all that I see in the mirror has truly happened.

He waited, emptying his mind, as Galadriel climbed down her talan to her mirror. It was not a short wait, for the mallorn that supported her house was ancient and tall.

As his wife's mother looked down at the water, Elrond had a sudden vision of Tyrn Gorthad, shrouded in mist that veiled the stars. He walked under the shadow of a barrow, and passed into the burial chamber. It was a recent addition, not an Edain mound from the First Age. Under the red banner of Cardolan slept an armor-clad captain of the lost kingdom.

The dead man opened his eyes.

“My kin perish,” he said in Sindarin. “Please, will you not save them?”

He pointed to the weapons buried at his side. “Take them. Please, help them! It is the only way!”

When Galadriel (and Elrond) did nothing, he stood, his bones rattling slightly as he limped slowly to the nearest weapons rack. Even in the dark of the barrow, a red light gleamed on the blades of his swords, spears, daggers, and axes.

“Please!” he begged again, offering a sword with shaking hands. “Save them!”

Did you see? asked Lady Galadriel.

Shaken, Elrond replied, Yes. I must find the Dúnadan at once.

Do you know that man?

I did not, but I recognize his craft, answered the elf-lord. He was Maeglam, a great weapon-smith of the Cardolathrim in their waning years. I thank you for your aid, my lady. I will see to this matter at once.

Very well. May the Valar guard you, Elrond.

And you.

November 6, Year 1975 of the Third Age

Bree-Town under Bree-Hill

In his room at the Prancing Pony, Aranarth slept deeply, untroubled by the storm outside. Borondir snored in the second bed, and the inn's patrons were long gone, their bellies full of ale and their heads bursting with news and gossip.

The prince's dream turned dark. From the pleasant orchard of the Palace of Amlaith, his thought turned to the devastated Fields of Fornost, and the raw earth of its enormous burial mounds. South he wandered, following the North-South Road to Bree. Beyond the cross-roads and Barrow-downs he turned, entering the forest. A faint voice called to him, compelling him to come with a distant song.

Aranarth had studied enough geography to know where this dream was taking him, although he had never been there. South and west of Bree, beyond Tyrn Gorthad, a tributary of the Baranduin flowed into a willow-glade heavy with enchantments. So the tales said, and the local hobbits knew to avoid the Celontathren, or Withywindle.

What they did not know was that Nan Celontathren was the home of Orald, Master of the Wood. The Dúnedain knew little of him, save that he was a goodly sort, and older than the Sun and the Moon. In the last days of their kingdom, anyone not trying to kill them had become an ally, and Tom Bombadil was one of the privileged few. He and Goldberry his wife had done much to aid the men of Cardolan, driving out wights that trapped the unwary, and feeding the starving and plague-ridden Cardolathrim with what they could spare.

As Aranarth dream-walked through the woods, he saw the flicker of candles in an upper room, and knew it was Orald's house he saw. None of his people had survived in this area save the hobbits, and they did not build upper rooms, or anything at all, in the Withywindle Valley. He reached the house at last, where a figure waited, skipping about the marshy ground with booted feet.

“There you are, young one!” laughed the stranger. Aranarth was surprised to see how short he was, and how childlike in his merriment. He resembled most the Dwarves, with his stature and beard, but no dwarf's eyes had ever sparkled with the light of Aman as his did. No dwarf had ever danced around the willows in bright yellow boots.

“Lord Orald,” the prince said respectfully, bowing.

“Hey there! None of that!” the odd fellow protested. “Tom is Master of the Forest, not a king in his gilded hall.”

“Why have you called me here, master?” Aranarth asked, puzzled.

“Called, you say? Nay, I did not call,” said Tom. “You see much, Sea King, as do all the kings of your line. T'was you who called to me.”

The mysterious being looked around his house to the sighing willows, and the Downs beyond. “A darkness stirs the bones yonder, and the earth weeps for them. You must light the fires, young one, for the creatures fear fire above all things. Let no living man dwell near them, lest they be ensnared.”

Aranarth felt a sudden chill. “The wights stir?”

Orald did not answer, but picked up a dry willow-branch, and handed it to the prince. Flames sprung from the end, bathing the clearing in red-golden light.

The Heir of Isildur took the torch.

To his astonishment, Orald said no more, but danced away, singing nonsense. Nan Celontathren faded, and Aranarth found himself standing on a black mountain with his flaming brand. A dreadful fortress lay in the shadow of the mountain, stretching beyond his sight. There were no men or orcs manning it, but it was not empty. To his great horror, an army of wights marched out towards the main road, wearing the token of the Witch-King. They were nearly invisible in the gloom, except for their cold, pale eyes. The swords and spears they carried shone with dark blood.

Aranarth, son of Arvedui, woke with a shout. Borondir was there at once, helping him untangle from his blankets before he fell to the cold floor. Trembling, the Heir of Isildur dragged himself to the chamber pot. Borondir winced as the sounds of his chieftain being violently sick reached his ears.

“My lord, what is the matter?” his faithful servant asked, alarmed. “Was it a battle-dream?”

The prince shook his head.

“Are you ill?” Borondir insisted. “Shall I wake Butterbur, or a servant?”

“No,” answered Aranarth hoarsely, looking for his water-skin to rinse his mouth. “It was a vision, Borondir. Carn Dûm is emptied, and we must ride north at once.”