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Chapter Text

Year 50 FoA

The hot sun baked the sand beneath her feet. The sky was blue, as usual, and no clouds drifted in the sky. It was summer, and the rains were scarce. Fortunately for their tribe, the tributary of the great river known as Jumanah kept their lands fertile. But here, several miles from her home, here in the Great Desert, there was nothing but sand for miles.

Her skin, "swarthy" according to the Northerners visiting her town, was starting to feel the heat despite the soft cream she had applied to limit the burning. It helped to have dark skin here in Harad, as far too often the Gondorians who visited with their pale skin found themselves trapped indoors, unable to experience the beautiful vastness of her homeland.

The woman stooped down and undid her sandals. She wanted to feel the sand between her toes one last time. The Gondorians would be taking her North soon, and she would bid farewell to her father and mother and country. That made her sad, indeed. For she loved her family and the vast desert she called home.

But, as daughter of the chief, she had a duty to her town. They were the largest settlement to have allied with Gondor after the War of the Ring. Her parents remembered the War, but she did not. She had been born twenty-three years after the fall of Sauron and the allying of her village to the Reunited Kingdom. It was all she knew.

"Adira!" The voice of her father's servant came across the sands as he rode his camel towards her. "Adira, we need to get home."

"I know. Give me one moment." Adira looked out over the great sand dunes once more, out into the slowly setting sun. Just as the pinks and purples splashed across the sky like a canvas, she took out a small, glass bottle. With a swift but ritualistic movement, she filled the bottle with sand from her homeland.

"Here," said the servant, handing her a cloak of red cloth. "This will keep you warm. Hop up!"

Adira took it graciously and mounted the camel he had brought for her. Together, as it grew dark and cold, they wandered home to her village. The sound of desert wolves howling in the wind drifted across the dunes to her ears, and she longed to run wild and free with them. But she new her place and her duty.

Her father had always taught her well. "You can use a sword as well as any other man," he would say. "But your real skills come in the form of your womanhood." It was true, too. As the eldest daughter of Chief Saleem, one of the most powerful rulers in Harad, her true power lay in her ability to bear children. This King of the Reunited Kingdom had a son, after all. And he had called for suitors.

As a child, Adira had reveled in her ability to sword fight with her older brothers Amir and Hakim. Amir was the eldest of the children of Chief Saleem. At thirty-four, he boasted a tall six foot five frame and huge build. Slightly younger at thirty was Hakim, who was also slightly smaller.

Adira was next. She was at current Twenty-six, well into her prime age to marry. But her father had been in no hurry to marry her off, hoping and waiting for the day when King Elessar would call for suitors for his son and nephew. Adira also had two younger sisters. Iesha, sixteen, and Malika, ten, were just budding roses in Hidor, their settlement.

The desert rose meant a lot to Adira. It lined the walkway to their city settlement. As she and the servant Mahmud made their way closer towards the town, she spotted them. Oh, how she would miss their pink and white buds!

The sun had fully sunk below the horizon when she and Mahmud arrived at Hidor. The great city gates opened for them without protest, knowing immediately who sought entry. She handed her camel to Mahmud as they approached the Great House of the Chief. He would worry about seeing that the camel was well fed and watered.

Adira hesitated at the foot of the entryway. Stepping inside meant she would never again see the Great Desert. If she stopped now, if she ran far, far away, she could dwell with the desert wolves, run with them forever. But if she stepped across the threshold… the man and the redheaded ranger would take her North. But there was no debate here. She had a job, a duty.

So she stepped.

Chapter Text

Elboron did not like Harad. It wasn't the people, he liked them well enough. But the inescapable heat which turned into freezing nights, the coarse sand, it all annoyed him endlessly. Nevertheless, he was on a mission for his King and his Prince, and he would perform his duty with the best of his ability. Even if that meant learning and living the culture of the Haradrim.

At least I have Fëalas here to keep me company. He sipped a cup of herbal tea quietly.

Fëalas, one of the redheaded nieces of King Elessar, sat next to him. She was chatting up the eldest son of Chief Saleem, Amir. Amir seemed highly amused by the endless chatter of Fëalas. Fortunately for them, Westron was a well know tongue in Harad these days. Elboron wasn't sure Fëalas could've handled being forced to speak through a translator. She was too fast.

Currently they sat in the Great House of the Chief, at a long table to the side of the main hall. Down the center ran more tables, all leading to the end where a great throne sat. It was made of stone and glass tiles. Blues, reds, and golds adorned the seat. Mosaic tiling was popular in the city, especially among the scholars and royalty. Now that trade with Harad was a regular occurrence, knowledge was shared between the various groups and with the Reunited Kingdom. Not all of Harad's settlements remained on good terms with King Elessar, but many did, including this settlement of Hidor.

Fëalas was just saying something about her parents' first trip into Harad, in what became the first mission of peace, when a young girl ran into the house, giggling and laughing her head off. The girl had dark hair like the great majority of Haradrim, but hers was especially done up. Gold jewelry adorned her neck and ears and head.

"Malika!" An irritated voice called, before adding something in Southron that neither Fëalas nor Elboron understood. But, they were quite certain it was out of exasperation.

Elboron chuckled as the child dodged her maidservant's attempt at catching her. Malika was the youngest daughter of Chief Saleem, and she was to accompany them North as well to learn from the court of the Reunited Kingdom. Secretly Elboron hoped it would give Sídhil, Aragorn's youngest, a playmate other than Eldarion and his cousin Aderthon. He knew the cousins didn't mind playing with the young Sídhil, but she needed girls her age.

"When are we leaving for Gondor, Master Elboron?" Malika begged him for the answer as she stopped in front of him. "I would like to go now!"

With a chuckle, Elboron replied. "We shall leave once your sister is ready, and not a moment before."

"And not before you bathe, Malika!" Chieftess Jadyra, Malika's mother, said furiously as she stormed into the room. "You must be presentable for the Court! Now go!" She spoke in Southron to the servant before turning back to the Gondorians. "My apologies for her reckless behavior."

"It is no problem, Madame Jadyra." Fëalas shook her head. "I was much the same as a young girl."

"You still are," Elboron muttered loud enough for everyone to hear.

Fëalas laughed. "Indeed, though my forty-four years have tamed me some."

"It still amazes me," Amir spoke up, "how you can look so young and fair and yet be almost my parents' age."

"Truly it causes great confusion with those I meet anew." Fëalas chuckled.

The chieftess spoke up. "I am sending two servants with you. Jamila is Malika's maid, and Mahmud is our most trusted servant and guide. For though the roads are much better marked than when I was a child, it can still be a treacherous journey to Near Harad and beyond."

"I have ranger scouts along the route as well, which will hopefully ward off any bandits or vagabonds who wish to see this mission fail," Fëalas told the woman. "Any idea when Lady Adira will want to leave?"

"First thing in the morning," nodded Chief Saleem who entered the room. "My daughter snuck in while we were dining and went to pack."

"Wonderful!" Elboron nodded quickly. "This is good news indeed, lord."

"Yes, truly it is," smiled the chieftain. "I look forward to a new era in which our two nations come together, be that through Adira, or through Malika."

The chieftain knew his eldest daughter was not guaranteed the Prince's hand in marriage. This was another reason to send Malika to the Reunited Kingdom's court. It would strengthen ties across the nations. The people of Gondor, now more used to the dark skinned Haradrim than ever before, still often did not see them as equals. But King Elessar hoped to change that.

"The Reunited Kingdom is honored that you are entrusting your daughters to us," Elboron stood and bowed.

Madame Jadyra nodded her thanks. "We have faith that they will be well taken care of."

"Indeed," Chief Saleem nodded. "Now, it is time to retire to bed. The night is already much spent."

Fëalas stood to match Elboron and together, escorted by a young serving boy, were taken to their rooms in a guest house adjacent to the Great Hall of the Chief. Fëalas saw her several ranger escorts lounging about inside eating their small meals. They each stood at attention when their captain walked inside.

"At ease, or you might break something," Fëalas chuckled. "Especially you, Sarnor."

The youngest of the rangers nodded and relaxed as ordered. He was only just twenty, and this trip to Harad was his first major assignment. He had been training with the Southern Dunédain for nearly five years. Unlike some of the eldest rangers who still didn't like that a woman was their captain, Sarnor earnestly looked up to Fëalas and her sister, Círeth.

"We leave in the morning," Fëalas told her company. "Make sure everything is packed before you go to sleep tonight." She looked at them sidelong as she walked up the stairs. "And tonight, actually rest. No tavern time."

"Yes ma'am," the men chuckled.

She nodded and smiled at them. "Good night!" 

Chapter Text

Elboron awoke with the morning sun streaming through his window of the ground floor room he stayed in here in Hidor. He stretched his arms wide and rolled back the sheet he was using. His bare chest was well built and well toned for his forty-nine years. For though not to the extent of Aderthon or Eldarion, Faramir's family was rich with Numenorean blood. He still looked young. Not quite youthful, but certainly young.

Walking to the window across the intricately woven rug beneath his feet, he looked out on the town. The market was already bustling with activity as Hidor's people tried to get as much outdoor activity done as they could before the sun climbed too high. Elboron watched as a child chased after a small ball through the street, dodging a camel laden with cargo. The boy's tousled hair was black and sweat held parts of it to his intent face. Music flowed from the bazaar to the House of the Chief, instruments of many strings that were plucked and drums to accompany them.

"Elboron," came a voice and knock at the door. "Can I come in?"

"Give me a moment, Fëalas," he said through the lightly held together door. He slipped into a loose button down shirt over his flowing pants given to him by the chief's seamstresses. "Come on in."

Fëalas opened the door and closed it behind her. The half-elf's rich red hair was neatly braided down her back, reaching almost to her waistline. She wore light colored Dunédain style clothing, tan and white being the predominant shades. These also had been crafted by the people of Harad for her and her men as well.

"My men have finished breakfast. I have them getting our horses ready. The camel's shouldn't be needed, as the roads are well paved." Fëalas sat down on the chair beside a desk of light wood. "We'll be ready to go as soon as the two Ladies are ready."

"Malika is itching to go," Elboron smiled, "if yesterday is any indication. Adira will be the tougher challenge."

"I have full confidence that she will come when needed," Fëalas assured him.

"Well, let's go find out. The morning is young, it would be best to start soon." Elboron opened the door after grabbing his bags and held it open for Fëalas. She nodded her thanks and walked through before him.

Indeed, Fëalas' many rangers were nowhere to be seen when they walked downstairs. None, except Sarnor. He was standing patiently by the door, sword strapped on and bow across his back.

"Alright, Sarnor. Everyone's out?" Fëalas turned to him. "Bags have been sent to the horses?"

"Yes ma'am. Shall I take Lord Elboron's packs down to the horses?" Sarnor looked quizzically at the bags he held.

"Please do," Fëalas nodded to him. "We will hopefully be down to join everyone soon."

Sarnor took the packs Elboron held and carried them to where the horses were being stabled. Meanwhile, Elboron and Fëalas made their way not far to the main Great House of the Chief. Two Haradrim warriors stood guard and opened the doors for them. Inside, Malika sat twiddling her thumbs in impatience while Adira stood talking to her parents.

Fëalas looked on Adira. They had spoken only a few times, and each time, Adira had covered her lower face with the beautiful red scarf she wore in the presence of strangers. Today, today was to be the first day she would take it off, to symbolize the trust she was granting them.

Her brown eyes fell upon the two Gondorians as they entered. Malika leapt up immediately. She ran to grab her bags, though most were being carried by Jamila her maidservant. Lady Jadyra and Chief Saleem led their eldest daughter over to Elboron and Fëalas.

"Today marks a new day in relations between our two nations," Saleem said to them. "I present to you my daughters to be raised and hopefully courted to your prince. Take care of them."

Adira lifted her hands to pull down her veil. It was red, as red as the sand of her home during a dust storm at sunset. She was nervous, but felt herself also beginning to feel excited for the journey North. It was an incredible opportunity really. Her hands felt the loops across her ears and she removed them.

Elboron and Fëalas bowed deeply to the family, but especially to Adira. Fëalas admired the woman's bravery, the ability to leave one's home, one's country, and go to an entirely new land to hopefully marry a foreign prince. Fëalas wasn't sure she's have been able to do it.

Adira bowed back to them slightly, and without a single quiver on her voice, responded. "I am ready."

With final goodbyes, Adira and Malika hugged their parents and siblings. Amir, Hakim, and Iesha all bid them farewell. As Mahmud lifted Adira's few remaining bags onto his shoulders, Fëalas caught sight of a pair of scimitar swords hidden in wrap. She restrained herself from smiling. She had just known that Adira was feisty.

"Come, Lady Adira, Lady Malika," Elboron bowed for them and opened the door. "It is time."

The servants Mahmud and Jamila went behind the little posse, carrying what remained of the girls' bags that had not been taken to the horses already. The horses of Harad were beautiful creatures, usually in bay, chestnut, or black with long, lean heads and high tails. They had been bred for war and occasionally travel by the Haradrim.

They walked down to the North gate of Hidor. Through the bazaar they went, where people stopped and bowed to the passing group. Adira was loved by her people, and would be sorely missed. Malika… less so. She was a troublemaker in the city. The constant music of chatter and stringed instruments continued without halting despite the group's disruption of the norm. The world kept on spinning.

When Adira reached the pale skinned warriors by the horses, she insisted her main bag be on her horse. She caught the proud look that the red headed Fëalas shot her, as if she knew.

Yes I can wield a sword as well as any man. She nodded back at the half elf silently. We women should stick together.

A young one of the rangers, Sarnor she though she recalled someone call him, helped her fasten her pack to her black horse. Without much effort, she pulled herself up onto the great beast.

"Alright. Everyone up!" Fëalas ordered her men mount their horses.

And so they began the journey North, a decision that would change everyone's lives forever.

Chapter Text

"Ain't no grave can hold my body down." - Ain't No Grave by Johnny Cash

Rhûn

The black Numenorean stood in the formerly abandoned fortress surrounded by his Easterling guards. With his predecessor dead now, Halion had taken over. After all, he had angered the Council all those years. They would be coming for him now that their pieces were almost in place.

Halion, known as the Red Hand by his foes and former superiors, looked around at the fortress he had inherited. It was much like his ancient fortress in Angmar. Made mostly of dark iron and marble, the predominant color was black.

No surprise there, he muttered to himself. Sauron always did have a flair for the dramatic.

Almost fifteen years ago, Halion had been driven from Angmar by the united forces of the Reunited Kingdom and Rohan. His lover, Tinneth, the estranged and enraged daughter of Míril and Elrohir, had been killed by her brother Aderthon in the so called Battle of Arnor.

At least I murdered that half-elf bitch daughter of the King. He grinned thinking about his murder of Aragorn's middle daughter healer, Estelwen.

Now, he stood alone, clothed in blacks and reds. No beautiful silver haired half elf was beside him. He was alone. But not for long.

While working under the gaze of Sauron, Halion had been tasked with collecting rings, in the hopes of finding the One Ring. While Halion had never found the One, he had found many powerful rings, both good and evil. One he treasured above all. For one was more powerful than anything else he had found.

"Bring me The Ring of Beruthiel," he ordered one of his Easterling guards. "And bring the prisoner to the Sacrificial Chamber."

The Easterling guards bowed before Halion and rushed to retrieve their desired objects. Halion snapped his fingers and the remaining two Easterling guards followed his direction. It was finally time. He finally had a sacrifice he deemed worthy, and the time was ripe. Beruthiel would be coming back.

As they wandered through the halls of the Fortress of the Grey Hand, Halion couldn't help but smile. He had waited so many years for this moment. The dreary walls and fancy candlesticks on the doors couldn't even bring him down.

At last Halion arrived at the Sacrificial Chamber. It was a large, circular room. Runes were carved into the floor in circles. In the center of the concentric circles, a large grate was placed for drainage. Old blood was caked in between the stones and in the runes.

In the center of the room tied to a large stone pillar was a tall, skinny but well built man. His blonde hair fell to his shoulders, but he was covered in scrapes, cuts, and burns. He slunk in his posture, defeated and exhausted from the torture he had undergone.

"Halion," he growled angrily, catching sight of his captor. "What's this for now?"

"Barahir, son of Faramir." Halion sneered at the prisoner. "You have been a thorn in my side for too many days now."

"You do realize," he spat, "as I've said many times, that soon my family will realize I'm missing. And then you will have them to deal with."

Halion approached him and leaned close to his face. "I am counting on it."

Barahir looked slightly frightened. Surely Halion didn't have a large enough army to challenge the Reunited Kingdom… or did he?

An Easterling brought in a small box and a chalice. The man set them down on a small pillar beside Halion. The Red Hand nodded his thanks as the Easterling backed away. Drawing out a dagger from his belt, Halion laid it down beside the other objects. It was a black blade like his sword, and its hilt, inlaid with red gems, glinted in the poor but present light.

"Do you know what this is," He drew out a small, golden ring with a red gem from the decorative box. It was a pair of serpents intertwined.

Barahir snorted. "It looks a little small for you."

"Very funny." Halion glared at him. "This is the Ring of Beruthiel. It was worn by her Majesty throughout her life. And before her death, she hired a necromancer to ensure she would never truly die."

"And how is that supposed to work," Barahir sneered. "Once a human soul goes to the Halls of Mandos, it cannot come back."

"Necromancy is touchy business." Halion conceded this. "Few can master it. But you remember the tales of the Nazgûl? Undead men?"

Barahir felt a shiver go down his spine as he realized where this was going. "Yes."

Halion smirked, turning to Barahir with the chalice in hand, and the ring in the chalice. In his right hand, he held the dagger. "Are you ready to help bring back Gondor's rightful Queen?"

Barahir squirmed against his bonds. He was prepared to die for his King, but this was not what he'd expected. His death would only serve to damage the Reunited Kingdom. And that, he was not okay with. The room began to spin and he shook his head. Now was not the time for panic.

"Hold his head back. I want to see his eyes while he bleeds out." Halion beckoned an Easterling over.

The Easterling roughly took his head of hair in his hands and pushed his head back so his neck was bare. Halion closed his eyes and began chanting in an ancient language that Barahir couldn't understand. Or perhaps he felt too scared. Everything was starting to blur. The voices made no sense.

Halion took the dagger and placed it on Barahir's throat. With a swift movement, he sliced open Barahir's jugular. The man didn't scream, but his eyes displayed all the horror Halion wanted to see. Quickly dropping the dagger, he held the chalice so it would fill with Barahir's blood. He continued to chant as the dead man's blood filled the cup ceremoniously.

At last the cup was full. Barahir was dropped by the Easterling, his lifeless body flopping to the floor. Halion took the chalice and placed it on the floor. A mist began emanating from it, clouding the air around the cup. The room seemed to darken, the candles flickering in and out. Halion backed away, a crazed look in his eyes. At last, his dream was coming to fruition.

The Council, King Elessar, no one will know what hit them. He knelt down.

The mist began to clear. A woman, tall, naked, and pale skinned crouched down, lifting the ring out of the chalice. Her hands, drenched in Barahir's blood, were strikingly scarlet compared to her white skin. Her long, black hair was wet, sticking to her skin.

"My lady," Halion breathed, "my queen!"

"What year is this," she asked, her voice smooth like silk. "Where am I?"

"This the year fifty of the Fourth Age. I am Halion, Red Hand of Sauron who has been defeated. You are in my fortress at Rhûn."

She nodded slowly. "And why have you brought me back?"

Halion smiled. "To help me topple the current king of Gondor."

Chapter Text

The caravan began their journey that morning in high spirits. Adira and her black mare trotted alongside her sister, Malika, who sat upon a brown colt. To the other side of Malika rode Elboron. The young girl liked the man from the Reunited Kingdom.

“Tell me about the girl I will be living with,” Malika begged of him yet again.

Elboron smiled. “Sídhil. She’s the youngest daughter of the King and Queen.”

Malika nodded. “What does she look like?”

“Sídhil is tall for her age, a little taller than you. She’s got dark hair and pale skin, and grey eyes just like her mother.” Elboron shook his head as he thought about her. “She's also a little rascal.”

Malika nodded forcefully. “I look forward to meeting her.”

Adira, listening in but not responding, finally chuckled. She looked at her youngest sister and shook her head. “Of course you are.”

“Maybe it isn't such a good idea to introduce Malika and Sídhil,” teased Fëalas, who dropped back from the front to talk with them. “Perhaps Malika should stay in Hidor.”

The girl laughed and shook her head in protest. “No!”

The land passed by them slowly. As the day progressed and the sun rose higher, they did their best to stay hydrated and cool. It was a difficult task, but there were outposts along this main road from Hidor through Near Harad and into the Reunited Kingdom. They planned on stopping in on Prince Elphir, Lady Orla, and their son Alphros in Dol Amroth.

They had been instructed to retrieve Alphros from Dol Amroth and bring him to Minas Tirith for him to begin concentrated training with Aderthon. The boy, eighteen years old now, showed a great affinity for swordplay. It was something Aderthon wanted to cultivate in him. Elboron agreed with him, and was eager to watch Alphros’ training begin in earnest.

By evening, they reached an inn on the road that was called Nomad’s Paradise. It had a large stable, large enough for all the horses. Fëalas dismounted and, with Sarnor at her side, walked up to the door and in.

The inn was very large, with old wooden floors and some sand that had been tracked inside littering the ground. To the left were all the rooms, and to the right, a tavern area. A Haradrim man stood behind a counter talking with a few Variags, visitors from Khand based on their very dark skin.

Eventually the men noticed the two pale skinned Gondorians standing at the door and stopped their talking to stare. Finally, shuffling her feet and twirling her red hair, Fëalas spoke up.

“Greetings. I am Fëalas, Captain of the Southern Dunedain of the Reunited Kingdom. We are on a mission for Chief Saleem of Hidor, traveling north.” She paused before continuing. “We request rooms for the night, housing for sixteen.”

“How many rooms?” The innkeeper asked. “Two to a room?”

Fëalas nodded with a small smile. “That would work, yes. Eight rooms.”

“You can pay?” He added this quickly as the Variags moved off into the tavern.

Fëalas drew out a small sack of gold coins and placed them on the counter. “Should be enough.”

The innkeeper smiled and nodded. “Indeed. Stable your horses and then bring the others inside. I will instruct my servants to show you to your rooms.”

Fëalas and Sarnor left the room and wandered out into the chilly night. The moon and stars were bright, and a brazier cast a warm glow about them as the redhead told her company to stable their horses.

“Bring in only what you need,” she ordered them. “Come on, pick up the pace.”

Eventually she guided Adira and Malika inside with Elboron. Her rangers trickled in after them, awaiting directions of servants as to where they would sleep. Adira and Malika would be in a room right across from Elboron and Fëalas. Hopefully the safest room in the inn. The rule for her rangers was simple: don't get drunk. They were on a job.

“Do either of you want anything from the tavern?” Fëalas asked the sisters. “I am heading there with Elboron. Two rangers will be stationed outside your door at all times.”

“I think we’re fine, thank you.” Adira smiled. “We have food already.”

Malika looked about the object but thought better of it. Even she knew a tavern on the road was no place for a ten year old girl. Fëalas was just being courteous.

Elboron led the way down the hall to the tavern. Several of the off duty rangers sat at tables, and there were Haradrim and Variags scattered around casting suspicious, but not hostile, glances at the pale skins. Generally the three groups stayed apart, though the Variags of Khand did speak with the Haradrim a few times.

It was gloomy inside the tavern. A roaring fire lit the center of the room, with darkness on each of the corners. Stains of spilled beers and ales splattered the floors and tables, with knife wounds in the wood, everywhere. A throwing knife game was on one wall, and a Variag challenged a Southron to a round.

Fëalas and Elboron sat down in a corner, using flint to light a candle on the table. Old, worn marks littered the tabletop. Thousands of stories were there. When the innkeeper came over they both ordered whatever the house ale was. He brought it quickly. The thump, thump of the knife game steadily beat in the background, with cheers and groans accompanying it.

“So,” Fëalas smiled, taking a sip. “What do you think Lothuial is doing?”

Elboron looked at her like she was crazy. “My wife is hundreds of thousands of miles away. How should I know?”

Fëalas chuckled. “Well, you're her husband right?”

Elboron scoffed and shook his head, leaning back against the wooden booth. “I'd imagine she’s resting. I hope she's resting. She’s sixth months pregnant after all!”

The redheaded ranger grinned widely. “I'm so excited for you, Elboron. Really.”

“I know you are, Fëalas.” Elboron smiled.

He remembered the days when she had loved him like he how he now loved Lothuial, and always regretted hurting her by saying no. But Fëalas was one to never stop loving. They remained great friends, friends who worked together often. For while Círeth, Fëalas’ twin sister, maintained her post south and west of Rhûn, Fëalas had of course remained near Harad. Barahir, Elboron's brother, was much more active with Círeth, unlike Elboron whose job as a councilman kept him in constant contact with Harad.

All of a sudden a great roar went up in the tavern as the man from Khand beat the Southron. Every patron, even all the rangers, were wrapped up in the game. Fëalas smiled and shook her head. She and Elboron walked over to find the dark skinned Variag talking with one of the rangers.

“Come on, pale skin!” He laughed lightly. “Surely you aren't afraid.”

Fëalas grinned. “Haereldir, you aren't afraid are you?”

The blonde ranger glared at his Captain and shook his head. “Of course not.”

“Then play,” laughed the Southron.

Haereldir nodded and took the four knives. With a quieting of the crowd, he drew back his arm and threw the knife. It hit the outer circle. Everyone laughed raucously. He glared and drew back his arm again. This throw hit much closer to the center. With one more throw he still hadn't hit the bullseye.

“Give it to me,” Fëalas laughed. “I'll take the final shot.”

The Variag grinned. “If you hit the center, we’ll pay for your drinks. If you lose, you pay for ours.”

Elboron tried to stop her. They couldn't risk wasting money like that. But she shook his arm off and nodded.

“Deal.”

She stood where Haereldir had been told to stand. She felt the weight of the knife in her hand. It was well balanced, a good help for her. She whipped her red hair out of her face and with a swing she let it go.

Thump.

“I believe you owe us some coin,” Elboron smiled at the Variags and the Haradrim.

At first the rangers were afraid they would refuse and attack, but after a moment the group roared with laughter again and everyone, with varying degrees of head nodding, pulled out coins.

“Impressive, woman.” The first Variag nodded to her, the one who had issued the challenge. “Very impressive.”

Chapter Text

A redheaded ranger, identical in appearance to Fëalas except for the style of her braid, paced in the enormous throne room of Minas Tirith. She was waiting eagerly for her king to finish his council meeting. Near her, leaning casually against a large, grey-green marble pillar, was a tall, dark haired man with grey eyes and a silver circlet atop his head.

"Stop pacing!" He barked at Círeth, looking at her sidelong from where he stood.

Círeth stopped and looked at the prince. "Eldarion, this is serious."

He glared. "I know. But boring a hole in the floor will fix nothing."

Círeth snorted and walked back over to her cousin. She looked to the right of the swan throne where the door to the council chambers stood. "How long has he been in there?"

"Two hours," Eldarion replied, closing his eyes. "They should be done soon. Then we will speak to my father."

"You're awfully calm for knowing your friend is missing in enemy territory," Círeth growled fiercely.

Eldarion's eyes shot open and he narrowed them in anger. "Do not mistake my calm demeanor for not caring!"

Círeth nodded with a sigh, looking away. "Forgive me."

Suddenly the doors to the throne room were thrust open and a man, dark haired and grey eyed, rushed inside, one hand on the pommel of his sword. His face was covered in sweat and his flowing hair smeared across his cheeks. He panted for breath as he reached the pillar they huddled by.

"I came as soon as I heard you were here, Cír. Is it true? The rumors?" He looked from her to his best friend, Eldarion, in concern.

"Indeed, Aderthon." Círeth looked at him sadly. "Barahir is missing."

"Elbereth Gilthoniel," Aderthon sighed. "When was he last seen?"

"I'll tell you everything when we speak with Lord Aragorn," Círeth said with a shake of her head, eager to only repeat the information once.

As Aderthon was about to object, a great many voices was heard leaving the council room. King Elessar, together with his wife Queen Arwen and eldest daughter Amdirien, led the way for the councilmembers. Princes Elphir of Dol Amroth and Faramir of Ithilien followed after. Behind them trotted two little men. Hobbits, actually. Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrine Took, the Councilors of the North alongside Bergil of the Dunédain of Arnor, were currently on extended stay in Minas Tirith. Other councilmen flooded out of the room and began leaving the hall.

Círeth, Eldarion, and Aderthon rushed over to the royal group. Aragorn caught sight of them immediately and halted, surprised to see Círeth back in Minas Tirith.

"I see you bear ill news," he murmured. "What do you have to say?"

Círeth looked between Aragorn and Faramir. "Barahir is missing. His patrol never checked back in three weeks ago. We found the bodies of the rangers I put under his command, but not his."

"So he might still be alive," Faramir, Barahir's father eagerly added, though hope was diminishing in his emotional eyes.

Círeth hesitated before nodding. "Perhaps. It is always a possibility."

"I'll reassign some of Fëalas' troops to you," Aragorn immediately decided. "I assume the rangers were killed by Easterling?"

"Indeed." Círeth nodded quickly. "Definitely Easterlings. But it seems more than a border skirmish. It was an ambush."

Aragorn exchanged glances with his wife and then with Faramir. That had many connotations. Border skirmishes were fairly common but rarely ended in much loss of life. They happened when patrols of both kingdoms crossed paths. An ambush…

"You realize what you are saying," Aragorn murmured, face serious. "That means it was planned."

Círeth nodded and looked him in the eye. "Yes, my lord."

Arwen shook her head. "Why would Rhûn choose now to attack us? Now that we've finally regained much of what we lost in the Battle of Arnor? It seems foolish."

What the queen said was true. It seemed odd that the Easterlings who had been content to remain on ambiguously hostile terms would now all but declare open war on the Reunited Kingdom. What did they want?

"Perhaps they feel insulted that we did not ask them for a suitor?" Amdirien piped up from where she stood to the left side of her mother.

"Perhaps. Lesser slights have caused war in the past," shrugged Eldarion.

Faramir nodded. "Find my son, Círeth. I fear Emyn Arnen calls me home and I must leave today. I shall bear this grievous news back to Eowyn."

"Do not lose all hope, my friend," Lord Aragorn assured him, placing his right hand on Faramir's shoulder and gripping it tightly in comfort.

Faramir left the throne room, shoulders hunched over from worry. Merry and Pippin remained behind with Bergil and the others.

"It is good to see you, Círeth," Pippin smiled, his once golden hair now flecked with white like snow in his old age.

"You as well, Master Pippin, and you Master Merry," she smiled and knelt to give him and Merry hugs.

With that, they decided it was time to retire to Aderthob's house, which he had kindly offered to share with them while they remained in Minas Tirith.

"I hate to see Faramir upset like this," Pippin added to Merry as they bid farewell and followed their friend out of the throne room.

Bergil was the last of the councilmen to stand with the royalty. He shook his head. "If only to was easier to bring my troops south. But alas it is not."

"Do not worry, my friend," Aragorn shook his head. "I am sure we will manage."

Once Bergil had left the throne room, Aderthon, Círeth, Eldarion, Amdirien, Aragorn, and Arwen talked in hushed voices. No one was around except the many Knights of the Citadel. But they felt safer talking with quite tones.

Suddenly a crash was heard as a door swung open and a girl ran out, in her hand a small sword. She swung it here and there at invisible enemies.

Arwen glared and shouted at her. "Sídhil!"

Chapter Text

A/N: I'm using Russia/Eastern Europe as my inspiration for Rhûn. Names will be assigned from these languages accordingly.

Rhûn

One of the most frustrating experiences Berúthiel ever had was when cats approached her. She hated cats. She hated them as much as she hated false kings. But for some reason, cats loved her. So it frustrated her to no end when Halion's gift to her was comprised of nine black cats and one white cat. She had hoped to leave all that behind her in her past incarnation. Nevertheless she would make use of them. She would have some fun.

Berúthiel wandered down the stairs gingerly. Her neatly brushed and slightly wavy raven hair spilled over her shoulders down to her waist. The obsidian crown she wore contained rubies and onyx stones, and a catseye in the center. She liked it well enough. Her red dress fell to her ankles and she wore ebony mail over the chest. On her left side was a sharp, black dagger. It was the dagger that had brought her back.

Behind her trotted the cats One, Five, and Seven. One was white, with funny blue eyes. The rest, including Five and Seven, were pure black with amber eyes.

"Halion," she barked out as she reached the base of the stairway.

The man rushed over to her from where he'd been eating breakfast. He looked worse for ware, for indeed Berúthiel was working him hard. Things had to be perfect.

"Yes, my queen?" He nodded profusely, eager to please her.

She snorted. "Stop slobbering like a dog and look at me."

The Easterling guards around the room had to hide their laughter. None of them respected Halion now that Queen Berúthiel had risen. She was their queen, and no one else.

"Sorry," he nodded, standing straighter. "What can I do for you?"

Berúthiel began walking and her cats twisted around Halion's legs as he followed. Ever since she had… trained… them, Halion absolutely despised the cats. His terrified and furious face was enough to tell her that.

Halion's face scrunched in disgust as One ran ahead of them and killed a rat that darted under a door into the room. Seven and Five followed and hissed, arching their backs to hopefully scare the others away from the prize. In the end One, as usual, triumphed.

"They're such fickle creatures," Berúthiel observed, arching an eyebrow as she looked from Halion's disgusted face to her three cats. "One minute, harmless, the next, killers. I do so enjoy that."

"What did you need of me, my queen?" Halion reminded her slowly as he realized where they were headed.

Berúthiel laughed as the reached the large door to the Sacrificial Chamber. She turned to her personal Easterling guard and nodded. "Bind him."

Halion objected frantically. He reached for his dagger but found it gone. A guard had already snatched it.

"You can't do this!" He screamed at her as they tied his arms behind his back with rough, sandpaper like rope. "I brought you back!"

"For that, I am grateful," she admitted this, unlocking the door with her key and pushing it wide open. "But servants can be like cats. Harmless one minute, murderers the next. Jealousy gets in the way."

The guards forced the tied Halion forward. He fought the entire time, desperately trying to get free from their rough hands. The rope bit into his skin and he began to bleed.

With a single gesture, Beruthiel sent them to tie him to the pillar. Once this was done, she approached him. "Halion, are you prepared to die for your Queen?" She leaned over him.

He spat at her face. "You are my queen no more."

One, who had followed them in after his mouse snack, leapt up and raked his claws across Halion's unshielded face. Blood dripped from his claws as Halion screamed.

"I never liked cats much," Berúthiel revealed to him. "But they have their uses."

Halion swayed where he was restrained, fear overcoming his senses. How long would she keep him alive as a plaything? It was conceivably this was just the beginning.

Berúthiel reached to her side slowly, never breaking her intense grey gaze from where she stared at Halion. The knife that had brought her back from Halion's hands with the blood of Barahir would now feast on its former master's blood. The ring on her right hand glinted in the pale light of the room as she took the dagger and placed it in front of Halion's face.

Berúthiel smiled wickedly. "Goodbye, Halion Carnimendo."

She took a fist full of his dark hair in her hand and pulled his head back, holding his squirming body firmly against the cold, stone column. The dagger drew across his jugular quick as a flash, and warm, oozing, scarlet blood spurted out all over Berúthiel's face and clothes. She only smiled.

One began licking up the blood off the ground, eager for the salt and iron in the bodily fluid. His white fur became flecked with red from the still flowing blood. Berúthiel looked at him, her face riddled with disgust. She hated cats.

As a child, Berúthiel favorite thing to do was play with her dog. As member of royalty in Umbar, she was allowed to do just about whatever she wanted and on this particular day, she wanted to play with Daeloth, her dog.

"Mommy," Berúthiel pleaded, tugging on her mother's dress. "Mommy can I go play with Daeloth?"

Mother looked at her seriously. "I'm afraid Daeloth is not here."

"Where did he go?" Berúthiel asked, tears in her eyes.

"We traded him for a few cats. They are less work," Mother told her before walking away.

The first cat she ever tried to pet had scratched her across the face. From then on, every cat she could get her hands on, she tortured. From burning their ears, to driving needles through their paws or ripping out their claws. She did whatever she could to make their lives hell.

"Evgeny!" She barked to her favorite of the guard. "Prepare this body in a coffin for transport. We are going to bring him to the false king."

When she turned around to leave the room, she found all ten of her cats pacing outside the door. They knew it was time to move. They knew it was time to strike. One meowed loudly to the others and they all sat down to allow Berúthiel to pass.

She stopped and turned to the guard. "And Evgeny, prepare my carriage!"

Chapter Text

Adira yawned deeply as they dismounted their horses for the night. She smoothed her loose pants down and stretched, thankful they had a place to stay the night. A farmstead had offered them shelter in return for coin as they made their way through the more fertile lands in Harad. Two weeks had passed since they began their journey north. They were three quarters of the way to Harondor, the lands separating old Gondor from Near Harad. The Riven Harnen was the southern border. They hoped to reach it in a week's time.

As Adira walked her horse over to the trees they were to be tied to, she watched her young sister chatting with Elboron. Malika loved to talk, and she was grateful that this man was gracious enough to humor her.

"Malika!" She shouted to her sister, beckoning for her to come over. "Come here a moment please."

Malika made a face but obeyed. She skipped over to Adira. "What?"

"I just wanted to give Lord Elboron a break from your talking," she smirked, turning away and patting her horse on the snout.

Malika was not amused. She crossed her arms and stuck out her tongue, her face flushed with annoyance.

Adira continued. "But really, Malika, you should talk to the others too if you must chit chatter all the time.. Give Elboron a break."

Her sister glared. "You're just mad they like me more than they like you!"

Adira's face burned with anger at her little sister's teasing accusation. "No, Malika. I am just smarter than you."

Malika growled and released a small scream of anger. She tried to hit her sister but Adira grabbed her hand and pushed her away a bit more gently. Malika's eyes narrowed. She turned tail and fled.

Fëalas walked over to Adira from the shadows of the house. She watched Malika angrily start kicking rocks around the area.

"She's a feisty one." Fëalas folded her arms and raised an eyebrow as she watched the young girl.

Adira shook her head. "You have no idea."

After another moment of watching the ten year old girl have a fit, Fëalas turned to Adira. "I've sent half my men ahead to secure the area. According to my scouts, there's been some bandit activity north of here."

Adira nodded. "We appreciate the thoughtful planning, Lady Fëalas."

"Drop the title," insisted the redhead, gesturing with her hand. "I never liked it anyways."

They walked back to the small grain barn. Adira, Elboron, and Fëalas laid out blankets on the hay in an effort to make it slightly more comfortable. The five remaining rangers that had not traveled north remained on guard outside.

"I apologize for my sister's talkativeness," Adira told Elboron as they sat down and ate apples and cheese. "She has yet to learn control."

Elboron shook her head. "It is fine! But speaking of Malika, where is she?"

"Outside," Adira murmured.

Elboron looked out a window. "She should probably come in. It's growing dark out."

They heard a scream right at that moment and Adira's blood ran cold. She knew who it belonged to.

"Malika!" Adira cried out, grabbing her scimitar swords from her bag and tearing out the barn door.

Elboron and Fëalas followed soon after, both with swords in hand. They ran around back to find a set of six bandits, the leader holding Malika at sword point. He shouted something in Southron that only Adira understood. Her face grew grave.

"They say to hand over the valuables or they will kill Malika." Adira explained their demands, hardening her grip on her scimitars. "They are rough riders from the city of Bozisha-Dar east and north of here. They are not allied to the Reunited Kingdom."

"Tell them to stand down and we'll hand over what we have," Fëalas instructed.

But even as Adira explained their intentions to the ruffians and she sheathed her sword, she pretended to take off her bow and lay it on the ground. Her rangers, a few hidden in the dark shadows of the barn, knew this trick well. Often their captain used it in tough situations.

In a split second, Fëalas raised her bow and fired a silver arrow named Pilinel. It struck the leader straight in the head, killing him instantly. Her rangers weren't far behind, picking off the other five ruffians quickly as Elboron and Adira ran to cover Malika. In seconds, the ordeal was over. Malika was no worse for wear, though her pride was sorely bruised.

"Come on," Adira said angrily, dragging her sister inside with them. "You should know better than to wander around on your own at night in the vicinity of Bozisha-Dar!"

Malika gritted her teeth and growled. "You certainly didn't try to stop me!"

"I thought you were smart," Adira bit back. "But apparently not."

Their bickering stopped as Elboron quieted them down. He wanted to get some sleep that night and knew that would be impossible with the sisters screaming at each other.

Once Fëalas and Elboron were asleep, Adira rolled over and looked at Malika. At first Adira thought her sister was asleep, but moments later Malika's eyes popped open.

"I am glad you are safe," Adira sighed. "I do not want to face the North without you."

Malika glared momentarily before her gaze softened. "Neither do I."

They slept soundly that night. No more commotion to keep them up, just quiet rest. At dawn, they paid the farmers the rest of what was owed, looted the corpses from the night before for valuables, and continued on their way. The land changed from arid to semi-fertile over the next week. Small homesteads and decent sized settlements began cropping up along the Great North Road. They came across a great statue to four warriors, one female, two identical males, and one taller male, on top of a hillock. Fëalas was convinced this must've been the settlement where Miril, the Twins, and Maglor managed to defeat the Blue Wizards. But they didn't have time to stop as it was midday when the settlement came and went. She was saddened by this, but they had a job to do.

Chapter Text

Alphros laughed merrily as his white steed galloped across the green fields of Dol Amroth. Small patches of wildflowers sat scattered here and there. Coming to halt, he drew his beautiful sword. He clashed blades noisily with a boy who soon caught up to him, riding upon a brown horse

"Keep your eyes up, Ýridhren!" Alphros reminded the boy across from him. "There. Much better!"

"Should we be riding so far from the city, my lord?" asked Ýridhren skittishly.

Alphros laughed. "Surely you jest? There hasn't been worse than ruffians in these parts in fifty years!"

With a grimace, Ýridhren shrugged. He supposed the eighteen year old was right. "How long until the Rangers come get you?"

"Should be any day now," Alphros told him as they clashed swords again.

Between the next clash, Ýridhren sighed with a smile. "What an honor! To be selected to train with Lord Aderthon."

"Truly!" The other, older boy nodded. "It is a privilege. I will be sure to return and teach you all I know, my friend."

Alphros and Ýridhren had met years ago. The younger boy, Ýridhren, was not nobility in Dol Amroth, but a peasant from the outlying farmsteads. When Alphros' mother had fallen severely ill eight years ago, ten year old Alphros had been amazed at the skill that then eight year old Ýridhren's mother had in healing. The boys began to play, and since then had become fast friends.

Alphros was outgoing, rash, but always seen with a smile or laughter on his face. He was the best young swordsman in Dol Amroth, and some said in all of what was once Southern Gondor. In contrast was Ýridhren. A shy, reserved, and kindly boy, sixteen year old Ýridhren humored his best friend by learning swordplay, but loved especially to learn herb lore and history.

As they rode at a trot that late morning, Ýridhren stopped dead in their tracks. He thought he heard something. Turning to Alphros, he was about to speak when Alphros froze as well. Just on the edge of hearing they detected new voices.

"Dismount," ordered the older boy as he slid off his white horse.

Ýridhren followed, taking hold of Alphros' steed and tying them both to a nearby tree. They were near the coast and it was common for ruffians to make camp in such places. Both boys drew their swords and crept forward. Alphros' dark hair caught in his eyes and he reached up to brush it away. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of red hair.

Red hair? He was confused. No one around here has red hair… except...

"Lady Fëalas?" ventured Alphros, pushing aside the thickets he hid behind and coming towards the redhead whose back was turned.

The woman turned around in surprise before smiling when she saw him. "Alphros! What are you doing out here? And who is with you?"

"This is my friend Ýridhren," he gestured to the blonde boy behind him who had just come out of hiding. "We've been out riding."

A new voice, belonging to a man, piped up as Elboron appeared followed by a group of rangers and two strange Haradrim ladies. "Where are your horses?"

"Lord Elboron!" Alphros bowed again. "They are just through here. We heard voices and feared the worst."

"So you thought to approach them alone, and on foot?" Elboron looked at them skeptically. "I cannot tell if that's stupid or brave."

Ýridhren bowed low. "Probably a bit of both, m' lord."

Elboron chuckled. "True."

Alphros looked slightly annoyed. Before long though, he found himself staring at the two Haradrim in awe. Elboron noted immediately and went to make introductions.

"Prince Alphros, these are Lady Adira and Lady Malika of Hidor." Elboron gestured to them each in turn. "Ladies Adira and Malika, this is Prince Alphros of Dol Amroth, son of Prince Elphir."

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance," bowed Alphros to either lady individually. "Welcome to Dor-en-Ernil, the land of the Prince!"

"Thank you, sir," Adira nodded with a bow of her own.

Malika looked up at Alphros in awe. "Thank you!"

Ýridhren shuffled his feet patiently. These were great Lords and Ladies, he was but a member of the peasant folk. Nevertheless it was his job, according to himself at least, to keep the princeling on track.

"My Lords, Ladies," Ýridhren ventured at last, "we should be getting back to Dol Amroth. The walk will take at least until dinner."

"Agreed," nodded Fëalas. "You two are welcome, in fact I encourage you, to ride ahead and alert Prince Elphir to our arrival."

Alphros nodded and he and Ýridhren bid farewell as they mounted their horses. With his soulful grey eyes, Alphros looked back once at Adira and Malika before taking off with Ýridhren. For two hours they rode, sometimes fast, sometimes no quicker than a walk. By late afternoon they arrived at the grand city by the sea. They arrived at Dol Amroth.

As he went to trot through the open gates, Alphros bid farewell to Ýridhren. His friend turned to head to his farmstead outside the city walls. Alphros, in contrast, rode quickly through the street up to where the stables his family used were located. He dropped off his steed there and entrusted it into the care of the stable hands.

The scent of wisteria and athelas floated towards him as he walked through the gardens and into the back entrance of the Hall. There he found his father, Elphir, and his mother, Orla of Rohan, talking together over dinner. Also there were Amrothos and Erchirion, Elphir's brothers.

"There you are, Alphros!" Orla scolded him quickly. "You've been gone all day."

"I ran into Lady Fëalas and Lord Elboron's company while I rode with Ýridhren. They should arrive in an hour or so," he explained to the older adults at the table.

"Ready to learn from Aderthon, are you?" smiled Amrothos. "Quite an honor that is."

"Truly," nodded Erchirion, "Say hello them for us."

Alphros nodded quickly, grey eyes shining in gladness. "Of course, uncles."

Elphir rolled his eyes at his son's eagerness. "Go pack your bags, by then your dinner will be ready."

Alphros nodded and tore up the stairs to where the bedrooms were. He was floored to be leaving Dol Amroth. For though he knew in his heart that it was a wonderful place to live, he was tired of it. He had only visited Minas Tirith a few times, and from what he'd seen, it was going to be a grand adventure.

Chapter Text

Dol Amroth

Elboron rode atop his horse carefully as the company made their way down the road to the gates of Dol Amroth. The huge, white gates were still open. The sun was just sinking to their West, and the twilight glow of evening was settling upon the land. Malika had never seen so much grass in one place, ever in her life, as she had this last week. And now she was soon to witness a sight she'd only dreamed of.

"Dismount," Fëalas told her rangers. "Go find the tavern. Have fun for the night."

They grinned widely and did as they were instructed. Fëalas and Elboron dismounted as well, followed by the two Haradrim ladies, followed by their servants. Malika looked around at the city. White paths and white stone walls were decorated with soft cloths and draping flowers of purples and blues. An enormous fountain of swans stood in the entry square, and smaller fountains dotted the streets which wound up and up to the pinnacle, the royal houses.

"Elboron!" came a shout from up ahead. "Lady Fëalas! Tis good to see both of you!"

"Elphir," smiled Elboron to the older man. "It is good to see you, too!"

"And who might these be?" Elphir turned to the Haradrim. He looked on them kindly.

The youngest grinned widely. "I am Malika, daughter of Chief Saleem and Chieftess Jadyra, fifth of their house."

"Well, welcome, Lady Malika, to Dol Amroth." He smiled at the young girl. Turning to Adira he spoke again. "You must be the Lady Adira?"

"Indeed, lord," she bowed her head to the man before her. "Thank you for your hospitality. These are our servants Mahmud and Jamila."

Elphir smiled at all of them and gestured with his arms around him. "Welcome! All of you."

They went inside the main royal house, leaving the stable hands to deal with the horses. Malika and Adira looked around in wonder at the architecture. While it didn't have the beautiful mosaic tiling of their homeland, it still was very impressive in a different way. Jamila and Mahmud, as always, stood back, but they were just as curious as the other two Haradrim.

Elboron led the girls over to a large feasting table where five places were set. As they each sat to eat, Alphros came bounding down the stairs and slipped dramatically into his spot at the table. His father looked at him disapprovingly, but Alphros flashed him a cheeky smile and turned to the other members of the table.

"I am glad you arrived safely," he told them sincerely. "Now we may eat together."

Elphir sat down at a spot across from his son without food and nodded for them to start eating. At first they dined in silence, everyone eager for a real, savory meal. It had been weeks that they had survived on what the rangers could catch and what fruits, breads, and cheeses they had packed. Now they had real, cooked food.

They ate together for about and hour. After this, Elphir had Alphros show the guests to the guest house. Jamila and Mahmud slept in one room of the large guest house, while Malika and Adira shared the first room on the left. Fëalas took the room on the right, and Elboron the second on the left. The Haradrim went to bed quickly, exhausted from the new excitement the day had brought. But Elboron and Fëalas stayed up in the common room where the fireplace blazed brightly.

"I am eager to get home," Elboron sighed. "I miss Lothuial."

Fëalas smiled softly, her face lit with kindness. "I am sure you do. We will be home soon enough. Probably about three, three and a half days."

Elboron nodded. He knew it wouldn't be long, but it had been nearly five months since he'd last been in Minas Tirith, and he missed it greatly. Gone were the days when he lived in Ithilien; Minas Tirith was home now. That was where he had met his beautiful wife, Lothuial. They'd been married three years, and were finally expecting their first child any time now. He yearned to be back, and hoped with all he had that she had yet to give birth.

Fëalas on the other hand was thinking hard about nothing in particular. Sometimes when she had downtime like this, she found her thoughts drifting towards her lost family members. She remembered her mother, Míril, and father, Elrohir. She missed them terribly, and often wondered what they were doing in Valinor. Then her thoughts would drift to darker thoughts… thoughts of Tinneth, her deceased, corrupted sister. The dancing fire reminded her of the explanation she and her siblings had received so many years ago: the Spirit of Fire burned too hot within Tinneth.

Rhûn - Unknown Location

Deep underground in dark passageways and gloom-filled caverns, a group of men and women stood around a fire and an altar. Near the altar stood a man wearing black armor so smooth and otherworldly it looked like a second skin. A hood and veil covered his head and lower face. His companions were dressed similarly, though their armor was a facsimile of leather.

The man spoke to the group, voice deep and rough. "The cursed man managed to raise her, after all."

"It is an abomination to Vultur that she lives again," spoke a woman in the front. "It is time we act once more, Kir!"

Kir, the leader, nodded quietly, silencing the raucous insistence of the group. "You speak truly, Akilina. And I know we all agree."

Akilina nodded to him. The two were married, and what a power couple they were. Kir, leader of the Coven of the Eagle, was the bearer of the Armor of Vultur. The Coven was an assassin sect of the Order of Vultur, a group of dedicated followers to their eagle god Vultur. Master assassins, the entire Coven was an illegal enterprise in Rhûn.

The Gondorians kept a very sparse but to the point document on the "Cult of Vultur":

A Report on the History and Tendencies of the Cult of Vultur (Rhûn)

Historical Context:

The Cult of Vultur seems to have been born of a unique combination of Orcish and Elvish legends based on the Maia Eonwë. Most every character in Orcish mythology can fit into one of two categories: either they are a terrifying monster that will help you kill all the Elves, or they are a terrifying monster that will kill you and your tribe. Among the second category falls their version of Eonwë, Soronár (roughly Fiery Eagle) the Predator. This character from Orcish folklore is a ruthless and cunning Balrog like creature who leads the Great Eagles in a quest to rid the world of Orcs. He is often portrayed as stealthy and treacherous, in contrast to Orcish legends about of Tulkas and Oromë.

Long ago the people of Rhun seem to have taken up the character of Soronár as a symbol of their resistance against the Orcs and various worshipers of Morgoth. They called him Vultur, The Eagle. It is generally believed that the wise in Rhun understood that he was the same as the Maia the Elves call Eonwë, because a number of their rituals seem rooted in Elvish stories about The Herald of Manwë.

Among those who worshipped Vultur were a group of assassins who have become closely associated with the name of Vultur. It is unclear if they took Vultur as only their symbol or if they actively worship him. Their origins are unknown, and it is unclear whether they have existed continuously since their first appearance or if mercenaries and assassins band together under the name of Vultur whenever Rhun is in grave danger. It is my belief that the truth lies between the two extremes. There seems to be considerable evidence pointing to the existence of a small but extremely capable group of assassins in Rhûn who kill in the name of Vultur, and "The Cult of Vultur" is generally meant to refer to them. Additionally, in time of crisis many rally around the myth of Vultur and attempt (with varying degrees of success) great deeds in his name with no sign of the calculating strategy indicative of the professional assassins.

The age of the cult is unknown, but they were certainly well established by S.A. 2250 in opposition to the alliance between King Khamûl of Rhûn (later second of the Nazgul) and Sauron. Unfortunately their attempted assassination of Khamûl worked to Sauron's advantage: thanks to his ring, Khamul survived a poisoned dagger to the heart, and Khamul used this as an example of Sauron's miraculous power. Despite the Nazgul's best efforts, Khamûl was unable to eliminate the assassins and the Cult of Vultur survived through the Second Age and the Third.

Strategic Analysis:

Throughout The Cult's history they have consistently opposed Sauron and his servants. They destabilized Sauron's armies in Rhun through assassinations of Sauron's priests and generals. There are reports that some number of assassins of their order marched with the armies of Mordor and assassinated their own commanders during the War of The Ring.

The Cult has been fairly quiet during the early years of the Fourth Age. There have been some reports of rangers dressed in black armor protecting travellers from Orc raiders on the roads in Rhûn - actions which locals consistently attribute to the Cult of Vultur.

On a large scale there is little we can do about The Cult. Sauron had millennia and armies of devoted followers, not to mention the Nazgul, and he was unable to eliminate them. It seems unlikely that we can do anything to weaken then beyond rendering them less necessary. If we somehow find ourselves in contact with the Cult's leadership I advise that we present ourselves as potential allies, glad that they are working against our common enemies.

If they determine us to be an enemy, our greatest asset is distance: the Cult has shown little ability to project power beyond the borders of Rhûn. While their assassins are clearly incredibly trained and equipped, they seem inclined to limit their activities to their homeland. Rhûn has fought a number of wars with human societies considerably closer to their homeland than we are and in these cases there are no credible examples of the Cult of Vultur taking offensive action. For the sake of completeness I must mention that there are a few examples of assassinations of Orcish leaders outside of Rhûn, but I do not believe we in Minas Tirith or Dol Amroth need concern ourselves overmuch with the Cult.

The Coven was well aware that the Reunited Kingdom was attempting to keep tabs on them, but they were also confident in their ability to avoid it. Between Kir and Akilina, they were well equipped to constantly train new recruits. But they were going to need all the help they could get if they were to destroy their most recent target.

They would need help to destroy Berúthiel.

Chapter Text

Along with Alphros, the party heading north to Minas Tirith picked up another traveler. Nemir was her name, a relative of the Dol Amorth royalty. She was a pretty thing, pale with curly dark hair. She was another suitor for Eldarion. Alphros did not like her.

“Thank you for taking me North, Lord Elboron,” Nemir said kindly and with a curtsy. Her royal blue dress was trimmed with white and blew pleasantly in the wind as she nodded to him.

“Of course, Lady Nemir,” Elboron gestured for her get inside the horse drawn cart they had obtained for her and the Haradrim royalty. “You are royalty to us.”

Nemir hopped aboard, followed by Malika and Adira. Throughout the journey, Malika made small talk with the newcomer, curious about what her life was like. Nemir seemed hesitant. She didn't want to talk to Malika. She wanted to talk to the other suitor.

“So, Adira is it?” Nemir started with a sweet smile. “Nice name. I like the Southron language, though it is rather… rough around the edges.”

“Adira is correct.” The tan skinned woman nodded. She didn't like the comment about her language. “And you are Nemir of Dol Amroth? I would say Elvish is a strange tongue as well.”

Nemir narrowed her eyes but sighed. “Perhaps my comment was taken the wrong way. I merely meant to say I do not fully understand it yet.”

“I do not know Sindarin fully either. I suppose the Common Tongue will have to suffice,” Adira agreed.

They spent the first day on basic pleasantries. As the days passed and they grew closer to Minas Tirith, Nemir seemed to close herself off. Her blue eyes shined with a strange light, as if seeing the White City had kindled something in her. Something that made Adira uncomfortable.

“Welcome to Minas Tirith,” Fëalas told them as they stopped before the great gates. The great bottom wall, black as night, was at first menacing to the Haradrim newcomers. But then they saw the mithril reinforced gates, open to allow traffic in and out of the huge city. Somehow it beckoned them in.

Adira put her veil on, feeling exposed when she noted all the people. Malika, having changed into a dress on her sister’s insistence, squirmed to get a better look of their surroundings and the cart rolled in through the gates. She got up on her knees to look at the people they passed by. She saw many commoners, all who looked right back at her in curiosity and amazement. Her darker skin and “odd” way of dressing was enough to set her apart, but add in the royal escort and people certainly took notice.

Eventually they reached the uppermost circle. Here, citadel guards with giant helmets and tall spears guarded the way to the King. Fëalas dismissed her rangers to the handle the horses while she and Elboron helped Nemir, Adira, and Malika out of the cart. Malika stood in awe. Nemir nearly laughed at her reaction.

Suddenly the doors to the citadel swung open and out walked a large group of people. In front went King Elessar and Queen Arwen. Beside the King, his son Eldarion walked, obviously trying to look happy but failing. To Arwen’s side were Amdirien and Sídhil. Aderthon went beside his cousin Eldarion. Behind them walked Merry, Pippin, and a third hobbit.

Her golden hair fell in ruffling curls to her chest, and her rosy cheeks spoke of laughter. Her two children stood behind her. Elanor Gardner,eldest child of Sam Gamgee, was her name. And her children were Fíriel and Elfstan. To their side went Círeth.

Near her, a tall man with ruffled blonde hair and a woman with light brown hair walked, the woman carrying a young boy. These were Prince Elfwine, his wife, Lady Delwyn, and their three year old son Eldric. Eldarion had met her only once, four years ago, at their marriage. He had never met the child.

Behind them were three women. One was golden haired and fair faced, her beauty exceptional for Men. Elboron supposed it was Lady Alodia, the suitor sent from Rohan. Next to her was a woman, shorter, with a ruddy face and brown hair. She had dreads in her hair in some places. Elboron realized this was Cwen, the Dunlending suitor. And last but not least, a tall, dark haired and grey eyes maiden stood there. Malwen of the Northern Reunited Kingdom.

“Welcome Lady Adira, welcome Lady Malika. And Welcome Lady Nemir!” Aragorn smiled gladly at them. “Please, come inside. As you can see there are many people here today.”

Adira, still wearing her veil, felt all eyes on her and her sister. But Malika seemed unaffected. She instantly walked over to the other young girl and introduced herself.

“Hi!” She smiled. “I am Malika. Are you Sídhil?”

“I am indeed,” grinned the princess. “So. What's your favorite color?”

“Definitely red. It's the color of the desert sands at sunset.” Malika smiled to herself, thinking of her homeland.

Sídhil shrugged. “I've never seen a desert. What's it like?”

As the young girls talked, small groups began to form inside the gigantic throne room. Eldarion and Aderthon found Elboron. Círeth sought out Fëalas. Nemir joined Malwen, Cwen, and Alodia. King Elessar stood with his wife, Amdirien, and the hobbits, while Elfwine left his wife with the King and soon found the other three companions from the Northern Fellowship. Alphros found them too.

But Adira stood alone. As she stood there, wondering what to do, a woman came up to her. So beautiful was she that Adira wondered if she was an elf.

“Welcome, Lady Adira,” the woman bowed to her. “I am Arwen.”

“Queen Arwen,” bowed Adira, surprised. “You do me great honor by addressing me!”

Arwen chuckled. “Come, join me and my husband.”

Adira nodded and followed her to the small group. She saw the hobbits and looked at them in confusion. “A saghir ?” She spoke the last word in her own language, unsure of the Westron word for the small people.

“Hobbit, if you please,” Pippin smiled. “It's what we call ourselves.”

“Hobbit,” she spoke it aloud. “Nice name.”

“Lady Adira, these are my good friends and former companions Meriadoc Brandybuck, or Merry, and Peregrin Took, also known as Pippin.” Aragorn gestured to each hobbit in  turn. “Here too is Elanor Gardner, her son Elfstan, and daughter Fíriel. They also are dear to me.”

Adira bowed to each of them. She then turned to Delwyn. The woman was tall and slight of build. Her blonde hair was neatly braided in a special style down her back and at her foot stood little Eldric.

“I am Delwyn, wife of Prince Elfwine of Rohan,” she smiled, shaking hands with Adira. “This is our son Eldric.”

“A pleasure,” Adira nodded.

“Finally, this is my daughter Amdirien.” Aragorn gestured to a talk, regal woman who looked very much like her mother. “She is a credit to her family.”

Amdirien chuckled and bowed to Adira. “He gives me too much praise because he is my father. Welcome, Lady Adira.”

“Now where did Sídhil go?” Arwen muttered aloud, looking around and not finding her youngest daughter.

Adira sighed. “I am afraid Malika will only be a bad influence on your daughter, my Lady.”

Aragorn laughed merrily. “Something tells me they will be bad influences on each other.”

On the other side of the throne room, near a door to a side hallway, Aderthon stood with Eldarion, Elboron, Elfwine, and Alphros. The grown men weren't paying too much attention to the teenager, but he was just happy to be there.

“How was Harad?” Aderthon asked Elboron.

He shrugged. “Hot. Dry. But the people are pleasant. Adira is quite a woman.”

“Careful Lothuial doesn't hear you say that,” laughed Eldarion.

Elboron immediately perked up. “How is she?”

“She's doing well. Resting upstairs at the moment. She was going to be down here but she grew tired and went to sleep.” Eldarion explained her absence calmly. But suddenly he grew grave. “However there is bad news.”

“What do you mean?” Immediately he looked worried. Had she gotten sick? Was the baby alright?

“It's your brother,” revealed Aderthon slowly. “We believe he’s dead.”

Chapter Text

"Alphros," Aderthon ordered. "Go, tell King Elessar that we are speaking of Barahir."

Ducking inside the side hallway they stood near, Eldarion locked the door behind the group from the Northern Fellowship so that the boy would not be able to follow. Elboron was in shock, and eager for answers but he bided his time and bit his tongue. Elfwine briefly laid a hand on his shoulder as they walked. Fëalas didn't know what was going on any more than Elboron. She began to bug Círeth for answers until at last they stepped inside a small meeting room. All sat.

"Here's what we know," Eldarion began with a sigh. "Nearly three months ago Círeth came to Minas Tirith bearing news that Barahir had gone missing and his rangers had been found dead."

"I found them on the border with Rhûn. Ambushed," Círeth added quickly.

Eldarion nodded at her. "My father sent her back to investigate."

Círeth slinked through the forest like a cat. Silent, eyes open, and ready to attack. She was accompanied by ten rangers. Just as silent as her, they were a deadly force in the Reunited Kingdom. Círeth was respected as their captain because she tolerated no nonsense. One didn't mess with this daughter of Elrohir.

The site of the ambush was nearby. It was twilight, with long shadows cast by the few trees and many shrubs. The grass beneath their boots was growing darker by the minute until it almost appeared black rather than green. The sky was painted purple and red and navy blue. As they grew closer, night deepened. But still there was enough light to see.

Círeth held up a hand to silence them. The forests around the Sea of Rhûn was right in front of them. The border. And there was the site of the massacre.

But someone was already there: two figures dressed all in black, hooded and veiled, examining the ground. Barely visible among the dancing tree shadows, Círeth watched them curiously. These were no soldiers of Rhûn she was familiar with. Círeth motioned for two of her men to draw their bows. She stood.

Instantly the two black figures shot up and stared at her. They drew daggers and took up defensive postures. One of them tossed a dagger at the ground not far in front of Círeth. Together they ran off into the trees.

It was very odd. She stopped and picked up the dagger. On its hilt was carved the silhouette of an eagle's head. She pocketed it to show her King. They found little else of interest that they hadn't found before at the spot of the ambush, and due to the run in with the mystery figures, she didn't particularly feel it necessary, or wise, to travel deeper into Rhûn's wilderness.

"Have Aragorn and the loremasters been able to identify the markings?" Elfwine asked.

Elboron shook his head. "More importantly, what are we going to do about my brother?"

With a sigh, Eldarion leaned back in his against his chair. "We wanted to wait for your return before making a decision. It's been over three months, Elboron."

"The odds that he's still alive are very small," Aderthon murmured, averting his eyes.

Elboron felt his face growing red. This was his brother they were talking about, and no amount of logic would stop his rage. He turned to Círeth in anger "Why did you send him towards Rhûn?!"

"He wanted the job," Círeth sneered. "I wouldn't have sent him had I thought it more unsafe than anything else!"

"Rhûn is dangerous all the time!" Elboron snapped back, standing out of his chair.

Aderthon stood and tried to separate his friend from his now-standing sister. "Now, friends…"

Círeth gritted her teeth and slammed her hand on the table. "Of course it's dangerous! Everything we do is dangerous. I send men out there, every day, to risk their lives for this nation. Barahir is even more capable than most these!"

Elboron felt his face burning. He hadn't meant to belittle the work the rangers did each day. But he would not back down. As he opened his mouth to say something, Eldarion finally put his foot down.

"Both of you! Stop it." Eldarion put his head in his hands as he spoke firmly.

Elfwine and Fëalas exchanged glances as Círeth and Elboron sat back down. Fëalas placed a hand on her twin sister's arm to calm her down.

"Elboron, go take some time for yourself." Eldarion walked over to him a placed a hand on his shoulder. "Find your wife."

Elboron hesitated, biting his tongue for a moment. Finally he stood and nodded at Eldarion before leaving the room. As he left the room, Eldarion remained standing, placing his hand on his forehead with a sigh.

"Peace, Eldarion." Elfwine frowned watching his friend. "There is no easy answer to this. You said and did what was best. Let him process this information."

Eldarion found a smile creep onto his face as he faced away from the group. He turned around and faced Elfwine. "What happened to the sixteen year old boy we traveled with to Arnor?"

"It's been eighteen years, Eldarion," Elfwine laughed. "I grew up."

Eldarion replied quietly. "Your sister would be proud."

The prince of Rohan gave a single, curt nod and swallowed hard before responding. "As would yours."

Eldarion nodded at him, face betraying the complex emotions he felt inside remembering the journey all assembled here had taken part in. They had lost much. They had lost family members, they had lost friends. Now it was happening again.

"What was gleaned from the dagger, Eldarion?" Fëalas asked curiously after a few moments of solemn silence for those they'd lost.

"My father says that there is too much diplomatic pandering among the loremasters." Eldarion sighed. "Aderthon and I have been busy keeping the four suitors happy."

"What about you?" Elfwine asked Círeth.

She glared at the table. "The loremasters are no friends of mine. That's the job of a diplomat, not a ranger."

Elfwine nodded. He supposed she was right. "Then Amdirien?"

"Busy with the hobbits and the Council," Aderthon groaned out.

Fëalas grimaced. "Then I guess it's up to Elboron."

Chapter Text

That night, a meeting was held. It was dark out, and the inside of the Citadel wasn't much brighter. Inside a single room, four women sat with a few candles as light sources. Four of the suitors had something to discuss.

"This may be more difficult than we anticipated," murmured Alodia, twirling her blonde hair in thought.

Nemir agreed with her. "I can see already he has no interest in marriage yet."

Malwen sighed. "Yet we cannot fail."

"I will not give Halion the satisfaction of conquering the Reunited Kingdom." Cwen spat out angrily. "If he has managed the ritual."

The women were well acquainted. Each powerful members of their own societies, as children they had been brought up with the promise of even more power if they listened to their benefactor. They were members of an organization called simply The Council. At present, the Council's aim was not to topple the Reunited Kingdom's regime, but to steer it towards their own agendas.

Halion Carnimendo had once been called a Council member. Then he had failed in his mission to overtake the north, and secure a Fëanorian. With the death of his lover Tinneth, Elrohir's fourth child, the Fëanorians slipped through their grasp. He fled after being expelled from the Council.

Their Benefactor sent in the four most beautiful of the women in the Council. Alodia of Rohan, maiden fair. Cwen of Dunland, warrior fierce. Malwen of Annuminas, skilled tactician. Nemir of Dol Amroth, seductress of the highest order. What they hadn't counted on was Adira of Harad.

She slept soundly in the comfortable bed of the Citadel. Adira had gone to bed early, eager to get a good night's sleep. Her belly was full of warm food and her body exhausted from the multi-month journey she had taken.

"Psst."

Adira opened her eyes.

"Psst!"

She rolled over and found herself looking at Malika in the doorway. With an eyeroll, she rolled away from her baby sister and back towards the wall.

"Oh come on Adira!" Malika growled. "You should see this place at night."

Adira sighed and sat up. She looked around her room and saw a match beside her. She lit the candle on her bedside table. Turning the her sister she finally spoke. "Come here."

Malika bounced over to her and clambered up onto the bed. "Seriously. This place is massive! You've got to see it."

"Malika," Adira sighed. "I am here to win the Prince's hand. I cannot be caught running around the citadel. And neither can you."

Malika folded her arms. "Come off it. Sídhil said it would be fine."

"Malika! We've not even been here a day yet," Adira whispered in exasperation. "If you want to explore, fine. But I am stayinghere."

With a pout, Malika got off the bed. "Fine. I should've known you'd turn boring as soon as we arrived." She shut the door behind her, leaving her sister to go back to sleep.

Sídhil was waiting outside the door. "Didn't go well?"

Malika shook her head. "No. That's okay. She can be boring if she wants."

Together the two tween girls ran off to explore. Sídhil knew a secret back way out of the citadel guarded by but one soldier. He was easy enough to distract when there were two of them. And so they were out into the Uppermost level.

"We should go see the White Tree," Sídhil suggested.

Together they walked, Malika in her red dress and Sídhil in her grey one, down the main row of guards. All of them shot suspicious glances at the girls, but none objected. As long as the girls stayed in the upper level, they would be safe.

"What's the White Tree?" Malika asked her new friend.

"Well, father has told me many stories about it." Sídhil told her. "He found it over fifty years ago, right before he was crowned king. It means he's worthy to be King."

Malika thought this extremely silly. "Why?"

"Well, you see, many thousands of years ago, there was an Island. On the Island, called Numenor, was a White Tree given to them by the Valar."

"Valar?" Malika scrunched her nose. "What are they?"

Sídhil's shocked expression made Malika feel stupid. "The Valar are the ones who created the world of Arda. What do you call the creators?"

"We call them the Valiha." Malika pronounced the word in Southron for Sídhil.

"Well, Valar is the elvish word for them." Sídhil explained this as they came close to the flowering White Tree. "On Numenor, there were white trees like this one given by the Valar to them. One seed survived when Numenor was destroyed."

"This seed?" Malika asked in awe, looking up at the white branches, behind which the large moon floated, crowned with stars.

"Not this one," Sídhil shook her head. "This seed came from the old seed."

Malika went to place her hand on the bark of the tree when she noticed Sídhil shake her head. She drew back.

"You do not touch it, then?" asked the Haradrim girl.

Sídhil shrugged. "I've never seen anyone touch it."

Malika considered this. All the reverence for a tree confused her, even if it was a special tree. It wasn't a person. But she supposed her own culture likely looked odd to the men of the North, so she respected their tradition.

"Let's go look out over the Pelennor!" Sídhil suggested eagerly, grabbing Malika's hand and drawing her towards the edge far in front of them. Finally reaching the edge, Malika stood on her tiptoes to look out over the land.

"This would be easier in daylight," Sídhil sighed. "But moonlight will have to do. Over there, straight ahead, that's Osgiliath. It's been recently rebuilt to it's height again. Beyond that over the river and to the right is Emyn Arnen."

"Who lives there? Is that where elves live?" Malika wondered where the fair folk were.

"No. Emyn Arnen is where Prince Faramir and Lady Eowyn live, though the lady is sick right now." Sídhil's face fell visibly at that. "The elves live even further into Ithilien, at Amon Loth. My cousin Aderthon might take me there soon, he said. He and my brother want me to finally meet Lord Legolas."

Malika didn't recognize the name. "Legolas?"

"Only the greatest elven fighter of the War of the Ring!" Sídhil's mouth parted in shock. "He killed a Mumakil all on his own."

"Mumakil are hard to kill," Malika shrugged. "But harder to tame."

With a shrug, Sídhil continued. "Anyways, my father wishes for an ambassador from Amon Loth to live here in Minas Tirith. Aderthon is being sent to ask Legolas for one."

The girls grew tired, and soon decided to head inside as the moon went low. The stars, dancing in the blanket of darkness, grew paler. They walked back until they were almost to the main door when suddenly they heard a noise.

"Meow."

They turned and saw a beautiful white cat strolling alongside the wall. Sídhil smiled, but Malika looked suspicious.

"Look how cute!" Sídhil cried, approaching it.

But Malika warned her. "In my culture, cats are considered cursed. For once a Queen of Umbar taught them how to spy."

Sídhil rolled her eyes. "Oh come. That's silly."

"Maybe." Malika shrugged. "But let's get inside. It's time to sleep, anyhow."

Chapter Text

Eldarion woke with a start. He found his sister Sídhil at his door which confused him since it was still dark out, though the moon was low. He looked back at the young girl.

"Father needs you, immediately." Sídhil's face contorted in sad confusion. "Says there's a visitor."

"Go wake Aderthon," Eldarion nodded groggily.

Sídhil chuckled lightly. "Already on my way." She left her big brother to dress. She was glad he hadn't asked why she was awake.

Slipping on a nice shirt and strapping on his sword, Eldarion struggled only with finding his shoes. At last he located them and slipped them on quickly.

When he reached the throne room of the citadel, he found Aragorn there with several guards and two Easterling soldiers. He looked troubled but his face lightened up seeing his son.

"Aderthon's coming," Eldarion told his father, watching the Easterlings with hesitant curiosity and mild distrust.

As he finished saying this, the man himself appeared behind them in a hurry. He wore Galmegil, the famed sword of his mother, at his side. "Sorry. Sídhil just found me."

"If we are all here," spoke one of the Easterlings in the common tongue, his accent thick, "then we should be going. Best not keep my Lady waiting."

Aragorn nodded and together with his son and nephew, followed by five guards, followed the Easterling soldiers through the city gates one by one until they came to the main gate. With a nod at the gatekeepers, the huge iron and mithril doors were swung open. What they saw amazed them.

A woman with long black hair, longer than any Aderthon had ever seen, stood next to a cart. The cart contained two bodies. He and Eldarion recognized both.

"Ai!" Aderthon gave a cry, not able to contain himself. For one body was Barahir's, and the other, Halion's.

"Before you do anything rash, son of Elrohir, listen to my tale." The woman held up her hand as she noted he gripped the hilt of Galmegil.

Aragorn glared at her. "Speak, woman. For you bear ill news to us."

"I am Tar-Mëonis, new Queen of Rhûn. I overthrew Halion, my former master, less than three months ago." Berúthiel began her made up tale. "It was too late for your poor friend however. The bastard Halion had already murdered him. I killed Halion to prove that all I wish is peace."

"How do you we know your tale is true," Eldarion bit back.

"Why else would I risk my life by bringing you both bodies?" She gestured to them. "I did not take an army with me, as I could have had I wanted war. Instead I brought only good will."

Aragorn looked long and hard at the woman before him, as she stood there clothed in a pale pink dress and a black crown. He knew something was wrong. He did not believe her story one bit, but he knew also that the southern Reunited Kingdom did not have the forces to combat Rhûn if this was indeed their new Queen. It was only fourteen years since they had lost a significant amount of forces in the Battle for Arnor. The army was still being rebuilt.

"We accept your peace offering, Tar-Mëonis," Aragorn began slowly. "Perhaps this will be a new era of peace between our peoples."

Eldarion and Aderthon look at their king incredulously. Both also figured her story was fabricated. Yet they bit their tongues. They knew their places.

Berúthiel nodded with a small smile. "Perhaps." She bowed her head slightly.

"You are welcome to stay the night, if you so wish it?" Aragorn offered. "We would be honored to host the Queen of Rhûn."

Berúthiel considered this. She looked between the men before her and the gates behind them. "Very well. I accept. Thank you, King Elessar."

Aragorn took her hand and led her through the gates before dropping it. It was an awkward walk for the son and nephew of the King, as they were sure it was for Aragorn himself. Aderthon looked closely at this "Tar-Mëonis" and noted the odd necklace she wore. It was the shape of a cat sitting straight up, and it had a catseye for the head. On her hand also was a ring, one of intertwined serpents. It reminded him a bit of the Ring of Barahir.

The sun was rising by the time they escorted Tar-Mëonis up to the citadel. Queen Arwen and Lady Amdirien were there having breakfast with the five suitors. All stood upon the King's entry.

"This is the throne room of Minas Tirith," he motioned to her. "And here we have my wonderful wife, Queen Arwen, and my eldest daughter, Lady Amdirien."

Berúthiel looked them over with fake care, in fact rather unimpressed as it were. Especially with the other women at the table. For Halion had told her stories of The Council and their seductresses. Here indeed were four at least.

"These are our guests," Arwen smiled upon being introduced to "Tar-Mëonis". "Lady Cwen of Dunland, Lady Alodia of Rohan, Ladies Morwen and Nemir of our own Kingdom, and Lady Adira of Harad."

"A pleasure, truly," smirked Berúthiel.

She didn't need any man to show her around the Throne room. She had sat upon this throne, and she would again. Her memories from her previous life were perfectly in tact, especially those of her days fiddling with her engagement ring.

Tarannon, her husband to be and hated enemy, wandered away at last from the loveless conversation they had been sharing in her bedroom. While Berúthiel planned to live not in Minas Tirith, but in Osgiliath, she was well acquainted with this White City.

Tarannon had gifted her the ring not long ago, in token of his intention to join their houses. As a member of the Black Numenoreans, as Gondor called them, she was often mistrusted and looked down upon by the people of Minas Tirith.

They aren't wrong to be the first, she often thought.

Tarannon, the fool that he was, has given her a beautiful ring from a horde of the First Age. Berúthiel still wasn't sure how he had gotten a Ring of Power, but she was sure he didn't know it was a Ring of Power. Especially one like it was. Somehow, this ring's power had been cleansed of an evil influence, but the original intent still remained if one knew the proper rituals and incantations.

Fortunately, she did. Black magic was her purview after all. All it was going to take was a little blood, a sacrifice, and some words of power. Then, she would become bound to the Ring, never able to be killed as long as she wore it.

And so that is exactly what she did.

The glares Berúthiel received from four of the suitors did not escape her as she greeted each of them in turn. Oh yes, they knew who she was. They knew, and they were afraid.

Chapter Text

There were many tears shed that day. Aragorn, as King and friend, immediately sent a messenger to retrieve Faramir and Eowyn in Ithilien. The message was simple: Barahir, their son, had been found dead in Rhûn. With his body recovered, he was to be given a full send off.

His second job was much harder, for the time being. For Elboron had to be told as well.

"Eldarion," Aragorn nodded to his son as the two of them looked out over the Pelennor, the morning fully alive and well into day. "Find Elboron."

Eldarion saw the pain in his father's eyes. Aragorn felt the loss heavily, as he knew not whether to hold Tar-Mëonis responsible and risk open war with Rhûn, or accept the probable lie that Halion was the sole reason for Barahir's death. He turned to go find his friend, his own heart troubled.

He had traveled and fought beside the younger son of Faramir many years before, and he knew his cousin Círeth had been even closer with him. The two had worked together in recent years. But Elboron, Elboron was his brother. That bond was completely different.

Rapping on the front door of Elboron and Lothuial's house, it was his wife that came to the door. Her belly bulged from her pregnancy, but she smiled happily back. He did not return the greeting.

"You received news, didn't you?" The beautiful dark haired woman sighed. She placed a hand on her abdomen. "Barahir?"

"Ever as observant as your husband." Eldarion felt tears stinging his eyes, but tried to stay strong as he nodded. "Is Elboron home?"

"Upstairs." Lothuial took Eldarion's hand for a moment and gave it a squeeze. "I'll fetch him. Come inside."

Eldarion found himself reluctant to do so. Lothuial, insisting, all but pulled the prince into their living room. He sat on a couch that faced an outward window. The woman disappeared up the stairs, taking each one at a time as she struggled under the weight of the unborn child. The prince hard muffled voices upstairs before Elboron slowly came down, helping his wife. His face was as pale as the blossoming White Tree.

"What news, Eldarion?" He demanded this as soon as he saw Lothuial safely down the staircase.

Eldarion stood and walked over to them. "Your brother's body has been recovered." He tried to stay strong as he watched Elboron's heart shatter like broken glass.

"Let me see him," was all Elboron said as Lothuial held his arm. His voice cracked.

His wife, too, was deeply troubled. For since their marriage, Barahir had ever joked with her, and befriended Lothuial first before all others. For though she wasn't of the commoners, she was not royalty like the others. Now, of course, Eldarion and Aderthon were her companions, but not like Barahir.

When the three reached the Circle of the White Tree, they found Barahir's body on a pyre, dressed in finest robes. He looked peaceful, and instantly Elboron grew furious with the fire his mother always had.

"How?" He looked at Aragorn in anger.

A woman answered, appearing seemingly out of nowhere from behind some Easterling guards he had not noticed. "My predecessor, Halion, took his life." She walked gently over to him, her shining, wavy, raven black hair tossed in the wind.

"Leave us be, Tar-Mëonis, we beg you," Eldarion sighed. "Let us mourn our dead in peace."

She stiffened but nodded. "As you wish, Prince. We must prepare for our journey anyway." Turning to Elboron she dipped her head. "My condolences." With a quick turn, she and her Easterlings left the Circle of the White Tree and walked back inside the citadel.

Elboron was confused. Once she was out of earshot, he turned to Aragorn. "Who is she?"

Aragorn grimaced. "That is the Queen of Rhûn. She brought the bodies of your brother and Halion."

"So he is dead then?" Lothuial asked hopefully. She had heard stories of the menacing Red Hand.

"Indeed, very dead." Aragorn looked at Elboron. "I know you have questions, and all will be answered. But let us do this dark deed and then speak in private."

Elboron agreed wholeheartedly. As he was about to say something, they all turned to see his a set of horsemen riding up into the Circle. An old woman was helped down from the one, and an old man from another.

"Mother, father," Elboron cried out, suddenly turning into a little boy again.

Eowyn looked cold. Her eyes were hard, her face sickly. The news that the Lady of Ithilien had fallen ill had not prepared Eldarion for the sight that she was. Still, nothing was going to prevent Eowyn of Rohan from seeing her dead son one last time. She embraced Elboron and he noted how frail she felt.

"He is dead then," Faramir said, sadness written on his face as he and Elboron guided Eowyn forward towards the pyre.

Aragorn nearly cried as he saw Eowyn. She had refused visitors since her illness, seeing none but her immediate family. Éomer had visited once, and that was how he knew things were dire. For indeed, the Lady of Ithilien was dying.

Suddenly Aderthon appeared beside Eldarion, and Arwen came out to meet the visitors. Círeth and Fëalas too. As everyone settled for the ceremony, after some time of allowing the family members of Barahir to grieve, Aragorn spoke. His voice was solemn.

"I feel I do this far too often." The King straightened up. "Yet friends, here we are once more, grieving for the loss of one of our own."

Eldarion watched Elboron's pale face. Lothuial was the only thing keeping him grounded, this was obvious. He turned back to his father.

"We stand here today in honor of Barahir, son of Faramir. He gave his life in service of the Reunited Kingdom." Aragorn felt tears on his cheeks. "It is not something I take lightly."

The King took a torch from a servant. He whispered something only a few closest to him caught. "Forgive me."

Slowly he lit the pyre that stood in the Circle. All the guards around them straightened up even further. Círeth, Fëalas, Eldarion, and Aderthon, the four present currently in military service to the Reunited Kingdom, saluted their fallen brother with their swords.

"Farewell," Elboron whispered as he watched the flames engulf his only brother.

He wished Finduilas, his sister, could've been there. But she had, long ago, left the Reunited Kingdom and gone into service for Éomer of Rohan, her uncle, with Aragorn's blessing. There she had mentored Elfwine, and now helped care for their youngest.

Elboron looked up, and noticed his cousin Elfwine had come as well. The man's face was dark, no doubt remembering days past and the death of his sister Edeva in Arnor. Elboron was not surprised he had made himself hard to find.

Aragorn dismissed them once the body had burned fully. Elboron went to go with his family, but suddenly Lothuial shouted in pain.

"Ai!" she fell to her knees but Elboron caught her.

"What is wrong?" Elboron asked her with care. "My love?"

Lothuial looked frightened. "The baby! I think it is coming!"

Elboron looked more scared than Eldarion and Aderthon ever had known him to be. Together they helped the couple to the Houses of Healing.

Chapter Text

The cries of new life brought Aderthon to tears as he and Eldarion and Elfwine slowly entered the room in the Houses of Healing. Two hours ago, Lothuial had birthed a son. He was born with a head of dark hair, and eyes as blue as the ocean.

"He's cute," Aderthon sniffled. "Just like his mum."

Lothuial laughed and cried simultaneously. Elboron, ever present beside his wife, smiled at the half-elf's joke.

Eldarion stepped up to the bed. "Have you chosen a name yet?"

Lothuial looked at Elboron and he nodded. She turned back to the three guests. "Barahir."

"A fitting name," Elfwine nodded softly.

The three men left the couple and their son in peace soon after. Aragorn sent for Aderthon, and the three went back to the Citadel. The weather was still nice, despite the fast approaching darkness of evening. As Aderthon hurried to his King, he couldn't take his mind off the baby. Baby Barahir was quite possibly the most wonderful thing he'd ever seen.

"Aderthon," Aragorn said with a nod as the half elf entered the meeting room. "I have a job for you."

The man nodded immediately. "Name it."

"It is time one of Legolas' folk had a permanent presence here in Minas Tirith. I have liaisons with Rohan and Dunland here already, and now Merry and Pippin have decided to stay." Aragorn walked around the large table to where Aderthon stood. "I need you to go and ask Lord Legolas."

"Of course." He bowed his head. "What of the dwarves? Are they to have emissaries here as well?"

Aragorn nodded with a sigh. "I was going to send Elboron. I must now decide who will go, or else wait a while."

"When would you like me to start?" The younger man was eager to set off.

But Aragorn told him patience. "Tomorrow morning. For now, I have called the others for a meeting."

As he finished speaking, Eldarion, Amdirien, Arwen, Círeth and Fëalas entered the room. Eldarion led them, having fetched them for Aragorn. They all took their seats at the round table.

"I am concerned," Aragorn began, "as I'm sure you all are as well, about the new Queen of Rhûn."

Círeth snorted. "Concerned is an understatement, my lord."

Aragorn nodded, admitting her comment to be true. "Her name should be enough for concern. Why would a queen of Rhûn choose a Quenya name?"

This indeed had been the cause for concern for Aderthon and Eldarion as well. "Cat Queen" was a rough translation for the Quenya name "Tar-Mëonis." None had a clue as to what this entailed.

Eldarion spoke up. "Cat-Queen is an odd, and specific, name."

"Names aside," Aderthon shook his head. "What do you think her purpose is?"

"I am not sure," Aragorn admitted this quietly. He looked around. "The preservation of Barahir's body after at least a month dead was worrying as well."

"I'm glad I was not the only to notice this," Círeth agreed with him. "Barahir and Halion looked as though they'd died the day before."

"Perhaps they did," Fëalas pointed out. "The queen could've had them executed on the way here. What is the alternative?"

Everyone was silent. Arwen made eye contact with Aragorn, and Eldarion with Aderthon. Círeth looked down at the table, while Amdirien finally looked up.

"Black magic," Amdirien said quietly. "Correct?"

Aragorn nodded to his eldest daughter. "That is the only other explanation."

The room fell absolutely silent. Nothing stirred in the meeting room as each thought about the revelation.

"Meow."

The entire room looked up. Outside the door they heard scratching and purring.

"That must be Sídhil's new cat," Arwen chuckled. "She named her Snow."

Arwen got up and opened the door. A bright white kitty waltzed inside and jumped on Aderthon's lap. He was unsure of what to do; he'd never had a cat before.

"Ironic," Círeth chuckled. "And look, it likes you, Aderthon!"

"That's a first," joked Eldarion.

Aragorn smiled and shook his head. "Back to the matter at hand. There are two options here, neither good. If she recently killed Barahir, she's a murderer and a liar. If the queen didn't, then she practices black magic, which is worse."

"We should send men after her. Kill her now," Aderthon growled angrily as he pet the cat.

"And risk open war with a nation that had been building its army for fifty years, untested?" Amdirien shook her head. "We should at least try diplomacy first."

"With someone who is a sorceress?" Aderthon was incredulous.

"We don't know that for sure," Eldarion reminded him. He turned to the others. "But I agree, diplomacy will not work."

"I must think on this." Aragorn sighed and shook his head. "Whatever the answer, I fear it will be a poor choice."

They contemplated this last statement for a few moments before Aragorn dismissed them forlornly. Aderthon set the cat down at his feet and walked out. It chose to follow Eldarion this time around.

As he left the citadel, the sun was setting in the West. He frowned to himself, walking slowly down the few steps to the courtyard. The White Tree was before him, and he cocked his head to the side. Nearly fifteen years of peace had passed since the Battle for Arnor, since he had been forced to kill his sister Tinneth. He still missed her. Her favorite color, red, was all over the sky at sunset like paint that had been spilled.

"You seem sad," came a voice from behind him.

He turned in surprise to see Alodia of Rohan coming towards him. He hadn't expected to see her there.

Her face was solemn. "It is to be expected, I suppose. What with the death of Lord Barahir."

Aderthon felt tears threatening to spill forth. He nodded and turned away, back to looking at the White Tree. "He was a good friend."

"Will you avenge him?" Alodia gracefully moved towards him, placing her hand gently on his arm.

"This remains to be seen." His face grew dark as he thought about it. He wanted nothing more than to kill the woman who had probably murdered his friend. "It is up to King Elessar."

Alodia circled to his front. "Surely you have some say in the matter?"

The Suitors had decided it time to make a move. They could not allow Berúthiel to take control. They had to convince the King to send troops to destroy her.

"Of course." He sighed. "The King values my opinion. I have been in this fight for a while now, not as long as he of course, but long enough."

"This fight?" She wondered how much the royal family had figured out. "You think it connected to Arnor?"

"Halion was involved after all. That wretch." Aderthon clenched his fists.

Alodia leaned forward "How so? What could that mean?"

Aderthon paused and then laughed. "It means, I've said too much. I must sleep, for tomorrow I must ride."

Alodia smiled sweetly. "Sleep well, my lord."

Aderthon smiled back and bowed as he walked away. Finally turning his back to her, he walked down to the next level where his house was. At present, Merry and Pippin were living there too. His mother had wished it, once the two elderly hobbits moved to Minas Tirith. He didn't mind the company either, as the large house became lonely on his own.

As he went inside and closed the door behind himself, he wasn't surprised to find Merry and Pippin at the dining room table eating. The sun was well below the horizon and the moon rising.

"You're home late," Pippin said in surprise. "What did Aragorn need of you."

"We were discussing the new Queen of Rhûn," Aderthon explained with a heavy heart as he sat down at the end of the table.

Merry passed him some food. "I don't like it. She seems… unnatural."

"Well, she's either a murderer or a sorceress. I'm not sure which I'd rather have," Aderthon admitted as he bit into a roll.

"Chew with your mouth closed," Merry frowned.

"Fine, grandpa," Aderthon teased.

Merry rolled his eyes. "Was that aimed at my grey hair? Because that would be low, even for you."

The half-elf didn't answer as he stood from the table, already finished eating. He bid them goodnight, explaining he would be riding to Amon Loth the next morning.

"Tell Legolas he should come and visit us," Pippin insisted. "We haven't seen him in many a long year."

Aderthon agreed to do just that and opened the door to his parents' former bedroom. He lay Galmegil on the dresser across from his bed and changed into a pair of more comfortable pants. Slipping between his sheets, he dreamed of happy days.

Chapter Text

The sun was shining brightly through his window when he awoke the next morning. Aderthon stretched as he stood, slipping on a simple shirt over his bare chest so he could eat breakfast with the hobbits before getting ready. He could already hear them mucking about in the kitchen.

"Smells good!" He smiled as he left his bedroom and found Merry and Pippin hard at work.

"Kettle's already hot, sausage and eggs are cooking." Merry bustled about, his grey hair bouncing as he spun.

Aderthon grinned. "I'll make us some tea, then"

"Sounds good to me," Pippin nodded happily as he set out plates, forks, and knives.

As Aderthon made the tea, he also began humming a little tune his mother used to sing. Merry and Pippin stopped what they were doing and looked at him.

"We taught her that one, you know," Pippin told him. "The one about the man in the moon?"

Aderthon raised his head from his intense water pouring to look at them. "I never knew that."

Merry nodded. "It's an old hobbit tune. It's heard all over the Shire and Bree. Good pub song." He set out poppy seed cakes as Pippin took over at the stove.

"Alright!" Pippin grinned widely, "who wants to eat!"

They ate together merrily, laughing and talking about their experiences with Míril and Elrohir. Of the hobbits, Merry and Pippin had been closest to the descendent of Fëanor, and later her husband. Aderthon, for his part, loved hearing the tales of his parents from the War of the Ring. Often he would all but beg the hobbits for more stories.

But as time went on and breakfast was finished, Aderthon stood and thanked them. He went to help clean up, but the hobbits stopped him.

"The least we can do for you is clean up breakfast." Merry laughed. "You're already sharing your house and time."

Aderthon thanked them and went back into his room to change. He strapped on his leather armor, black with red cloth accents. On his back he swung his cape, scarlet with the White Tree. The difference between his own and the others was the color; Aragorn had given it to him in commemoration of his heritage as being of the House of Fëanor. Last of all he attached Galmegil to his side, slipping it into its black and mithril inlaid scabbard.

"I'll be back in a few days," Aderthon reminded the hobbits as he walked through the kitchen. "Don't burn my house down."

They laughed and waved goodbye as he trotted out into the streets. The stables for the royalty was nearby, and soon he was leaping upon his grey stallion. Histo, Dusk, was his name. A powerful, medium weight horse built like a champion, Histo loved to adventure. Aderthon felt bad he could not show the horse more than Minas Tirith to Dol Amroth.

With his shining red cape flowing behind him, Aderthon started off down the streets through the stronghold. He would his way through the small crowds, smiling at children as they looked upon the royal half-elf in awe. Soon enough, however, he was clear and began down the road that led to Amon Loth.

Even alternating a walk and a gallop, Aderthon spent many hours on the road. The sun was setting by the time he reached the outskirts of the elven settlement. Two guards stood there, eyes blue and hair blonde like most Silvan elves.

"Greetings, friends!" Aderthon smiled and dismounted Histo. "I am Aderthon, of the House of Fëanoriel. I am on a mission from King Elessar and must speak to Lord Legolas."

"Straight through. His house is in the circle. Ask for directions if you cannot find it." The guard on the left pointed him in.

Aderthon bowed and thanked them. A huge hill, covered in wild flowers, sloped upwards. At the top was a pavilion. Houses were spread all along the base, reaching as far as Aderthon could see. He had been to Amon Loth a few times before, but never as deep inside as he would be going now.

There were many elves wandering about, and some cast him curious glances. Aderthon bowed his head and smiled whenever he made eye contact. Leading Histo forward, he followed a small pebbled path deeper into the settlement. Lamps lined the pathway, and small gardens dotted the land to either side around the houses.

At last he came to a circle of houses, and at the far side was one larger than the rest, slightly set apart. Aderthon also found a small stable. He left Histo in there.

He wandered slowly up to the door of the house. Hesitating slightly, he finally gave two quick knocks. Soon enough, the blonde elf lord came to the door.

"Aderthon!" Legolas looked at him in surprise. "My friend, come inside. Please!"

Aderthon smiled. "Thank you, lord." He followed Legolas inside and took a seat on a comfortable couch.

"Now tell me, what brings you to Amon Loth? It has been many years since your last visit." Legolas brought out a tray of small seed cakes and began boiling water.

"Aragorn sent me," Aderthon admitted. "He requests that you dispatch someone to act as an emissary in Minas Tirith."

Legolas nodded. "Ah, yes. He sent me a letter a few weeks ago about this. I've been giving it thought."

"And?" Aderthon took a sip of herbal tea Legolas handed him.

"I agree. I just couldn't decide the correct person for the job right away. But I think I have someone in mind now." Legolas chuckled as Aderthon yawned. "But come, it is time you sleep. You rode all day, get some rest."

Aderthon laughed. "Only a fool would say no to that invitation."

Legolas led Aderthon out of his house and into the circle. Beside Legolas' own were four guest house, one bedroom room each, with his in the middle. He took Aderthon to the closest in the left.

"Sleep well, my friend," Legolas bowed to him. "I will come get you in the morning."

Chapter Text

When Legolas retrieved him in the morning, he was smiling widely. "Come, Aderthon. Breakfast awaits!"

Aderthon hurried after the elf lord. His stomach growled harshly. His small dinner the night before had worn off and all he wanted was food. Legolas led him down a different path than the night before and they came to several flower patches. In the patches, a maiden was tending to the buds and blossoms.

Aderthon was amazed by her grace. She flew like a butterfly from flower patch to flower patch, tending to the blossoms. As she did so, she sang a song so smooth and melodious it nearly put a spell on him. Her blonde hair cascaded down her skin, past her shoulders to her chest. It shone like strings of gold. Her pale skin was flawless and her eyes sparkled like azure crystals.

With a step forward, Aderthon had only eyes for this Silvan elf maiden. Legolas, behind him, shook his head with a smile on his face. He knew Aderthon would find Amon Loth beautiful, like he had fifteen years ago, but he had not expected his friend to become so enamored so quickly of a maiden.

"What is her name?" Aderthon asked, at last taking his eyes from her and turning back to Legolas.

He smiled. "That is Nimwing, Defender of Amon Loth. She was a great warrior of Mirkwood during the War of the Ring. Even battled a Nazgûl." *

"Truly?" Aderthon watched her again with newfound appreciation. Not only was she gracefully beautiful, but she could fight, too. He could only imagine how capable a warrior she was to have survived a battle with a Nazgûl.

Suddenly the woman laughed as an elfling ran over to her and threw her arms around the maiden. Aderthon wondered who the child was.

"Nimwing," Legolas called over to her, walking past Aderthon and, approaching her, gestured behind himself to his friend. "I would like to introduce you to a good friend of mine. This is Aderthon, son of Elrohir and Míril Fëanoriel, nephew of King Elessar."

Nimwing stopped what she was doing, still holding the little girl in her arms, and flashed a kindly smile at the half elf. "I am honored, Lord Aderthon." She gave a slight bow.

"The honor is mine, my lady," he joined Legolas and bowed deeply to her. Looking at the elfling, he smiled. "And who is this?"

"This is Eregiel, daughter of my good friend Laswen." Nimwing laughed and put the little elf down as she squirmed. "She doesn't enjoy attention."

Aderthon chuckled and watched the elfling flee from the group, hiding behind a flowering tree that cast shade on the flowers beneath it.

"Would you join us for breakfast," Legolas all but insisted. "We have much to discuss."

Aderthon and Nimwing both looked at him in surpise but she nodded. "Of course, my lord."

Nimwing looked at Aderthon as they walked. He was quite attractive, and she had heard tales of his prowess in battle. He had been a hero in the Battle for Arnor, and was the son of Prince Elrohir and Lady Míril, heroes of the War of the Ring.

Legolas led them on to the large feasting hall of Amon Loth. It was small compared to other Great Halls Aderthon had seen, but he supposed Amon Loth was a similarly smaller settlement. Legolas went in front, Nimwing beside Aderthon behind the elven lord.

"You battled a Nazgûl?" Aderthon finally broke the silence with her. "Which one?"

"The Easterling." She smiled at him. "I heard later that your father vanquished him once and for all on the Battle of the Pelennor."

Aderthon drew himself up. "Indeed, Elrohir often regaled us with the tale as children."

Legolas opened the door to the feasting hall. "This is the Hall of Leaves."

It was an airy building, with many windows and lots of light. A fire roared near the far wall, and cooking pots and spits were suspended over the flames. A good many tables sat around the Hall of Leaves, and Legolas led them to one close by. The three sat down, Legolas gesturing for a young elf to bring food.

"Nimwing, Aderthon is here on a mission from King Elessar of the Reunited Kingdom." He began by addressing the elf maiden. "He requests that I select a member of Amon Loth to live in Minas Tirith as an emissary."

"And you wish it to be me, my lord?" Nimwing's eyes went wide as she realized what he was saying.

Aderthon found himself unable to keep his eyes off her own sparkling blue ones. She was perhaps the most beautiful person he'd ever seen.

Legolas nodded. "You are one of my most trusted followers, Nimwing. You served my father in the War of the Ring, fought beside him."

"I was but a foot soldier. It was Carmegil who did most of the work." She objected to his praise immediately.

Legolas chuckled. "I know, I know. Yet somehow I feel this is right for you."

Aderthon spoke up. "We would be glad to have you in Minas Tirith, my lady."

"You learned much from Carmegil," Legolas continued. "You know how to deal with the difficult, and you are well learned, more so than most of our people."

"There is no need for flattery, Lord Legolas." Nimwing smiled. "I will do as you ask."

Legolas and Aderthon both looked pleased. The half-elf for two reasons. On the one hand, he was glad to have found someone for Aragorn, but selfishly he was also glad because it was Nimwing. All he wanted was to get to know her now.

Food was brought by soon enough, and the trio spoke logistics. Aderthon also spoke to Legolas in particular about the death of Barahir, and the birth of Elboron's new son. He told them both of the looming threat from Rhûn's be Queen, and gave Legolas the hobbits' messages.

"I should visit soon," Legolas sighed. "Pay my respects to Faramir and Eowyn. Will they be staying in Minas Tirith?"

"I would assume," Aderthon nodded sadly. "The Lady is not doing well, I fear. Perhaps the Houses of Healing will help her."

Legolas nodded. "One can only hope." He turned to Nimwing. "Lady Eowyn was an honorable warrior during the War of the Ring."

"Is she not the one who vanquished the Witch King?" Nimwing nodded. "I have heard stories of her. Tis a pity that the lives of Men are so short."

"Yes it is," Legolas nodded quietly. He turned then to Aderthon. "What of the dwarves? Is Aragorn sending a messenger to them?"

Aderthon nodded slowly. "Yes and no. He intended to send Elboron like me, but then baby Barahir was born."

"A wonderful thing to keep him from his task," Legolas reminded the half-elf.

Nimwing sighed, finished with her meal at last. "I really should begin packing." She stood to leave.

"Would you like assistance?" Aderthon asked quickly, standing as well.

Nimwing smiled at him and nodded. "Why not."

Legolas laughed to himself as the two of them bid farewell and left the Hall of Leaves. He would never have foreseen this. He had already decided on Nimwing as the emissary weeks before Aderthon arrived. Of course Aderthon would fall head over heels for her.

Chapter Text

"What was the War of the Ring like?" Aderthon asked Nimwing as they strolled through Amon Loth on the way to her home.

Nimwing gave a sad smile. "It was war." She turned to face him as they walked. "It was death and evil and destruction. But it was also a time of heroism and valor."

"As Legolas mentioned of you," he grinned, pointing with his finger at her heart.

She rolled her eyes good-naturedly and chuckled. "I was a foot soldier, Aderthon."

He nodded and decided to try a new tactic. "Who was Carmegil?"

Her face brightened instantly, but a sad smile played at her lips as well. "A warrior beyond what we see in Middle Earth today. A remnant of ages past."

"Nice riddles," he smirked.

She laughed for awhile. "Nay, not riddles. Carmegil was King Oropher's Captain and greatest friend. He was a warrior of incredible prowess who fought in the War of Wrath alongside the Ainur." Nimwing closed her eyes for a moment. "He used to tell me stories. He'd describe the wondrous halls of Doriath, the great forests and the bright stars of those days. For he and Oropher had grown up in Doriath together."

Aderthon smiled to himself. "He sounds like a great and kind man."

She gave a long laugh at that. "Great? Yes. Kind? On his good days and only to his friends." She chuckled still. "He was the only one King Thranduil tolerated speaking in such a way."

Aderthon found himself enchanted by her laughter. He longed to hear it again. But for now he supposed he would be content to hear her voice. "Did he die?"

"No!" She shook her head. "After we helped the Lady Galadriel clear Dol Guldor, once Mirkwood was freed, he sailed West as he always longed to do."

"Perhaps he has met my parents, then." He gave a tiny smile.

Nimwing nodded. "Perhaps." She stopped in front of a small house with large gardens. "Here we are."

Aderthon and Nimwing entered the house. Inside it was decorated with many potted plants, flowers and succulents of all kinds. A long sword sat on her mantelpiece, and a bow of yew hung above it. The matching quiver lay against the fireplace, stocked with arrows.

"Good looking weapons," Aderthon commented appreciatively.

Nimwing ducked into a side room but she called out her response. "All of them have seen combat." When she returned it was with three large saddle packs. "Clothes are the most important, followed by my collectibles." She sighed. "I fear I cannot bring my plants."

"I'll start on your collection," Aderthon volunteered, taking one of the three packs.

She smiled and nodded. "Wrap the breakable items in these cloths." She tossed him a bundle of rags.

As she retreated into her bedroom to begin packing clothes, Aderthon took a look around the room. He found several small glass animals. There was a fox, and a bird, and a fish, plus many others. He decided to start by packing these.

Nimwing, deep inside her closet, began choosing dresses and tunics for her trip and stay in Minas Tirith. Shoes, too, she made sure to stuff into a saddle bag. She decided not to worry too much about what to bring; she assumed she could send for more things later, or buy new clothing. Her armor of Mirkwood was packed in a special, separate bag. She kept it purely for emergencies and nostalgia.

By the time she had finished and come into the main room, Aderthon was examining her daggers. She had several of all sizes and types.

"Here." Nimwing took them from Aderthon. "I can fit them." She slipped them inside the bag with her armor for they were another rarely used set of items.

"Well, is that everything you think you need?" Aderthon looked around her small house.

She smiled. "Almost."

Aderthon watched as she grabbed the sword and slipped a scabbard onto her belt. With a flourish, she sheathed the blade. "And one more thing." Nimwing then attached the quiver to her back and across her chest. She picked up her bow along with two packs. She allowed Aderthon to take the other two.

"Shall we?" He smiled and opened the door.

Nimwing nodded. "We shall!" As she walked out the door, she took a path to the right. "My horse is at a stable towards the far side of Amon Loth."

"Mine is near Legolas' house," said Aderthon. "Let us fetch your horse and then find mine and bid goodbye to the lord."

They did as planned, finding Nimwing's white mare and strapping three of the saddlebags to her flank. Her horse was a swift steed, built for agility and speed, not war. Her horse's name was Dínen.

Once Nimwing was satisfied that the packs were on correctly and not harming Dínen, she attached the lead rope and they walked to where Aderthon had stabled Histo. It was nearly lunch, and the pair were eager to get on their way. Histo, right where Aderthon had left him, was patient as they attached the last of Nimwing's saddlebags onto him, plus Aderthon's own pack.

Legolas came out to meet them. "I thought I heard you out here. I went ahead and prepared a small lunch for you." He brought with him a tray of wine, apples, bread, and cheeses. "I thought you might enjoy eating up at the pavilion."

Nimwing smiled wide. "Indeed, my lord. A marvelous idea!"

"Up on the hill?" Aderthon asked in suprise.

Both elves laughed, but Legolas responded first. "But of course. The pavilion is not just a decoration."

Aderthon shrugged and admitted his had been a silly question. He took from Legolas the tray of food and drink. Together he and Nimwing made their way to the center of the settlement where the large hill was located. They took the winding path up the Flower Hill, Aderthon taking in every second of the beauty and magic in that place.

"Why did you decide to leave Mirkwood?" Aderthon asked her as they drew close to the top. A few other elves were there, but it was a spacious pavilion.

She shrugged and let out a small sigh. "The Battle Under the Trees was a hard one on my people. Much of Mirkwood was burned to the ground, our people lay dead around us who survived." Together they sat down and she continued. "I love the forests of Middle Earth, truly I do. I spent some time after the War visiting Lorien and Fangorn, but in my heart and mind I continued to see the destruction of all I held dear."

Aderthon nodded. "So you needed a change of pace?"

"In a sense I suppose." She took a sip of wine in contemplation. "The King has never been there same since the War. For a long time he debated sailing West at last, almost went with Carmegil." She sighed. "But, well, he didn't. He tries to act like nothing happened, but so much did happen, Aderthon. Our trees were gone!"

A tear slipped down her cheek and Aderthon wiped it away. The action surprised them both, and both blushed immediately.

"My mother, she suffered much in her later life," Aderthon told her slowly and quietly. "The Battle for Arnor took its toll on all of us, but she most of all. It broke our family apart."

Nimwing was intrigued. "How so? We only got bits and pieces of news."

"My youngest sister, Tinneth." Aderthon began to explain what happened. "She was an angry and jealous child, full of greed. My parents did their best to control her, perhaps too much. Tinneth grew to resent us all and when provided with a chance to claim 'her inheritance' as a descendent of Fëanor, she did not hesitate to try to destroy us all. In fact, she was happy to do such deeds." He lost himself in his thoughts for a moment and paused before finally continuing. "Tinneth nearly killed my mother during the battle. I was forced to kill her." He hung his head after swigging some wine to cope with his pain.

Nimwing frowned, reaching out and taking his hand. "I cannot claim to understand the pain you and your family must carry."

Aderthon flashed her a small smile. "I do not desire pity, but I do not scorn it."

"Pity is a gift," she agreed. "One would be foolish to scorn it."

The pair continued to eat, changing the conversation to happier matters. Aderthon was at a loss for how beautiful the view was, and he heartily enjoyed the food and drink, and the company.

Chapter Text

Eldarion sat on his silky sheets in loose clothing. He had slept late today. It was nearly noon, and he knew he had lunch with Nemir today, something he was not altogether eager for. So instead of getting dressed, he was reading reports about Rhûn. Eldarion had gathered every ounce of information readily available, only avoiding the difficult documents because he had neither the time nor the temperament to seek out the advice of the Professors and scholars.

A little knock sounded on his door, pulling him from his studies. He called for them to enter.

"Hello," Amdirien smiled kindly. "What are you up to?"

Eldarion sighed. "Rhûn."

She walked inside and closed the door. Joining her older brother on the bed, she placed her hand on the parchments and books.

"You have lunch soon." She flashed him a slight frown. "Or did you forget?"

He shook his head. "I did not. I wish I had."

"Nemir isn't all that bad," Amdirien rebuked him. "Certainly better than being married to someone before you meet them."

With a smile, he nodded and closed the book before him. "I suppose you are right."

Amdirien chuckled and nodded. Getting up off the bed, she left the room and her brother. She had other matters to attend to, specifically the three younger hobbits in town. She had spotted them outside playing in the courtyard. As she made her way there, child laughter and squealing was heard.

"Good morning, Elanor." Amdirien smiled as the hobbit woman turned around from where she sat on the white steps.

"Ah, Amdirien!" Elanor grinned widely. "Good to see you this morning."

The woman joined her at the steps, sitting next the hobbit. "I see Fíriel and Elfstan are enjoying themselves."

The children in questions, ages three and six respectively, were running in circles around the courtyard guards. Tag was the game of choice this morning.

Elanor laughed. "Yes they are. If Fastred and I weren't already settled in the Undertowers, we might have liked living here."

With a nod, Amdirien replied. "We would've loved that. Sídhil could use the friends."

"She's got Lady Malika now," Elanor reminded her. "Those two have been spending a lot of time together in just the few short days they have been here."

It was true. Malika and Sídhil had gotten into bunches of trouble just the day before when the daughter of Aragorn took the Haradrim girl to see the lower town. It was forbidden to go without escort, and Aragorn had been forced to punish Sídhil for it.

The two women were interrupted when Círeth and Elboron came walking down the steps discussing something intently.

It was Elfstan who interrupted them. The boy of six ran straight behind Círeth, using her legs as a shield from his three year old sister. He gave a squeal as Fíriel dove between the ranger's legs and tried to tag him.

"I'm so sorry, Círeth!" Elanor sighed in embarrassment.

The ranger paused, chuckled, and looked at the hobbit children who had now run off. "They have spirit."

Elanor laughed. "That they do."

Elboron and Círeth continued on their way. Círeth held a sack, inside which was an ancient looking weapon. On its hilt was carved the silhouette of an eagle's head. She still remembered that day when she got it. It had been her second search for clues regarding Barahir in Rhûn. The strange ranger-like figures in black had left it for her as some kind of offering apparently. Now they needed to figure this out.

"You sure about this?" Círeth asked Elboron as they made their way down past the first level to the second, where the scholars, loremasters, and professors were housed.

Elboron's mouth twitched up in an amused smile. "I do not fear the professors as you do."

Círeth huffed. "I cannot stand their constant bickering. I do not fear them."

"Of course not," Elboron corrected himself with a smirk.

"You are here because you are diplomatic," Círeth explained. "I could always do this by force."

Elboron shook his head emphatically. "Bad idea."

With a smirk, she continued on. "You know, wring a few necks. Good fun, too."

As Elboron shook his head, they reached the main building where scholars kept their work. The one they were looking for was Hissael, a man who had dedicated his life to ancient languages and artifacts. Also infamously hard to work with, Elboron knew they had to tread carefully with this scholar.

Círeth knocked loudly on the big, heavy, wooden door. Elboron noticed her tapping foot as she waited impatiently to be aloud in. He smiled.

A middle aged man in long brown robes opened the door. He squaked out, "What?"

Elboron saw Círeth raise an eyebrow, causing him to rush to answer before her. "I am Elboron, son of Faramir your steward, and this is Lady Círeth, daughter of Elrohir and Míril Fëanoriel, and niece of the King. We come seeking consultation with Hissael."

"I am Baralinor." The man nodded, looking not impressed at all. "Hissael won't be happy."

"Why not?" Círeth grumbled. "Too busy?"

"Yes," Baralinor nodded, leading them deeper inside the House of Lore. "He hates consultations."

Neither responded, taking in the scene around them. There was a main hall, filled with books and wood tables and a large fireplace at the far end. Mulling about were many men and a few women of all walks of life. There were three men of Khand, several Haradrim, an elf or two, one dwarf, and men and women of Minas Tirith. Based on hair color and height, Círeth guessed there were two Rohirrim as well. Lamps and candles sat everywhere, lighting the room but causing a smoky hue. The pipe smoking of the men and dwarves only added to this. Only a few windows allowed for natural light. No one wanted to damage the previous parchments.

Baralinor led them to a door on the left, deeper into the individual rooms of scholars. Every loremaster had a two room suite; there was a bedroom and a workspace for each.

"Hissael!" Baralinor rapped on a door as they came to it. "Open up."

"I'm working!" came the response from within, muffled slightly by the door.

Baralinor shrugged at the two nobles before turning back to the door. "Elboron son of your Steward needs to speak to you. Consultation!'

They heard something fall to the ground and moments later a man, tall with dark hair and blue eyes, came to the door. He ripped it open with such speed that the breeze it made blew his hair around.

"I am so sorry!" Hissael apologized profusely to Elboron and Círeth. "Please, come in!"

Chapter Text

Showing them into his small office, he continued to ramble. "It isn't often we get such distinguished visitors. How can I help you?"

"By telling us what this is and why someone gave it to me," Círeth said, handing him the dagger she had brought back from Rhun.

The scholar looked intently at the markings on the blade. Then, he carefully unwrapped the leather around the hilt. There were more markings on the metal below.

"Well, the first question is easy. It is either a one of Eonwë's throwing daggers from the first age, or a facsimile thereof." Hissael shrugged as if it were obvious. "We can figure out which it is later. I presume you took this from a rider, all in black?"

"Not a rider," Cireth answered with a shake of her head. "Though I suppose his horse could have been nearby. I encountered two rangers, clad all in black, in the wilds of Rhun."

"You didn't attack them, did you?" The scholar asked, looking concerned.

"No," Cireth answered.

The scholar nodded. "Good."

"I'm so glad you approve," said Cireth, not at all interested in this academic questioning her tactical decisions made hundreds of miles away.

Elboron placed and hand on her wrist as she began to fiddle with her hilt. She had anger issues, and he knew it. Fortunately it was usually the enemies who found out about the issues, not her friends.

"I meant no offense, ma'am," Hissael assured her immediately. "I meant simply that we would not want to make enemies of the Coven of Vultur."

"Who are they?" asked Elboron.

"The Coven are a group of assassins who have for millennia been defined by their opposition to Sauron and his servants," said Hissael. "They worship a deity based on Eonwë, the Maia who commanded the armies of Valinor during the War of Wrath. They hunt those they see as evil: orcs, wraiths, and all other manner of Sauron's servants."

Círeth nodded approvingly. "So, they should be our allies."

"Allies?" chuckled the scholar. "I don't think they would say they have any allies. Only prey, and those they hope can live in peace because of their work."

"Okay, so they are not team players. What else can you tell us about them?" asked Elboron. He was eager to know more.

"Very little is known. I suspect they work hard to keep it that way," Hissael replied. "The priests of Sauron were terrified of them. There are legends of assassins from the Coven killing just about every kind of evil creature known in Rhûn."

"Is that all you have for us?" asked Cireth. "If we need to contact them, how could we?"

"I have no idea." Hissael shrugged. "We do have something they would want. I believe the King has in his treasury at least one of Eonwë's daggers. They aren't as rare as you might think, as they are not particularly valuable aside from their historical value. If legend is to be believed you cannot melt them down for mithril. A proper Morgul Blade, for example, would be worth much more." He paused. "Well, let's go find out if this is genuine."

The professor led them down a hall to another small office. This door read Visiting Professor Bodi, Metallurgy and Engineering. Hissael banged on the door.

"I'm busy!" came a shout from within.

"Open in the name of the Steward!" Hissael cried out, a grin on his weasel-like face. "I've always wanted to say that," he added quietly and sent them a wink.

"This had better be important," said the voice from inside, as the door opened. Professor Bodi was a young dwarf, with barely a beard to speak of.

"What do you make of this?" asked Hissael, handing him the knife.

"I believe this, good sir, is a knife," responded the dwarf mockingly. He took it into his office. Hissael wasn't going to follow him in but Elboron and Cireth did.

"And who might you be?" Bodi asked Elboron and Círeth.

"Elboron, son of Faramir Steward of Gondor" he replied. "At your service."

Círeth smirked without mirth. "And I am King Elessar's niece."

"Oh my! I thought you were more of Hissael's students come to bother me!" said the dwarf. "I am Bodi, son of Berrni, son of Dwalin at your service sir and lady," he said with a bow.

With honor satisfied, Professor Bodi first dropped the dagger in a glass cylinder of water, then carefully weighed it on a scale. He seemed unhappy with the results and examined it for a few minutes with a magnifying glass.

Círeth and Elboron stood silently. The former had her arms crossed tight against her chest. It wasn't that she didn't appreciate the Scholars and Loremasters, but she found them tiresome. In her Company of southern Dunédain, there was a very clear hierarchy, and utmost respect for one another. Here there was politics, like her cousin Amdirien dealt in.

Elboron, however, watched closely as Bodi completed his experiments and was eager to hear the verdict.

"I am very confident this is coated in Mithril, but I am sad to say it is most likely steel underneath." Professor Bodi stood and handed the dagger to Círeth.

"So it is fake," said Hissael. "Or at least, it is made in the image of something far older. Thank you Bodi."

The dwarf nodded and gave them a small bow. "I am always at the service of the crown of the Reunited Kingdom. Maybe it's not my place sir, but…"

Elboron smiled. "Speak, professor."

"It has come to the attention of many, including myself, that King Elessar seeks to have emissaries from all neighboring nation states." He paused. "Does this include the dwarves of the Glittering Caves?"

With a smile, Elboron nodded. "It does. To what end did you wish to know?"

"My cousin, Nîm son of Gimli son of Gloin would be an excellent choice," Professor Bodi told him. "If you don't mind my advice."

"On the contrary! I value it, Professor." Elboron bowed to him. "I will take it under advisement when I make my choice, or recommend it to whoever takes my place."

They all bid farewell and Elboron left with Círeth to go find Lord Aragorn. They had much to report and more to decide. With dagger in hand, they walked out into the sunlight and blinked like blind men. Then they heard a voice.

"Elboron! Círeth! What brings you here?"

"Aderthon. Good thing you are back," Elboron nodded at the mounted Aderthon, though his eyes fell on the elf maiden atop the second horse. "Greetings, lady."

"Ah. Nimwing," Aderthon dismounted Histo and she followed suit. "These are Elboron, my good friend, and Círeth, my sister."

Círeth looked at her skeptically, already seeing the affection in her brother's eyes. "A pleasure, Nimwing."

"The pleasure is mine," the elf smiled kindly.

The four companions walked up the streets to the top level of Minas Tirith. By now, the sun sat low in the sky. Elboron wondered how Eldarion's meal with Nemir went. He supposed he would find out tonight.

Chapter Text

Aderthon took Nimwing to meet the King, the other two following them, hoping to locate Eldarion there as well. They walked up the white steps from the courtyard into the Citadel. Nimwing had never been to Minas Tirith. Her astonished face betrayed all her emotions. This was the first major city of men, not including Dale, that she had ever visited.

"It is quite remarkable, really," she told them. "In my two thousand years I have not seen a throne room this large."

They approached the swan throne. Aragorn was nearby talking to Eldarion and Fëalas. When the four drew near, they turned towards them and Aragorn smiled when he saw Aderthon leading Nimwing. The elf woman was the same height as Aderthon, who was of course a distinctly tall man because of his elven blood. Her white outfit, comprised of a tunic and leggings with a similarly white cloak, fluttered as she walked.

"Lord Aragorn, this is Nimwing. Legolas chose her as an ambassador." Aderthon stepped up to him.

Nimwing bowed to him, her eyes wide. "It is an honor, King Elessar."

To her, he was living, breathing history. She knew of his heritage, for she had studied the Noldor and the Sindar instructed by Carmegil. He had taught her of his Queen, Lady Melian the Maia, and the princess, Lady Luthien.

"The honor is mine, Lady Nimwing." He bowed back to her. "Thank you for agreeing to this."

She smiled and nodded. "I am excited to work alongside such noble men and women."

Aragorn turned to Fëalas. "Show her to the rooms we had prepared." He nodded to the red head. Turning back to Nimwing he continued, "I hope you find them comfortable enough."

"I am sure I will." She bid farewell, smiling especially at Aderthon while she followed Fëalas to her new home.

Once she had left, Aragorn turned to the four companions around him. "Now…" he paused looking at them. "Follow me."

Together Elboron, Eldarion, Aderthon, and Círeth went with Aragorn to the largest meeting room in the Citadel. It was where council meetings were held and seated thirty. Aragon brought them to the far corner and they all sat down, Círeth taking up a seat on top of the table, perching cross-legged.

"First and foremost." He turned to Elboron and Círeth. "What did you find?"

Elboron drew out the dagger and placed it on the table. "We spoke to two of the academics in the Hall of Lore. It seems this is a facsimile of a dagger of Eonwë."

"Hissael, one of the two, says it is from the Coven of Vultur." Círeth gestured to the make of the dagger and the eagle emblem. "Do you know of them."

"Only in legend." Aragorn picked up the dagger. "They were said to have attempted the assassination of their king, Khamûl, with a poisoned dagger."

"Khamûl the Easterling?" Eldarion looked up in surprise. "The cult is that old?"

Aragorn stood and paced for a moment, looking at the dagger. "The cult is ancient. They worship Eonwë, whom they call Vultur in their tongue."

"What are they trying to say?" Aderthon took the dagger from his uncle. "Is it a threat? Or an offer of peace?"

"Or a warning," Eldarion said ominously. He couldn't help but think of the conversation he'd had over lunch.

It had been the sad tale of Nemir, Lady of Dol Amroth. Apparently her extended family had been killed by Easterlings recently. She had blamed Eldarion for his lack of action, his lack of decisive decision after Lord Barahir's death. It made him think about what he should have done. He should have avenged his friend's death.

"A warning?" Círeth cocked her head. "A warning about what?"

"A warning about what's to come, perhaps." Eldarion paced as his father stood and watched him. "We cannot allow Rhûn to continue killing our people. Maybe they want to help?"

"Slow down, my son," Aragorn instructed. "We cannot rush full on into a conflict with a powerful enemy without careful consideration."

"You know Elfwine would support us!" Aderthon leapt to his friend's aid.

Aragorn shook his head and sat down. "Elfwine is not King of Rohan. And I will not ask Éomer to risk the life of his people so soon again after the Battle for Arnor."

Círeth nodded. "I will double patrols on the border with Rhûn, just to be safe."

"A prudent move." Aragorn sighed. "Do not attack unless engaged." He looked around at the younger generation before him. Had he been so reckless once? "Go. It's nearly time for you to sleep."

They bowed to the King upon his dismissal. Aderthon stormed out, angered by the entire turn of events as of late. The words of Alodia rung in his mind.

"You think it connected to Arnor?"..."Will you avenge him?"

Two very important questions. How had Halion been wrapped up in all this? That boded ill for all of them. Halion's gift in sorcery was not a secret. Was Tar-Mëonis a student of his? It would make sense.

Then there was Barahir's death. Aderthon wanted nothing more than to slaughter all of the Easterlings until he could get to Barahir's murderer. The problem was, he didn't know who to blame. Was Halion the real murderer? Or Tar-Mëonis?

As he walked down the steps he found Alphros sitting there eating a few scraps of his dinner. Aderthon was surprised.

"Alphros," he said, cocking his head in confusion. "What are you doing?"

The young man lifted his head to see Aderthon and then shot up. "Eating, sir. I like the fresh air."

Aderthon nodded. "Do you want to get some training in tonight?"

Alphros looked up at the moon slowly making its way higher into the sky. With a rogue smile and nodded immediately. "Of course."

"Good. Let's go." Aderthon and Alphros walked briskly through the town to where a training ground had been created for the army. It wasn't very large, but it worked. Aderthon turned back to Alphros. "I apologize for neglecting your training. I know that is why you came here."

Alphros shook his head. "Lord any training you can give me I value. But I know these days have been rough."

"Indeed." Aderthon sighed as he unlocked the weapons cabinet and took out two training swords. "Tonight is a good night to hit things, though."

Alphros chuckled lightly. "Good."

From the shadows, a white cat sat watching them. Berúthiel was the cat's partner, not master, for no ordinary cat was she.

Lossëa was her name, Snow white. She was a lesser Maia of Oromë and Nessa, related to Ravennië the Lioness of the West, and Tevildo, Prince of Cats. In the Elder Days she traveled to Middle Earth and remained in the forests until Men awoke. Once the Men woke up, she became fascinated by their short lifespans and studied them.

But they corrupted her, as her closest studies were done on the Southern and Eastern Men, those that worshiped Morgoth. So it was that in the Third Age she found Berúthiel being tormented by cats. Lossëa befriended her, striking up a partnership. For Berúthiel wanted dominion over men, and Lossëa wanted one very simple thing: to bring her brother Tevildo back from the void. Unfortunately her own power of sorcery were limited, so she needed Berúthiel to perform the proper spells.

So for now, Lossëa would watch and wait, gathering Intel for Berúthiel and communicating it to her telepathically. With her nine black cat servants, their eyes and ears gathered everything. Berúthiel would be untouchable.

Chapter Text

"Keep your arm up," Aderthon barked at Alphros.

After training the evening before, Aderthon had ordered his protégeé to bed early. He promised the young man a training session the next morning. So, once again the two found themselves trading blows, this time with the bright sun shining as it rose in the sky.

They went at each other again. Aderthon, renowned as one of Minas Tirith's greatest warriors and a fantastic leader in the battlefield, found himself pleasantly surprised at Alphros' skill. For an eighteen year old boy, he was quite good. But he'd never tell him that.

"Footwork!" Aderthon chastised him as he circled the young man. "Don't forget about footwork!"

Suddenly from the shadows they heard giggling. Both stopped and craned their necks for a view of who was watching them. Aderthon knew immediately.

"Sídhil!" He laughed before letting out a small sigh. "Sídhil you should not be here."

"I was showing Malika the training grounds," the young princess protested.

The darker skinned girl popped her head over the small wall they had been hiding behind. Sídhil grinned at her cousin's comical expression.

"My sister should see this," Malika said with a wistful expression. "Adira would love to train here."

Alphros smiled. "The lady from Harad? Yes I bet she would." He chuckled. "She looked formidable enough when we journeyed here."

Aderthon shook his head. "I don't know."

"What about Lady Nimwing, cousin?" Sídhil clambered over the wall and ran to Aderthon. "I'm sure she would like to fight as well."

A woman's voice filled the air. "Indeed she would!"

Aderthon's face brightened visibly at Nimwing's appearance. The woman was clothed in light armor, likely a training outfit. In her left hand was a sword. Her blonde hair, braided back, was kept out of her face.

"Nimwing," Aderthon said quickly as he recovered. "What are you doing here?"

"I saw you from my window this morning and decided to join." She winked at Sídhil. "Your young cousin here was correct when she said Adira and I would enjoy training."

"Adira?" Malika's face lit up. She was eager to show them that Haradrim were skilled warriors. "She is coming too?"

"Yes she is." Nimwing nodded from the young girls to the two men. "I hope you don't mind? We spoke at length last night, our quarters being next door to each other."

Aderthon laughed and threw up his non-sword hand in defeat. He looked at Sidhil and Malika. "You two need to stay out of the way though. I am training Alphros, not you today."

"Very well, cousin!" She smiled and climbed onto the top of the half wall. "We shall sit here quietly, won't we, Malika?"

The girl smiled, a shining light of mischief in her eye. "Of course!"

Nimwing chuckled as she undid her white cloak. She laid it down across the wall and drew her sword from its sheathe. With a quick glance back up the path to the rest of Minas Tirith, she smiled and waved. "Adira!"

The woman of Harad wore a tunic of reds and blacks. Golden plates held her hair back from her face, and two scimitars hung from a brown and gold belt. A tiny smile graced her face before she reached them.

"Good morning, my lord," she bowed to Aderthon. "And to you, Lady Sidhil."

"Glad you could join us," Aderthon nodded.

Nimwing rolled her eyes and walked to the side. "We won't get in your way."

"I never said you would!" Aderthon protested immediately, though his eyes shined with laughter. He returned to sparring with Alphros.

Nimwing took up a spot across from Adira. The Haradrim's fighting style was entirely different from anything Nimwing had trained against. The twin scimitars forced Adira to focus on swift movements and slashing. Nimwing's single blade used more force. Though less heavy than Aderthon's greatsword, her short sword didn't have the advantage of the curvature of a scimitar.

The group sparred off and on for another half hour. Alphros watched the two women in amazement. Though he knew that both commanders of the Rangers were female, he had rarely met formidable women. Military women remained rare even in the Reunited Kingdom.

"Aderthon!"

The six people in the training grounds turned around to find Círeth standing at the entrance. She beckoned for her brother.

"I'll be right back," he assured Alphros. "Unless of course, you want to spar with one of them?" He smirked and gestured from the boy to the two women. He jogged over to his sister. "What did you need?"

"I just wanted to say farewell. I'm heading back to the front lines." She frowned. "A messenger from my company came today and said things are escalating. Aragorn has given me leave to return there and see what I can do to help."

Aderthon scowled. "If what Tar-Meonis wanted was peace, things would not be escalating. She is a liar, and probably something a hundred times worse."

"I know," Círeth nodded in agreement. Her eyes traveled past her brother and over to the sparring group. Eventually they landed on Sidhil. "Watch over Sidhil, and try not to fall in love too fast."

"What?" Aderthon murmured. "What do you mean?"

Círeth laughed as she hugged her brother and went to walk away. "Don't think I'm blind, Aderthon. I see the way you look at the elf."

"Nimwing's-"

"She likes you, too."

Aderthon rolled his eyes. Bending down, he picked up a stone and threw it after a retreating Círeth. "Stay safe. Don't die."

"That is the plan!" She waved to him before disappearing down into the White City.

With a contemplative frown on his face, Aderthon watched as Círeth faded into nothingness. With a sigh he turned back to the green field for training, and saw Sidhil with an uncharacteristic frown on her face to match his own. For her sake, he threw a smile onto his face and walked back over.

"Alright. I am heading up to the citadel to find Eldarion. Nimwing, Adira, you are welcome to remain here." He turned to Alphros. "Where are you lodging?"

"In the guest rooms over the citadel," said Alphros. "Near to the suitors."

"Good. Then you can come and go as you please." Next, Aderthon turned to the ten year olds. "The two of you best come with me to the Upper Level. It's nearly time for lunch. The Queen will be wondering where you got to, Sidhil."

"Alright," Sidhil sighed. "I am getting hungry, after all. Come on Malika."

Together the three went through the streets and up into the Citadel proper. Sidhil and Malika traveled a bit in front of Aderthon, who wanted them in sight to be extra careful. He remembered well the incident from Círeth's childhood in the lower streets and while the training grounds inside the city were in the upper levels, they weren't as safe as Aderthon wished everything to be. Not when it came to the protection of his cousin, at least.

Chapter Text

“We should be going to war,” Aderthon shouted to his friend in frustration. He had gone to find Eldarion and found him in his bedroom. “We shouldn't just send more rangers! We need to send the army.”

Eldarion sat at his desk, head in his hands. He thanked whichever Valar were listening that his door remained closed. Aderthon had worked himself into a frenzy. “Aderthon, I agree, but it is not up to us.” The prince sighed.

“It isn't your sister being sent back out into enemy lands,” Aderthon countered, glaring at his friend. “Of course you'd be fine with this.”

Eldarion slammed closed the book he had been trying to read. He spun out of his chair and all but growled his answer. “Do not act like I don't care. What do you want from me? A screaming match?” He pointed to Aderthon. “You seem to be doing well enough at that by yourself.”

“I will not lose another family member,” Aderthon spat through gritted teeth. “It should be me fighting the enemy, not my sister.”

Eldarion reached out to put a hand on Aderthon’s shoulder. “She is a stout warrior, as capable or more at fighting than you or I am in the type of terrain she is facing.”

The son of Elrohir frowned but stopped his shouting. He turned to look out Eldarion’s window, down into the courtyard below. He caught sight of someone and visibly relaxed. Eldarion followed his gaze and found Nimwing laughing alongside Adira as they walked into the citadel.

The prince chuckled. “Perhaps you would be better served to complain to Lady Nimwing than I. She seems to calm you down much faster.”

Aderthon rolled his eyes and turned back to his friend. “I don't know what you are talking about.”

“Do not be so daft, Aderthon. You’re in love with her. It’s easy to see.” Eldarion smiled. “I'm happy for you. You deserve some good in this world.”

“So do you, my friend. Have any of the suitors caught your fancy?” Aderthon returned the smile.

But Eldarion frowned in response. “Nay, none. I fear I shall not marry out of love.”

“You may yet, my friend. You may yet.”

Eldarion shrugged and walked towards the door Aderthon had shut. He opened it and gestured for him to follow. Aderthon sighed and stood from where he’d leaned himself against his cousin’s bed, following him out.

“Where to?” he asked Eldarion.

“To find the sister who has been left behind,” the prince reminded him. “Do not think you alone are frightened for Círeth.”

Aderthon nodded, a shameful frown across his face. He should’ve thought of Fëalas too. She and Círeth were as close as Eldarion and Aderthon, perhaps closer. Together the cousins wandered through the hallways of the citadel, and into the main dining hall. There they found Fëalas dining with Aragorn, Arwen, Amdirien, and Sidhil.

“We were wondering if you meant to skip lunch altogether,” Arwen scolded them lightly. “We went ahead and started.”

“For that I am sorry,” Aderthon sighed. “I kept Eldarion.”

The prince rolled his eyes, shaking his head in disagreement. “I would’ve kept reading straight through lunch had he not interrupted.”

They took their seats at the table and food was brought to them by workers. Today’s meal consisted of some kind of fowl and salad with bread. A good meal, and yet also not as decadent as they were often accustomed to eating. Most found it a welcome change.

“Malika and I want to train, mother,” Sidhil said as she chewed her meat. “When can we start?”

Both Aragorn and Arwen paused. They exchanged a glance, but it was Arwen who responded. “Not yet. You are too young.”

“I bet Aderthon and Fëalas and Círeth trained at ten,” Sidhil argued quickly. “And Eldarion.”

“Actually, Miril began their training at thirteen. Perhaps we will let you train once you reach that age,” Aragorn argued. “Not a moment before.”

“Why not?” Sidhil pushed again. “I must know how to defend myself!”

Arwen placed her fork down. “Sidhil, that’s final.”

The girl shut her mouth and sat still. She didn’t understand why her parents always became tight and serious around the topic of training. She had heard stories of Estelwen, her now deceased older sister, who passed before she was born. She knew Estelwen had died in battle. But to Sidhil, that proved only one thing: she should be trained. Estelwen had gone as a healer. Sidhil would go to battle as a warrior.

“When would you like me to head back to the Southern borders,” Fëalas asked, hoping to change the subject.

“I actually have a different job for you and Elboron now. I need you and a handful of rangers to escort him to Aglarond. Gimli will be expecting you.” Aragorn gestured for their plates to be taken away. “He has chosen to send his son, Nim, as an ambassador. I want you two to bring him here.”

Fëalas nodded. “When should we leave?”

“I spoke to Elboron this morning. I would say tomorrow.” Aragorn stood from the table. “In the meantime, choose your rangers and let them know.”

“I’ll do so right away,” Fëalas got up and pushed her chair back in. She rushed out the door, and Aderthon exchanged a glance with Eldarion in response to her quick exit.

He stood immediately and followed her. No one said anything as he rushed to catch up with his younger sister. He caught a glimpse of her red hair as she passed the White Tree and he called out. She halted but did not turn to face him.

“Fëalas,” he sighed. “I’m as worried about Cir as you are.” He placed a hand on her arm as they stood side by side and looked at the gate to the next level. “Trust me. She’ll be fine.”

“I’m not so sure, Aderthon,” Fëalas admitted. “Something isn’t right with her. Sending Círeth to Rhun seems like a mistake.” As the white cat that’d grown attached to the citadel residents passed them and rubbed her legs, she smiled lightly. “Tar-Mëonis is either a murderer or a sorceress. And I’m not sure which is worse in a monarch.”

“She’s just going to scout out the border, keep watch,” Aderthon argued as much to himself as to his sister.

Fëalas nodded. “I hope you’re right.”

“When am I not,” Aderthon cheekily smirked. Then he stopped. “On the other hand, don’t answer that.”

Chapter Text

The streets of the upper levels of Minas Tirith remained relatively quiet as most of their residents worked in the markets of the second level during the day. The few merchants she did see gave slight bows at her passing. Reaching the fourth level barracks at last, she found the person she sought.

Fëalas smiled and shook her head as she watched the youngest ranger of her company trying to organize his arrows. “Sarnor!”

He looked up at her shout. Standing at attention, he nodded to her and then smiled. “Yes, Captain?"

“Where are Angrendir and Caenir?” She looked around herself briefly. “The three of you are coming with me to see the dwarves.”

“Angrendir is upstairs, Caenir is at the yard.” Sarnor’s face lit up in excitement. “Our mission?”

“Escort. We’re traveling with Elboron again to Aglarond.” She walked forward into the barracks and placed a hand on the younger man’s shoulder. “Go pack. I’ll tell Angrendir and Caenir. We leave at first light tomorrow.”

Continuing past him deeper inside, she walked up a flight of winding stairs and stopped by a room farther down a hallway on the left. There was no door, instead it opened into a room with two tables and food store. At the table sat three men in comfortable clothing of varying ages.

“Enjoying yourselves while in the city?” Fëalas smiled with a cheeky laugh. She did not miss the bottles of alcohol being passed around.

All three shot up immediately, knocking over a bottle. A hushed flurry of curses came from one of the men as he tried to save the alcohol. Fëalas shook her head and tried to hide a smile.

“You're free to drink on your off time.” She laughed. “No need to hide it.”

They all stood sheepishly. One of them, a man fair of face and dark haired, spoke up. “Is there a new mission, Captain?”

“For you.” She nodded. She turned to all three. “I'm taking Caenir, Sarnor, and Angrendir with me to escort Elboron to Aglarond.”

“What should the rest of us do?” asked the only blonde of the three rangers.

Fëalas shrugged with a smile. “Drink? Play dice? Don't get into trouble is all.”

Angrendir followed Fëalas as she turned to leave. Together they walked down the stairs. “When do we leave?”

“Be ready before dawn tomorrow. I want you and Sarnor to have all the horses ready by then.” She turned to address him as she left him at the door leaving the barracks. “Make sure Elboron’s horse is done at least. I can do my own if you run out of time.”

“Yes ma’am.” He mock saluted her.

She gave a short laugh and shook her head. She loved all her companions like family. Angrendir reminded her most of Aderthon, with his cheek and humor. Fëalas was glad for Angrendir’s sake that he’d ended up in her company and not Círeth’s. Círeth had a completely different connection to her own rangers. In the eastern rangers, chain of command was serious and created bonds of friendship. Down in the south, in her own company, she tried to make all feel equal.

She wandered back up to the fifth level. Staying left at the mountain dividing the level, she found the large swath of green space used by training companies. The steady thump of arrows hitting a target betrayed Caenir’s presence.

“Caenir,” Fëalas called over to him. “Looking good.”

The brown haired ranger turned and nodded his thanks. “What can I do for you, Captain?”

“We have a mission. Escort.” She told him about their job. “Be ready before dawn. Sarnor and Angrendir are to prepare the horses. I'm sure they’d appreciate the help tomorrow.”

He nodded immediately. “Of course. Are we expecting trouble on the road?”

“I wouldn't think so.” She shook her head, and then gave a sigh. “But you never know. We need to be ready for anything.”

Caenir dipped his head in acknowledgement. “Always, Captain.”

“I have to find Lord Elboron.” She gestured to his bow. “Please, carry on.” After exchanging goodbyes, she turned and made her way back up to the sixth level.

As she went through the gate, the fletcher's shop she used, The Marksman’s Merchandise, loomed on her left. Past that she saw Faramir’s Hall, renamed in the War of the Ring after the great Captain of the Southern Rangers. The Hall was the headquarters for all Dúnedain, whether from the North, South, or East. Círeth and Fëalas and Bergil all had accommodations inside for when they stayed in Minas Tirith. Beside Faramir’s Hall, the Royal Library stood tall. That was where she figured Elboron would be if not at home. But at home she would check first.

His house sat halfway down the royal and high noble houses. All houses, for few there were, had small yards of green grass and a tree or two each. Flower pots flanked many of the doors, and the white stone had been softened by blue, white, or purple flowing cloth beside each window.

When she reached the door, she gave a quick knock. Lothuial answered the door soon after. She smiled at Fëalas and nodded her head in a quick bow.

“What can I do for you, Lady Fëalas?” The dark haired woman smiled and invited the ranger inside. “You came at a rare moment of quiet. Barahir is asleep upstairs, finally.”

Fëalas stepped inside and glanced around the house. She had been here only a few times. It was a nice home.

“I was looking for your husband. The King has a new mission for him.” Fëalas turned back to the woman. “Do you know where he is?”

“He should be coming back anytime now. He had a lunch engagement with several of the merchant councilmembers.” She smiled. “You're welcome to wait for him.”

“Actually, would you just let him know to come see me at Faramir’s Hall before the end of the day? I’ve got some planning to do.” The ranger captain paused and then gave a short laugh. “I've got a lot of work to do.”

Lothuial smiled, pity evident in her expression. “I'm sure it will work out. I'll send him over as soon as he can go.”

Fëalas left the house with a wave and a smile before heading back towards Faramir’s Hall. Walking up the few steps to the large door, she pushed the right mahogany door open and went inside. Lots of light streamed in through the windows and a roaring fire at the base of the grand inside stairs provided even more. Two rangers in training, both of the Southern Company, sat on the stairs. It was their job to tend the fire. At Fëalas’ entrance they shot up, standing straight at attention.

“Captain!” The one on the left, slightly taller but still a visibly young man, all but squeaked out his greeting.

“Careful, Aegon, you might sprain something standing that straight.” She chuckled lightly and walked past them to the right side of the fire.

The stairs, divided at both the bottom and top into two sides, led up to the three different rooms where the North, South, and East ranger captains kept their papers and notes and precious items. Fëalas’ room was on the far right side. At the back of the room, through a perpetually closed door, her bedroom sat. For though her brother offered both his siblings accommodations, she preferred the privacy of Faramir’s Hall when home in Minas Tirith. She kept the door shut to preserve that solitude.

With a sigh, she entered her office chamber and sat down at the chair behind the desk. She ran a hand through her hair and slumped over. She had much on her mind.

Chapter Text

The sun still slept below the horizon when Fëalas woke from her own slumber. As always, she found the quiet peace of pre-dawn comforting. She swung her legs out of bed and pulled on her captain's gear. The brown and tan and olive cloth with the tree of Gondor revealed her allegiance as a southern Ranger, and the intricately decorated bracers she pulled onto her arms held her rank.

She grabbed her yew bow and strapped on the quiver to her back. At her side hung one of her father’s twin elven blades, a final parting gift from Elrohir. Fëalas closed the door behind her from her chambers and quickly made her way to the great stairs.

After Elboron’s visit the night before, they had agreed to meet at first stil at the stables on this Sixth Level. And so she hustled down the stairs, nodding a farewell to the two sleepy recruits still tending the raging fire.

As tendrils of light began to spread across the sky from the East, Fëalas reached the Royal Stables. The horses of the rangers had been brought up earlier by the rangers themselves and these men now tended to Elboron’s and her own. Sarnor and Caenir took her packs as she nodded in appreciation of their work.

“Lord Elboron should be here shortly,” Fëalas said as they stood in the courtyard with the horses. The animals kicked their feet against the stoney ground and blew air from their nostrils. All were rearing to go.

A few minutes later, the councilman came walking up. He handed his packs to a waiting Sarnor and turned to Fëalas. “Are we ready to go?”

Fëalas turned to Angrendir in question. He nodded in return and spoke up. “Provisions and weapons are packed, my lord. Once your pack is situated, we will be ready.”

“Good!” Fëalas laughed excitedly. “I will be glad to be on the road again. I have not visited Aglarond in fifteen years. I am eager to see it and Helm’s Deep again.” She turned back to where Sarnor finished with Elboron’s horse. “Finished?”

“Yes, sir.”

With a smile she hoisted herself onto Galroch, her white stallion. “Let us be off!”

The others followed suit. Sarnor and Caenir took up the rear while Angrendir went in front. Between them rode Fëalas and Elboron side by side. They trotted through the streets at a leisurely pace, careful not to trample any of the Runners, children who delivered letters through the city each morning. They worked for the courier, Arthur. He was one of the few peasants who retained their non-Sindarin names despite rising in affluence from his job.

At last they reached the lowest level. Hungover lower class men and women stumbled home in the dawn light from taverns and inns. Field workers streamed out the newly opened gates to work the farms that had cropped up in the fifty years since the Battle of the Pelennor. Few took much notice of the small delegation heading north and west.

“I’d like to get forty miles today at least,” Fëalas told Elboron as they trotted to the Great Road. “We should reach the start of the Drúadan Forest.”

Behind them, Sarnor and Caenir chatted quietly. Sarnor was little over twenty years, having been promoted to the rank of full Ranger just before the trip to the South.  Caenir, at twenty-five, related closer to the young man than many of the older rangers.

“Thank the gods that this road has been fixed up,” Caenir muttered to his companion. “My parents have told me stories of when it fell into shambles.”

“Yes,” Sarnor agreed immediately. “King Elessar’s public works initiative to fix the old roads really has helped trade.”

“Your family are merchants then?” Caenir looked at Sarnor closely. “Nobles?”

The young man laughed ruefully. “Nay, not merchants. They work in the shops. Labor. I joined the rangers to help make money for them.”

“Same,” Caenir agreed. “I knew I had an affinity for archery because I grew up the son of the First Level fletcher.”

“The Notched Arrow?” Sarnor nodded emphatically. “That's your father's shop, then?”

With a smile, Caenir nodded. “That's him.”

The two continued to chat for the next few hours before Angrendir dropped back to trade spots with Caenir. Angrendir was the youngest child of a moderately noble household. He did not flaunt his family’s wealth, instead eager to prove himself on his own.

When the company stopped for lunch, all three rangers prepared food. They stopped along the West Road section of the Great Road that swung by the beginning of the Grey Wood.

“Caenir, Angrendir, head inside the forest and see if you can't find any meat. We won't be able to hunt in the Drúadan Forest tonight or tomorrow.” Fëalas tossed an arrow that had fallen to the ground over to Angrendir. “Don't take too long, though. No more than half an hour.”

Caenir nodded. “Yes sir.” He picked up his bow and headed off into the small forest, followed by his companion.

What they managed to bring back was a total of four rabbits and a pheasant. They attached the dead bird to Caenir’s horse but cooked the four rabbits, splitting the meat between the company alongside breads and cheeses.

They got moving again within the hour and pushed on until they had passed the Grey Wood and come upon the eaves of the Drúadan. To their left rose Amon Dîn, the Warning Beacon of Anórien upon the mountain peak. They camped between the two forests that night. After dinner, when the world fell into slumber and the sky was alight with stars, Fëalas took up watch alone.

“Does this remind you of anything?” Elboron murmured to her, his voice low as he tried to keep from waking their three ranger companions.

She smirked and looked at him sidelong. “You look a lot older this time around.”

He made an exasperated face. “That's what’s different?”

“We're fifteen years older,” Fëalas reminded him. “And missing many companions, some of whom we can never see.” She paused. “Do you think we will see Finduilas?”

Elboron shrugged. “That is a better question for you to answer. You know of our route better than I. She is most likely in Edoras.”

“We should see her then.” Fëalas smiled. “I haven't seen her in nearly a decade.”

Elboron nodded. “She came once while you were away on the border. That was three years ago. Most of the time my sister is busy helping my uncle in Rohan.”

Fëalas fell quiet. That should not have been the woman’s job. She should not have felt responsible for Elfwine. Edeva, his sister, should've still been alive. But alas, that was not the case. Much that was fair in the world had become mingled with grief after the Battle for Arnor.

“Rest, Elboron.” Fëalas turned to her friend. “You need it.”

“I will not argue with you.” He nodded to her but added, “You need sleep as well, so do not forget to wake your rangers.”

She chuckled and assured him she would. As he returned to his spot by the fire, which she stoked quietly, her mind drifted to happier days, when their companions had all lived. Tinneth was gone. Edeva was gone. Estelwen was gone. Barahir was gone. And yet hope remained for the living as long as Aragorn remained king.

Chapter Text

Days passed and they marched on. After several travel days, there glinted golden wood near the mountains upon a hill. The small company joyfully went forward now. By nightfall, Edoras rose up before them. The gates stood open still as the five riders dismounted and led their horses on foot. The two guardsmen standing to either side halted them with spears.

“Who enters Edoras?” The one on the left, taller, with blonde hair and blue eyes shining, spoke with authority.

“Fëalas, captain of the Southern Dúnedain!” The woman bowed before the Rohirrim. “I currently escort Lord Elboron of Lady Eowyn’s line and Councilman of the South. With me go three good rangers.”

“Welcome, Lady Fëalas, Lord Elboron!” The man nodded and gestured for the other to pull back his weapon. “You are all welcome here.” He turned to his companion. “Escort them to Meduseld. The King and Prince will want to see them.”

The company thanked the guard and followed his companion through the streets. Men and women of Rohan stopped and watched them, children gossiping curiously. While visiting warriors from Gondor certainly weren't unheard of, Fëalas hadn't set foot in that city in an extremely long time. Many years had passed since she had seen Edoras last, over a decade. As they followed their escort past a massive triple horse fountain, she noticed her rangers looking around in amazement. Perhaps they had never seen Rohan.

The golden doors of Meduseld were thrust open by the door wardens. Éomer and Elfwine stood talking quietly together, the king’s grey hair reflecting the light of the many fires. When they heard the doors open, both looked over to see the visitors.

“King Éomer,” said Fëalas with a bow. “We thank you for your hospitality as we journey to Aglarond.”

“Fëalas, Elboron, it is good to see you.” He inclined his head in greeting. “I am glad we can help.” But then his frown deepened. “I must speak with you Barahir with regards to the death of your brother, though Elfwine has told me some. Any news of who has slain my nephew?”

“I shall leave you to speak.” Fëalas bowed to Éomer and turned back to her rangers.

But Elfwine gestured to her. “Come, follow me Fëalas. Finduilas will be glad to see you.” He turned to Angrendir, Sarnor, and Caenir. “I will have our door wardens show you to the where you will sleep tonight.”

Fëalas nodded to her rangers. Elfwine led the way for her and showed her out of Meduseld in the dark night. They walked side by side, Elfwine standing above her in height now that he was a fully grown man. She still remembered him as the sixteen years old boy they'd traveled with. But fifteen years had passed and he had aged gracefully.

“What are you looking at?” Elfwine flashed a small smile at her as they walked.

“You,” she said with a chuckle. “Just wondering where the boy went.”

With a dramatic eye roll, he replied, “He grew up. How many times must I remind you and your family?”

Fëalas laughed and shook her head. She continued to follow him until they reached a small house with green and gold painted wood. Elfwine knocked lightly. Several moments passed before a blonde haired woman shuffled out her door in a nightgown and robe. When she saw Fëalas she gasped.

“Fëalas!” She rushed forward and took her friend in her arms. “By Elbereth it’s been so long!” Then Finduilas felt tears spring to her eyes. “Is it true? He is dead?”

Elfwine and Fëalas exchanged a glance. The redheaded ranger took Finduilas’ hands in her own. “Yes. I am so sorry.”

“My, my parents-” she gasped for breath, trying to regain composure. “Elfwine told us everything. But I must go see Elboron, and my parents.”

“You should,” Fëalas instantly agreed. “Lady Eowyn is at the Houses of Healing now. Ask King Éomer. He will want to go as well, I'm sure.”

Elfwine nodded immediately. “My father and I have already discussed it.”

They went inside and spoke for many hours. Eventually Elfwine left them, and Fëalas slept in Finduilas’ spare room. When the next day dawned and breakfast had been had, Fëalas bid farewell to her friends and told them to watch for her in the next week or so returning.

The next several days of travel remained uneventful. The land between Edoras and the Hornburg stayed safe thanks to the work of the Rohirrim. Travel was easy and proved quick. And so after several days of riding the small company caught sight of Helm’s Deep.  Lord Elden welcomed them warmly. They arrived at midday, and he showed then straight through to the Helm’s Deep entrance to the city of Aglarond.

“Who requests entry?”

Four stout dwarves stood in battle armor with axes and swords. The one who had spoken took off his helmet. “You are not Rohirrim.”

Fëalas dismounted and bowed. “Lady Fëalas, at your service master dwarf. These are Lord Elboron, and my rangers are Angrendir, Caenir, and Sarnor. We come to visit Lord Gimli on behalf of King Elessar.”

“Ah! Good! I am Ivar, at your service.” The dwarf nodded quickly and had his companions step aside. “Gondorian royalty is always welcome here. Follow me.”

They left their horses at the stables just inside the massive entrance. Fëalas watched as her rangers looked in awe at the grand halls of the Glittering Caves. Shining veins of precious metals climbed like vines across the stones. Great lamps sprayed light in myriad patterns across the walls and floors.

“Come, come my friends!” Ivar chuckled at them, glancing back at them. “Lord Gimli will want to see you. Do not tarry.”

And so the rangers hurried after their captain and councilman. Up many steps and through streets of stone they hurried, crossing before taverns and markets. Dwarves of all sorts lived here; they watched the people of Aulë in awe. At last Ivar led them to the citadel that Gimli occupied. The dwarf in question stood outside his doors, watching the city folk bustling about. When he caught sight of the visitors his eyebrow shot up.

“Welcome, friends!” Gimli grinned wide in approval. Then he turned to Ivar. “Go, find Ambi and Nîm. Bring them to me.”

Ivar bowed and rushed off, leaving the visitors with his lord. Fëalas smiled warmly at Gimli. “Thank you for having us, Lord.”

“Of course, Fëalas!” Gimli gestured to a nearby guard. “Show the rangers to the nearest tavern, Thimold. See they are given as much drink as they desire on my authority!”

Sarnor bowed profusely while Angrendir and Caenir thanked him. They left a laughing Fëalas and followed Thimold back into the city. She then turned back to Gimli.

“You must know why we are here, Lord,” Elboron began as they walked into the citadel.

“Because my old friend misses me?” He turned and winked at them. “No. Because Aragorn sees fit for us to have a representative in Minas Tirith.”

Elboron chuckled. “Yes. Have you selected someone?”

Gimli led them to his study. Fëalas had never been here and immediately her eyes fell on the sign of Gimli's house: the three strands of Galadriel’s hair. He had placed them in a gold and mithril and glass case above his desk. She tore her gaze away and sat down with them.

“I have.” Gimli nodded. “Two, in fact. My son, Nîm. He is a good lad, smart. He needs practice and I believe he will do well.”

Elboron nodded shortly. “And the second?”

“Ambi, a dwarf of Dain’s house,” said the lord. “He is a good judge of character, and a cousin twice removed of Durin of Moria. I trust him and my son with his life despite his youth.”

At that, a knock sounded at the door. Ivar entered at Gimli’s command. Following him came two dwarves. The first had dark hair and a beard of three braids braided into one. Golden ribbons threaded these decorative displays. The second was slightly taller with well defined cheekbones. His hair was a red-blonde and his beard trimmed relatively short for dwarf custom. He styled his beard with tiny braids.

“Fëalas, Elboron, you remember Nîm, my son.” Gimli gestured to the dark haired dwarf. “And this is Ambi.”

Chapter Text

Ambi looked at Fëalas suspiciously. He knew of the House of Fëanoriel, everyone did. That house was the second most respected manish house in all the lands of the Free Peoples, behind only the House of Telcontar, the house of the King. But that did not mean he felt comfortable around them. This niece of the king had far too much elvish blood for his liking.

“Ambi, son of Frórin, at your service.” He bowed to the two Gondorians.

“Fëalas, daughter of Elrohir, at yours and your family’s.” She bowed deeply to him, and Elboron followed.

Elboron smiled. “Ambi, Nîm, we look forward to having you in Minas Tirith.”

“It is good to see you again,” Nîm nodded with a small grin. “I am eager to see your home.”

“King Elessar will welcome kinsman of Lord Gimli,” Elboron said in reply. Then he turned to Ambi. “And a kinsman of King Thorin Stonehelm is welcome also, of course.”

“When do we leave for Minas Tirith?” Ambi turned his question to his lord, Gimli.

“That is up to these two,” replied Gimli with a sweeping gesture towards them. “Did you have an idea?”

“As soon as we can ” Fëalas leaned closer. “I fear there are dark days coming, lord. Rhûn is pressuring the borders and though their new queen has assured us peace, Círeth has gone North and East to ensure it.”

“I had heard some news of Barahir’s death. But no details.” Gimli leaned in. “What can you tell me?”

The two citizens of the Reunited Kingdom exchanged glances. Finally Elboron spoke up. “My brother's body, and the body of Halion were brought to us by a woman claiming to be the new Queen of Rhûn. She went by Tar-Mëonis.”

“That is a Quenya name?” Gimli leaned back in his chair in confusion. “And do not the men of Rhûn have Emperors, not Kings?”

Elboron nodded. “Right on both accounts, lord. We do not trust Tar-Mëonis, but the forces of Rhûn are superior at the moment. Lord Aragorn is buying time while we figure out what is actually going on.”

Gimli shook his head. “Strange tidings indeed. Let Aragorn know that we are here as allies should he need us. Our axes are still sharp despite the long years of peace!” He turned to the silent Ambi and Nîm. “Go, prepare your things for the journey to Minas Tirith. You will leave in the morning.”

Both dwarves bowed quickly and went from the room. Fëalas sighed and rubbed her forehead in weariness. It was odd to see her without a hint of smile, and both Elboron and Gimli could feel the weight of her stress in the air.

“Círeth will be fine, Fëalas,” Elboron assured her.

But Fëalas shook her head. “It is odd, feeling like this. I have never felt such a lack of her presence before. Even when we went to Harad and she stayed on the borders of Rhûn, I knew she was safe.” She pushed some stray hair out of her face. “This is different. She is riding into danger. I can feel it.”

Rhûn

The trees in the North East of Gondor stood tall and dark. Large pines with deep green needles for leaves rose up high. The year waned, it was nearly October. The wind cut through the forest like a sharp knife, and few birds sang.

A large contingent of Dúnedain, thirty-seven in number, were stationed in this section of the forest. Their hideout stood just before the foot of the Mountains of Rhûn, where the trees wrapped around in a massive, unmapped forest. Kastala, the capital of Rhûn, stood many hundreds of miles away upon the shores of the Sea of Rhûn.

Suddenly a great bustling was heard as a shout went up from the guards of the cave entrance. “Captain’s here!”

The tall red-haired half elf strode inside, leaving her horse with another ranger. She looked around, throwing her cloak hood back. The rain outside had drenched her and she was in a foul mood.

“There better be some of the Dorwinion wine left, Alagos,” she muttered to her second in command as he approached her.

The tall, dark haired man softly chuckled. “There is. Good to have you back, Captain.”

Círeth let herself send him a wry smile. But it fell moments later as she looked around. Her ranger company busied themselves. Some whittled arrows, others organized their stock of food. Farther inside the cave system she heard rather than saw some of her men practicing their sword fighting.

“Barahir is dead,” Círeth said to Alagos quietly. “Killed by either Halion or the new Queen of Rhûn. Either way, we are to step up activity.”

Alagos nodded. He followed his captain deeper into the caves and down a left tunnel. There was no fear of getting lost as the rangers knew these tunnels even in the dark, and a great many torches remained lit. Finally they came to the side room Círeth used as her bedroom. A wooden bed and a large table with maps stood as the only furniture.

“I want to watch the village more closely,” Círeth told her commander, pointing to a red “X” on the map. “They are the closest settlement and may have news.”

Alagos agreed with her. “While you have been away, I doubled patrols. We haven't encountered the black rangers of last time, however.”

Círeth nodded and put her finger on the marked spot of where the ambush and her encounter with the ranger had been. “My search in Gondor proved useful for that at least. They are called the Coven of Vultur, an ancient illegal cult who seek to destroy any influence of the Enemy in their lands.”

“Interesting,” Alagos murmured. “Allies perhaps?”

“More like an enemy of our enemy,” she corrected quickly.

Alagos sighed. “At least they are not friends of the enemy.” Then he looked at Círeth closely. “Who is our enemy, Captain?”

She tossed her cloak onto her bed before answering. “Unknown, unfortunately. Tar-Mëonis certainly, but who she is we simply do not know.”

“Why would a leader of Rhûn take a name in the fashion of Numenor?” Alagos leaned against the cave wall. “That makes little sense.”

“Even more concerning was her story. She claimed Barahir had been killed by Halion, but the body was too well preserved.” She sighed.

“So she lied?” Alagos nodded. “That is unsurprising.”

“Or.” Círeth’s frown deepened. “Or she is a practitioner of Black Magic.”

Alagos muttered a prayer to Elbereth under his breath. He looked at Círeth. “And you believe the latter, I take it?”

“I do not know what to think,” she admitted.

Alagos frowned. “Rest, Círeth. You're journey here must've been swift. I will see that the next patrol is made aware of the situation.”

“Good.” She nodded. “Let us hope the rain dies down soon. It is bitterly cold with the wind.”

Alagos left her to change out of her soaking wet clothes. She laid her clothes out to dry and changed into a loose shirt and pants to sleep in. She closed the door of her cavern room and blew out the candles, falling into darkness and slumber.

Chapter Text

To Círeth’s disappointment, the rain did not die down the next morning, nor for several days. She spent her time speaking with her rangers, gathering what information she could outside their written reports. For while it was customary to write an entry in the log after each patrol, Círeth often found she learned more from their spoken accounts.

When she finally felt comfortably caught up on the status of Rhûn's border security, she started leading patrols again. She focused her efforts on watching the Rhûnic village and the surrounding areas, keeping an eye out for anything strange. She heard from the patrols to the east that orc activity was increasing and Círeth, though not particularly fond of Rhûn, did not want to see a peaceful village slaughtered by spawn of Morgoth.

A week had passed since her return northeast when she got word of the attack. Círeth, sitting in the cave entrance talking to a woman named Caranel, caught a young ranger as he ran panting into their hideout.

“Speak, Nimion,” she said calmly as she held his arms. “What has happened?!”

“Orcs, Captain.” He looked around as the lounging rangers stood up and gathered. “Alagos sent me here. The orcs are heading to the village!”

Círeth muttered a curse and nodded. She turned around to face her companions. Her face, drawn in concentration, betrayed no fear. She nodded. “Get your weapons. We may not be allies of Rhûn, but the village is innocent. We have watched them for many years and they have never raised up against us. We leave in ten.”

The rangers broke, hustling to their sleeping places to dress for battle. Once ready, their sharp weapons glinted in the sunlight as they issued forth in silence. All thirty of her rangers followed Círeth without hesitation. The village wasn't particularly far, and it sat all but directly on top of the border with the Reunited Kingdom. A great clearing had been made in the trees, which Círeth knew would aid their attack on the orcs.

She met with Alagos and his five companions just outside the village clearing. He crouched behind a great set of boulders and nodded when she approached.

“The orcs will be here soon,” he hissed. “We should prepare.”

But shouts went up from the nearby village. Círeth cursed under her breath again. “No time! Follow me.”

She and Alagos led the charge out into the village. A quarter of her company remained in the trees wielding bows, but the rest drew swords and attacked their enemy head on.

Four dozen orcs spilled into the clearing trampling root, twig, and stem. Some of their curved swords dripped with poison. Círeth gave a great shout and descended upon the closest one. The Easterling men and women did their best to assist the rangers. At first they fled from the sight of the Dúnedain, but after realizing the rangers were their salvation, they helped as best they could.

“Protect the children!” Alagos shouted the order to several of their men. “Get them inside!”

Círeth drove forward, ignoring a sharp pain in her arm as a sword met its mark. With a parry and slash, she killed the offending orc. She glanced up at her rangers and smiled. The battle went well. They drove back the orcs with minimal casualties.

But just as she thought the battle to be won, a piercing hornblast sounded. She turned, her red hair whipping across her face. She knew that horn, and she hated it.

“Fall back!” She screamed to her warriors. “Fall back!”

It was too late. The Easterling force swarmed into the village. They caught the Dúnedain off guard, and she watched in horror as her company was surrounded. With a growl in her throat she adjusted her sword and charged the Easterling commander. The Easterlings rode on horseback, and Círeth knew that made it only so much more difficult.

A scream to her left caused Círeth to glance that way. She shouted in anger as three of her men fell dead, Easterling arrows in their chests. She focused her attention now on the man in front of her. Círeth’s swing sword clashed with his, and he spun out of the hit. But she knew that move and met him with her own blow, drawing first blood. He stammered back and grabbed his side, shouting orders to his men in their Eastern tongue.

All around her, Círeth saw her rangers’ bodies splayed at odd angles, bleeding out until all life was gone. She knew tears streamed down her face. With a scream, she rushed forward and attacked the commander again, this time sparing no effort. He fell back at her ferocity. But the battle was lost.

“Alagos!” She screamed furiously for him to join her. “Caranel!’

The two rangers near her bolted over. Círeth, holding the reins of two Easterling steeds, gritted her teeth. “Ride.”

“We're not leaving you to die, Captain,” Caranel objected immediately.

“You will take these horses and you will ride for Minas Tirith,” Círeth ordered angrily. “One of you must reach the city. Let them know what happened.”

Alagos nodded curtly and clasped arms with his captain. He pushed Caranel forward and the two of them mounted up. The horses pranced around.

“Ride hard,” Círeth said.

Alagos nodded. “Like the wind.” They took off at a speed to rival the Mearas.

She didn't notice right away but moments later the fiery pain of her newest wound hit her like a punch in the face. She looked down and saw an arrow protruding from her left shoulder. Moments later the world went blank as she was slammed into by a man in black.

When she came to, Círeth’s first observation was internal. She realized that she was alive, and that itself was a miracle. Her eyes remained closed, but she could hear foreign voices around her speaking softly. Pain shot through her as she did a quick scan of her body. Memories flooded back and her eyes opened.

Círeth recognized that she lay in a cave of some kind. The room was dark, lit by a few torches and candles. She realized her clothes had been removed and bandages wrapped her wounds. That comforted her only slightly. Turning her head towards the voices ever so slightly, she saw her captors.

Three black rangers stood talking quietly in the Easterling language. One, shorter than the others, had a feminine voice. Círeth felt entirely confused. She pretended to still sleep until suddenly a tremendous amount of pain flooded her body and she hissed.

“You are awake,” said the first of the three, coming over to her. A half-face mask covered up to his nose, but it did not hinder his speech much. “Good.”

“Where am I?” Círeth asked calmly. “Who are you? And did anyone else survive?”

“You know who we are,” the man replied. “You are the one who took my dagger.”

She nodded slowly. “Coven of Vultur.”

He inclined his head. “Correct. As for where you are, you are in Rhûn. That is all we will say.” He paused. “You are the sole survivor.”

Círeth’s breath caught in her throat. The only survivor. That wasn't possible. “Why am I alive?”

“We came to your aid, Círeth of the House of Fëanoriel. Our people watch yours closely and reported the battle.” He looked at her. “We guessed you do not fully understand the threat you face if you were foolish enough to lead a company into Rhûn, even on a rescue mission.”

Círeth bristled and sat up. A nearby woman, clothed in blacks also but without a mask, brought her her clothes. She dressed carefully, knowing full well that the arrow wound in her shoulder would hinder movement. Once fully clothes again, she turned her gaze to the man. “You know my name. What is yours?”

“I am Kir, Master of the Coven.” He took off his mask and hood. “We have much to discuss.”

Chapter Text

Kir and another woman led Círeth slowly through deep tunnels until they reached a side cave room. It was of moderate size, about fifteen feet length and width. In the center sat a large circular wooden table and chairs. Kir gestured for the ranger to take a seat. She hesitated before doing so. Her shoulder ached, but Círeth was surprised at how well it seemed to be healing.

"What did we need to discuss," she began. "I need to get back to Minas Tirith. If what you said is true, if my entire company was slain… I need to tell their families." Her face contorted in sadness and shame. "They deserve some closure."

"You will return to Minas Tirith, Círeth daughter of Elrohir. But first, we have information to trade." Kir sat down across from her. "Akilina, bring the book."

The woman beside him nodded, retrieving a large tome from a nearby bookcase. She laid it in front of Kir before she too sat down, taking off her mask and hood. Her dark hair went to her shoulders and a long scar crossed her cheek and chin. Círeth returned her attention to Kir as he flipped open the pages carefully. Once satisfied, he turned the book to the ranger.

"This drawing," he said, pointing at the picture, "is part of a record we keep on enchanted artifacts."

She looked at it. It was a ring, a serpent eating the head of another. The metal was light except for the eyes of the devouring serpent- those were red gems. Círeth could not read the writing, for it was written in the Rhûnic tongue. But beside the ring was also Black Speech written in Tengwar script.

She frowned. "I can recognize Black Speech but I cannot read it. What does it say?"

"It is a spell that I will not utter here. The intent of the spell is to tie one's spirit to the ring so it does not leave this world until severed from it." Kir sighed. "It is a similar enchantment as was used by Sauron for the Nazgûl."

Círeth's face grew white. "Who is bound to that ring? What is that ring?"

Kir pointed to a passage on the side. "This passage dictates the history of the ring. Sauron, lord of Werewolves, often crafted magic rings in the First Age. When Lúthien destroyed the towers of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, she cleansed everything of evil." He sighed. "This was among the spoils taken after. Somehow it ended up with the Numenoreans. Eventually, King Tarannon of Gondor came into possession of it and gifted it to his wife as an engagement gift."

"Queen Berúthiel." Círeth whispered the name, the pieces falling into place.

"Yes. As you well know, I am sure, she is widely regarded as one of the most gifted Mannish sorceresses. Her skill in black magic cannot be understated." Kir pointed to the ring. "She recognized this ring. She reactivated the enchantment and with her blood sealed her fate."

"Tar-Mëonis. Cat Queen," Círeth nodded slowly. "Halion must have brought her back." A slew of elvish curses left her mouth as she angrily thought of the Black Numenorean.

Kir nodded. "Indeed. This threat, we have tried to deal with it on our own. But she knows of us and we cannot get close to her." He paused. "We know she is planning an invasion of Gondor. If the Reunited Kingdom falls, she will have little trouble conquering the rest of the West. We cannot allow necromancy, for it is evil."

"So you found me," she nodded and stood. "Let us return to Minas Tirith immediately!"

Kir bowed his head. "That is the plan. Akilina and I will accompany you. It will take many weeks, but with good horses we should reach the city in time."

Círeth looked at the other woman. Akilina nodded back at her and the ranger asked them her final question. "How do we kill her?"

Akilina and Kir exchanged a glance. The man bowed his head. "There is one option we see, something our predecessors shied away from with the Nazgûl. But we may have little choice."

"What is the choice?" Círeth asked quietly, not eager to hear the bad news.

"Until a way is discovered to destroy the ring, someone else must bind themselves to it." Kir frowned. "I am prepared to do so."

With a nod, Círeth frowned. "Shall we depart?"

Kir and Akilina rose from their seats. The master of the Coven gestured for her to follow and together the three figures disappeared down a hallway and through many passageways. Círeth felt lost after the twists and turns, but eventually they reached an exit out into the forest. Three horses laden with weapons, food, and supplies stood ready to depart. Círeth realized she hadn't seen any other member of their organization. She supposed they valued secrecy which spoke volumes as to the danger this Berúthiel threat posed.

"It has been three days since we rescued you," Akilina told Círeth as she helped her onto the horse because of the ranger's shoulder. "Our medicines are powerful, but it will take time for the wound to heal."

With a nod, Círeth set off with the Coven rangers. Together they rode hard and began a multi week tree across the plains and forests between Rhûn and Gondor. The air around them remained oddly still the entire time, and they rarely ran into trouble. The worst was an attack of wild wargs which were dispatched quickly by Kir and Akilina with a little help from the healing Círeth. Every day she grew stronger, but could not yet pull her bow back.

By the end of the third week from Rhûn, the mountains came into view. Three days later and the wall of the Pelennor was visible. Círeth barely exchanged ten words with the gate guards, riding through quickly with Kir and Akilina. When they reached the gates of Minas Tirith, they found the city in an uproar with soldiers practicing more than she'd ever seen and people hurrying to and fro nervously. She led the Coven warriors straight through the streets, all the way up the seventh level Citadel. There they dismounted, leaving their horses with a frazzled servant who looked upon the black rangers in fear.

She pushed both doors open and strode inside the throne room to find her siblings, Aragorn, Arwen, Amdirien, Eldarion, and Elboron all talking with one another. To Círeth's relief, Alagos and Caranel were there also. At her intrusion they all turned around.

"Círeth!" Fëalas and Aderthon both shouted at the same time.

Alagos grinned. "Captain!"

She nodded and walked forward with Kir and Akilina slightly behind her and to either side. Elation turned to confusion as the citizens of the Reunited Kingdom noticed her companions.

"My Lord," Círeth bowed to Aragorn, ignoring the others for the time being. "These are Kir and Akilina of the Coven of Vultur. They have told me much about the threat we face. I strongly suggest we listen to them."

Aragorn, bewildered, nodded. He trusted Círeth. "Come, Kir, Akilina. We shall go speak in a more private setting." He beckoned for the group to join him as they went to a side conference room and all took seats.

There, Kir related the tale of the Ring of Berúthiel all over again as he had done many weeks before to Círeth. The horror on the faces of those present did not escape them, and by the end they offered little hope. For they did not know how to destroy the ring.

"I am prepared to bind myself so she may die," Kir finished. "It is the only option."

Aragorn frowned. He did not like that option, but until they knew more, he supposed it was their only option. "You are welcome to stay in Minas Tirith for the time being. You said Berúthiel is sending troops here? When?"

"Within the week," Kir replied. "They are behind us."

Aragorn nodded and turned to Aderthon. "Go now and alert the people and soldiers. We need to prepare for battle. Order the farmers out of the Pelennor in two days' time."

Aderthon stood and bowed, rushing off to do as his king commanded. Down the stairs out of the citadel he ran, jumping over Sídhil's white cat who seemed to pop up everywhere. He rushed to the bell that signaled for the commanders to meet. With three large swings and rung it.

War was coming, and they had to prepare. Messengers went out to Dol Amroth and Lossarnach while the beacon was lit for Rohan. Yet even if the summons were acted in immediately, Rohan could not come before the week was out, and Dol Amroth would take time also. For now, the capital of the Reunited Kingdom stood alone.

Chapter Text

Aderthon and Eldarion stood together, side by side, watching their soldiers train. Both commanders had their own hand-picked guard squadron. These soldiers were considered the most elite warriors on the battlefield in all of the Reunited Kingdom. Aderthon personally trained them all, drawing on what he’d been taught from his mother and father who in turn had been taught by Glorfindel the balrog slayer. Eldarion helped train them, for his mastery of the sword matched Aderthon’s own, but more often than not he was busy learning kingship from Aragorn.

“Are you prepared,” Eldarion asked his cousin quietly. At Aderthon's confused expression he explained further. “To go to war again, I mean.”

“I enjoy the thrill of battle, but I do not desire it. Especially not so close to Minas Tirith's people.” Aderthon sighed and watched his men more closely. “I am glad to have a name to match the face of our enemy. Berúthiel shall die by our hands, for Elboron's sake, and Faramir’s and Finduilas and Eowyn’s too. We will right the wrongs Halion has continued to do.”

“At least that monster is dead,” Eldarion added quickly.

Aderthon nodded, his fist clenched in fury. “If we had slain him in Arnor, this would've all been avoided.” He paced forward furiously and swung his sword. “Faervel! With me.”

The brown haired man nodded and brought his sword up to block Aderthon's incoming attack. Their dulled swords clanged on impact and Faervel shuddered beneath Aderthon’s blow. But he knew his commander well enough to respond in kind. He leapt backwards and swung at Aderthon’s side. As expected, the half-elf caught the swing and returned it.

Eldarion watched him, shaking his head. Aderthon’s fury was legendary. When he was angry, it took much to calm him down. The prince did not envy Faervel’s position. As he stood there watching, a quiet laugh sounded behind him near the gate to the training grounds. He turned to find Nimwing there in a white tunic and cloak. Eldarion smiled and walked the distance to where she stood.

“Hello,” Eldarion said pleasantly. “What brings you here?”

“I was curious as to what all the loud noises were about. Aderthon looks quite furious,” she replied. Then she paused and frowned. “King Elessar briefed all the ambassadors on the situation. We face a grave threat.”

Eldarion nodded. “Indeed we do. But we will be ready, and we will not let the White City fall.”

“I have faith in her two commanders,” Nimwing agreed, “and her King.”

“Your faith in us is appreciated,” Eldarion replied with a smile.

She bowed to him. “I will let you return to training.” Nimwing bid him farewell and left to go up a level to the ambassadors’ houses.

As she left, Círeth and Fëalas passed her by with a quick nod. The twins quickly found their way to the gate, opened it, and went inside. Eldarion turned in surprise when he heard the gate creak open, but smiled when he saw the newcomers. Aderthon stopped his sparring with Faervel, much to the man’s relief, and approached them. A frown adorned his face which did not move even upon seeing his sisters.

“What do you need?” Aderthon asked, sheathing his sword. He sew their frowns and shot them his own glare. “Do not lecture me on how I deal with angry right now.”

“You are going to hurt your men if you keep this up,” Círeth rebuked him.

Her older brother snarled angrily but said no more, folding his arms. Eldarion turned to the twins and nodded. “What did you need from us?”

“Fëalas seemed to believe you would have foolish notions of revenge after what Halion did,” Círeth deadpanned, facing her brother, “but that isn't true, is it?”

“I will not do anything that anyone else would not,” Aderthon assured her. “If I can take a chance and kill her, I will. If I cannot, then Kir will.”

Círeth smirked. “That is a good answer. I wish I believed it.”

“What do you want me to say? I will run and hide when the fighting starts?” Aderthon shook his head vigorously. He kept his voice down. “I will put myself in as much danger as the foot soldiers. It is more likely I will come out than they!”

Eldarion agreed. “Círeth you said the same when Barahir went out. We all put ourselves in danger.” He turned to Fëalas. “And you lead as many expeditions as possible. You do not delegate.”

The sisters shifted and nodded together as one. They knew he spoke correctly. Still they did not want their brother in danger.

Círeth nodded curtly. “Just… be careful, and be smart when the fighting starts. We will be leading the archers on the wall.”

“Hopefully we have a few days yet,” Eldarion assured the siblings. “Until then we will all do our best to calmly prepare for the battle. Alright?”

“Yes,” Fëalas said with a smile and nod.

Eldarion smiled back at her. “Good. Then Círeth, you should go see the healers and figure out just how much you will be allowed to do when the time comes.”

Círeth nodded. She and Fëalas left the training grounds. Aderthon turned to Eldarion and frowned. “We have five thousand troops in the city, yes?”

“Yes. Roughly.” Eldarion and he walked back over to the elite soldiers who practiced against one another. “You do not think it will be enough.”

“Rhûn has been building its forces for fifty years, Eldarion.” Aderthon shook his head in defeat. “Who knows how large Berúthiel's army is!”

“Kir and Akilina are speaking with my father as we do our jobs,” he reminded his cousin.

Aderthon gave a curt nod. He flashed a tiny smirk. “I suppose we should do what we do best and fight.”

Eldarion laughed. The two leaders of the army walked forward and approached their two different teams respectively. Aderthon spoke to his men as they surrounded him, sweating and panting from their training thus far.

“Go, rest. We will meet up again here after dinner,” he told them. “Until then, I want you eating and resting to preserve your strength.”

A man, tall and of older appearance than the others nodded and looked at him. “You should do the same, commander.”

Aderthon smirked, bowing his head. “Do not worry, Arn. I will.”

“Good.” Arn nodded.

The soldiers split up, leaving the training area and heading to their homes in the city of Minas Tirith. Aderthon followed them, heading up to the sixth level to his own house. As he walked, thoughts of the impending battle filled his mind and unbidden memories of the Battle for Arnor followed. His forced killing of Tinneth haunted him to that day, and sometimes he would sit and think and wonder if there had been anything he could’ve done to stop her fall into madness and evil. But Tinneth had lived up to her name: spark. She had been a spark of fury, of anger, of vengeance.

He reached his childhood home barely paying attention to the world around him. Merry and Pippin sat outside on a bench smoking and looked up at the man when he appeared.

“He returns,” Pippin said, waving to the man. “How are the troops today?”

“They look alright,” he replied with a wry smile.

Merry nodded. “Under you and Prince Eldarion, I am sure they do.”

“You flatter me,” Aderthon laughed, feeling more at ease now than he had been. The hobbits always managed to help him in that regard. He was glad to live with them. “Now, what are you two doing other than filling yourselves with smoke?”

Pippin laughed. “What more need we to do? Aragorn has already told the council of the impending battle. Word has been sent to the farmers of the Pelennor to evacuate. We desire to sit now upon the ruin and talk, as Gandalf used to say.”

“I wish I had known him,” Aderthon complained as he stood beside the hobbits.

Pippin chuckled. “Gandalf was a great lord, but he also had a temper. I do not know how you two would have gotten along.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Aderthon objected with a laugh.

“Oh nothing,” replied the younger hobbit, smirking.

Aderthon scoffed and left them be, heading inside. He undid his practice armor and put it away. He sat. Many thoughts ran through his head but foremost was concern for his men. He did not want to lead the soldiers of the Reunited Kingdom into defeat.

Chapter Text

That night Aderthon found himself unable to sleep. He tossed and turned in bed, trying desperately to shake off the combination of anxiety and anticipation that plagued him. His body felt tired after hours of training that day, but his mind bustled with activity. So after several hours of nothing, he stood and dressed in loose clothing.

The night air felt cool as a breeze blew about him. He made his way up the street to the gate to the seventh level. He nodded to the guards as he passed through. Soon he stood at the citadel courtyard. Aderthon did not know why he’d come up here. But soon he saw a dark shape standing at the far end of the jutting spur. Aderthon went to him.

“Lord Aderthon,” came the harsh voice of Kir, his thick Rhûnic accent heavy in the air.

Aderthon stood beside him. “Thank you for bringing my sister home.”

Kir nodded. “For the first time in hundreds of years, the Coven cannot defeat the evil in Rhûn alone.”

“You mentioned that Berúthiel cannot be killed while she bears the ring,” said Aderthon matter-of-factly. He turned to face the black ranger. “How then will we win this?”

“I will bind myself to the ring,” Kir reminded him.

The other man nodded. Then he spoke again, more quietly and with the utmost level of respect. “How is that done?”

“There is a pair of words in Black Speech that must be said, and blood of the new host needs to touch the ring,” Kir told him.

“And the words?” asked Aderthon quietly.

Kir turned to face the commander now. His face was set with seriousness. “They mean 'ring’ and ‘bind’. Are you sure you wish to know them? The black speech itself is evil.”

He didn't hesitate. “Yes.”

And so Kir leaned in and whispered the phrase in his ear. Aderthon involuntarily shuddered at the sound. The speech of the Enemy sounded revolting, and yet dripped with power. The men returned to watching the darkness of night over the Pelennor.

“How long have you been fighting the enemies of the free peoples?” Aderthon asked several silent minutes later.

Kir spoke quietly. “I am thirty-two, and was born into the Coven. I became Master four years ago. I have been fighting for Vultur my entire life.”

“Vultur? Eönwë, correct?”

Kir shrugged. “I am told that is what the elves call him. He is our god, and his worship commands we eradicate the shadow from Middle Earth.”

“Then why not become an ally of the Reunited Kingdom?” Aderthon asked with a frown. “Why the secrecy?”

“In our experience, our methods frighten the other peoples. We do whatever is necessary, no matter the cost.” Kir looked at Aderthon closely. “And it is illegal to be a part of the Coven in Rhûn, though many have joined us.”

Aderthon nodded thoughtfully. His mind drifted to the battle that would come soon. With a heavy heart, Aderthon turned to look back at the flowering white tree. That tree had stood his entire life and never failed to flower. He hoped that it would continue to do so, for everyone's sake.

The son of Elrohir bid Kir a good night not long after, returning to his house with a few hours till dawn. The fatigue of his body finally conquered his mind. He slept.

When he awoke, it was to the sound of warning bells. A battalion of rangers north and east had sent word from Cair Andros. The messenger claimed that an army of Easterlings ten thousand strong marched south and came but a half day behind him. Aderthon and Eldarion immediately set about organizing the army, speaking to their captains and arraying the troops out on the Pelennor. They strengthened the walls with a thousand men, using the other four thousand to guard the city.

Four hours later, Aderthon stood before his soldiers. This time they bore real swords, sharp as carving knives, and armor of steel and chainmail. Cloaks of red unfurled behind them while Aderthon’s own was emblazoned with the White Tree. When a great many horns sounded across the Pelennor, the army stiffened as one.

Aderthon turned to his men. “Brothers!” He paused and looked all ten in the eyes. “I would ask for none but you to stand beside me this day. We find ourselves now on the edge of a great battle, one where tales of great renown will rise from. But even deeds done today that have no song written of are great in my eyes, and eyes of your king.” He smiled and unsheathed his sword. “Together we will protect our city, our home. But more than that we protect the hope of Middle Earth and the Free Peoples!” He laughed gaily. “I know of nothing better to fight for.”

His men, and all the surrounding battalions who heard his words cheered. The glorious sound of unsheathing blades rang out in the still air.  As he turned back to face the field of green, they heard the pounding of hooves. A great cry went up. The wall had fallen, and the enemy advanced.

“This our hour!” cried Aderthon. “For the Free Peoples!”

His cry echoed through the ranks. He wondered briefly if it would reach the ears of Eldarion who fought on the other end of the army, or Aragorn who fought at the middle, surrounded by his citadel guards. As the army moved forward he smiled and swung his sword to readjust his grip.

Not too long after, the approaching army came into view. A few hundred horsemen led the charge, some dragging chariots behind them. These horses were picked off handily by the archers, and did not pose much of a threat. The army on foot, however. That remained a different story.

The armies clashed with great screeches and screams. The Gondorian forces were outnumbered two to one but their plan kept the Wainriders and Easterling forces from surrounding them. As they fought, the two sides traded ground. At some points, the army of the Reunited Kingdom surged forward, at others they fell back.

A great Easterling commander approached Aderthon an hour later. He raised his sword and rushed the man. The two engaged in combat for several minutes, neither gaining the upper hand until finally Aderthon landed a blow on the commander’s left leg. He sliced behind his knee, causing the Easterling to buckle. But as Aderthon went to finish him off, a black arrow whizzed by his face, narrowly missing. Aderthon turned and saw an archer not far away.

Aderthon decapitated the Easterling commander and turned to face the archer. But he knew it was too late as the warrior drew back his bow. Thankfully, Faervel knocked the archer down, causing the arrow to misfire straight into another Easterling.

“Thank you!” Aderthon called, nodding as Faervel panted heavily.

His soldier nodded back and turned away, facing the fighting once more. Aderthon realized then to his dismay that the Gondorian army had been forced back nearly to the White City. Three thousand men still stood firm before the Easterlings, but unless aid came from Dol Amroth or Rohan soon, they would lose from the sheer numbers Rhûn possessed.

Another hour passed. More citizens of the Reunited Kingdom perished. Aderthon, seeing the walls nearby and the waning forces around him, growled in his throat and pressed all the harder. But a great shout went up. Aragorn, seeing the futility of the open field warfare, and knowing Rohan and Dol Amroth would arrive sooner or later, had ordered a retreat.

Aderthon and his guard kept a shield wall while the foot soldiers retreated into the citadel through the mithril reinforced gates in the black wall. He stood alone and saw, to his horror, the crowds parting as Berúthiel approached in her battle armor.

“Get inside,” he barked to his men. “Now!”

They didn't have to be told twice. Archers rained down fury from the walls, protecting the last of Aderthon’s men. The nephew of the King was the last to dart inside just as the gates closed shut.

Eldarion met him at the gates. “It is good to see you no worse for wear.”

Aderthon clasped his arm in greeting. “You as well.”

They turned as a great shaking of the gates was heard. The Easterlings used their chariots as a battering ram to attempt to break the gates.

“Come, we must find my father.” Eldarion gestured for Aderthon to follow.

All around them men lay broken and in pain. The least injured soldiers took up defensive positions. Around a thousand men had escaped inside, plus fifty of each company of the rangers upon the walls. They found Aragorn in the gatehouse speaking with Círeth.

“Ten days’ store,” Círeth told Aragorn as they walked up.

Aragorn nodded. “It will be enough unless Berúthiel harnesses some kind of black magic as a weapon.”

Aderthon approached them. “Where is Kir? Or Akilina?”

“Near the gate,” Aragorn replied. His forehead bled from a light wound.

Eldarion nodded. “Our plan?”

“Hold out until Rohan and Dol Amroth arrive,” Aragorn replied simply, sighing a bit at the news. “It would be folly to attempt to finish this battle on the open fields. We lack the men. I will not cast away lives without need.”

Both commanders of the army nodded. They agreed completely, but Aderthon worried about Berúthiel. Suddenly the noises of battle stopped. Eldarion suggested they climb out onto the gate to see the current state of affairs.

Chapter Text

The walls of Minas Tirith held fast. The citizens of the Reunited Kingdom watched from windows as everything stood still. For the Easterlings had withdrawn to a hundred yards from the lowest wall. They had tried to break open the mithril gates, but none had succeeded.

Berúthiel strode forward and stood before the gates, a dark sword in her right hand, her left hand bore her ring. Her armored chest piece, forged from a black metal, sparkled in the light of the day. Her black sword dripped blood. Long, midnight locks fell about her and her eyes gleamed.

Aragorn, Eldarion, and Aderthon stood atop the gates. The king knew it was only a matter of time until reinforcements arrived from Dol Amroth, or even Rohan would be on the way sooner or later. But he hoped his people could hold out.

"Kneel." Berúthiel smirked as she spoke to the king and his commanders. "Kneel before your rightful queen."

Aderthon growled at her angrily. "Never."

"You are in my city," Berúthiel spat angrily. "I will have my city back. And I will kill every one of our people to reclaim it."

"Our people?" Prince Eldarion quivered in anger. "Our people? You are a Black Numenorean, a queen stripped of her titles. We do not recognize your claim!"

Berúthiel narrowed her eyes. "I will kill you first, boy. When I burn this city to the ground, it will be you who dies by my hand."

Aderthon glanced at his best friend, and his king, and drew Galmegil. "You will have to go through me."

Berúthiel smirked at him, not frightened in the slightest. "That can be arranged." She raised her hand to command her forces advance on the city.

The nephew of the King scrunched his face. "I demand single combat," Aderthon shouted at her. "You and me, now."

Aragorn, Eldarion, and all assembled turned to him in shock. Eldarion immediately began to object, and then spit curses as Aderthon shook his head. Aragorn remained silent, his face draining of color.

But Berúthiel merely smiled. It was a sick smile, and Aderthon felt a chill creep up his spine. But his city had lost too much that day, and if he had a chance to kill her, he had to take it. Eldarion was the heir, far too precious to the city. But Aderthon... he was fair game.

"I accept your challenge, child." She sheathed her sword. "Come down, out of your hiding place, and we can settle this."

"I get five companions of my choosing." He called down to her. "To ensure my safety until the duel."

She scoffed. "Agreed."

Eldarion insisted on going as Aderthon had known he would. "You idiot. You idiot!" The prince got into his face as the climbed down from the gate house. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Kir said that if we can get the ring off, she's vulnerable, right?" Aderthon tried to explain as he gestured for Círeth and Fëalas to join them. "This is our best shot!"

Kir and Akilina came striding up, their black armor creating gaping shadows in the daylight. Both would he accompanying him, too.

Círeth looked as angry as Eldarion. "Aderthon this is madness!" She tried to get between him and the mithril gates.

But he merely nodded to the gate keeper. The man heaved the mechanism and opened the gates wide enough for them to exit one by one. Aderthon went first.

He approached Berúthiel slowly, eyes narrowed. She stood, her sword drawn from its sheath. It was black as night. And he recognized it.

Berúthiel smiled. "This is Anguirel, ancient sword of Maeglin, son of Aredhel, daughter of Fingolfin. My predecessor, Halion, obtained it long ago. He gifted it to one named "Tinneth." You knew her, did you not?" She paused to watch the agony and fury morph Aderthon's expression. "So it is true. She was your sister. How wonderful."

"Your words do not frighten me, servent of darkness." He drew Galmegil, though tears threatened to spill down his cheeks.

"That certainly is a nice sword." She smiled at him. "I cannot wait to own it, too."

The companions Aderthon had selected stood behind him, nearer to the gates. But he himself strode forward, eyes never leaving Berúthiel's. Behind him he heard the closing of the Gate of Minas Tirith. All fell silent for a moment.

Berúthiel's smile stretched from ear to ear. "Begin."

They circled one another like vultures, sizing each other up. Aderthon's armor allowed him a good range of movement, composed of a mix of leathers and chainmail along with steel and mithril armor pieces. But his opponent remained well armored as well.

He stepped in to strike, but she positioned her sword well, catching his swing and pushing it away. They broke apart again, and circled. It was Berúthiel who made a move next. Aderthon parried, then returned the favor with a slash of his own. But she dodged it easily. This time Aderthon used his full might to slam his sword down on hers. She caught the blow, but visibly shuddered as his strength exceeded her own. He swung again, and yet again. Each time she managed to catch or deflect the blows.

With each swing, Berúthiel weakened. But on his fifth attack, she spun into it and caught him off guard. She managed to catch his side and he staggered back, blood on his hand as he covered the wound. His companions' faces echoed the dismayed reaction of the peoples of the city.

Now Aderthon drew himself up, angrier than ever. He increased his attacks, driving the false queen back until at last he caught her leg. But with a spell in muttered black speech, she managed to send him flying back before he could land anything else. He crashed onto his back, dazed.

He couldn't make out the screaming around him, but he registered pain when a dagger dug itself into his left shoulder. He shouted in agony, but at least his mind cleared. Berúthiel stood above him now, her sword hung beside her. A smirk adorned her face and she raised her right hand to deliver the final blow.

Aderthon saw his chance despite the searing pain in his left arm and entire side of his body. The blood from his minor side wound felt hot and sticky beneath his armor. But quickly, with his right hand, he swung a dagger with such force it sliced three of Berúthiel's left fingers clean off, including the ring.

She howled in fury and pain, staggering backwards and clutching at her bloody hand. Her three fingers lay next to Aderthon and he groped at the ground trying to find the ring that he knew was there. Finally the metal reached him and he made a decision.

"Krimp. Nazg. Say these words," Kir had told him.

He slipped it on and touched the ring to his blood, whispering the black speech. Beruthiel, recovering, saw the action and words, and screamed in fury. She rushed forward and tried to murder Aderthon before it could take effect. As she stood over him where he still lay on the ground, unable to move his left arm much, a whistling noise was heard and she froze.

Aderthon saw in amazement that a black dagger hilt protruded from her chest. Her eyes left Aderthon's and met someone else's as she dropped her sword. It clattered to the ground.

"This is not possible," she murmured, blood beginning to pool in her mouth. She choked on blood as her lungs filled, and finally dropped to the ground, eyes left eerily open.

Eldarion darted to Aderthon's side, grabbing him beneath his arms and dragging the injured man back inside the opened gates. The soldiers of Rhun, seeing their immortal leader dead, murmured and muttered to themselves. Some chose to advance on the city, but not all. And it was at that moment a great many horns sounded.

"Dol Amroth!" Fëalas grinned and shouted to the others. "They've arrived!"

Círeth and Fëalas arranged their squadrons of archers on top of the walls and began raining down arrows as the city's forces again rushed out, courage and faith restored. Seeing their general defeat the enemy's leader had restored their strength it seemed.

Eldarion and Kir each took a side of Aderthon and rushed him up the city to the Houses of Healing. Aragorn instead led the charge to join the knights of Dol Amroth.

All color had drained from Eldarion's face. He looked at Kir as they reached the healing houses and left Aderthon in their care. "What did he do?"

Kir frowned with a sigh. "He did what needed to be done."

Eldarion slammed his fist onto a nearby desk. "What did he do?"

Kir explained slowly, "He rebound the ring to himself, as I would have done."

But Eldarion seethed as they stood in the entrance of the Houses of Healing. His eyes blazed in anger but his voice was low. "And how in Elbereth's name did he know how to do that."

"He came to me two nights ago," said Kir simply. "He asked for the words of power and the instructions."

Eldarion punched Kir in the jaw. But at that moment Círeth rushed in and grabbed the prince. The Coven leader massaged his jaw and glared angrily back at Eldarion.

"Eldarion!" Círeth snapped furiously. "Calm yourself!"

"You gave him the words?!" Eldarion massaged his own fist. "How could you!"

"Your friend asked me for them. I protested but he insisted, and another knowing the ritual increased our chances of defeating the witch." Kir spoke calmly and without malice. Then his eyes hardened and he glared. "We do what must be done for the safety of Middle Earth, no matter what the cost!"

But Eldarion shook his head, tears in his eyes. "This cost was too high."

He stormed out of the Houses of Healing, Círeth hot on his tail. She finally caught up to him and grabbed his arm, forcing him to turn to face her.

"He bound his spirit, then?" She frowned sadly. "Eldarion do not give up hope. We will find a way to destroy the accursed ring once and for all. But for now, we need clear heads. Rohan has entered the battle as well, and the tide is turning." She gestured to the nearby door to the Houses of Healing. "Aderthon needs to recover physically. Who knows what might happen if he dies while bound to the ring. Stay with him."

Eldarion gritted his teeth but knew the redhead spoke correctly. He sighed and relaxed his fists and jaw. "You should be there as well."

"I am counting on that." Círeth led the way back inside.

Kir had disappeared somewhere and Eldarion followed Círeth hesitantly. She went further than the entrance room, pushing past the healers to see her brother. The Prince followed.

He lay motionless on a soft bed. They had removed his shirt and armor and a young healer did her best to wash the dagger wound with athelas water. She glanced up at the two spectators. "Be quiet and stay out of the way." She sewed up the shoulder wound and turned to his cut side.

All Círeth had eyes for was the serpent ring upon her brother's right hand. A fire smouldered in her eyes. Despite her words to Eldarion, she felt as furious as he. Partly because she had been unable to fight with her injury, and partly because she had told him to be careful and smart. Now he lay injured, bound to a ring they did not know how to destroy.

Chapter Text

Aragorn met Éomer on the field of battle. He picked his way between corpses of horses and men alike. The stench of death hung in the air. It reminded him far too much of the Battle of the Pelennor Fields except that now it was men killing men, and lacked the orcs of Sauron. Yet even without Sauron evil managed to surface. He sighed wearily as he noticed a handful of men he recognized. Two were friends of Aderthon and Eldarion, who lay in the blue cloaks of the Prince's company. But the royal blue was now stained black with blood.

Éomer approached him on horseback. His face, drawn in a weariness mirroring Aragorn's own, betrayed all his emotions. The kings clasped arms in greeting when the Rohirric lord swung down from his steed.

"It is good to see you," Éomer smiled. Then his smile faltered as he looked at the devastation. "I wish it had been under better circumstances."

Aragorn sighed. "Indeed. Thank you for heading the call."

Éomer laughed softly. "I would not abandon the White City. Then I would truly be a lesser king than my sires. Besides, I value the friendship of her King."

They looked left as four horsemen rode up. One flew the colors of Dol Amroth, another of Rohan. Two more bore the Reunited Kingdom's colors.

Eldarion, Fëalas, Elfwine, and Prince Elphir dismounted around the two kings. Eldarion's face was drawn in weariness and his father frowned.

"It is done, then?" Aragorn asked his son.

The prince clenched his fists. "Yes. That idiot-"

"-saved everyone's lives," Aragorn contradicted him quickly. "A foolish choice, it seems at first. But one done out of honorable intentions."

Éomer, Elfwine, and Elphir all looked at the Gondorians in confusion. Aragorn shook his head. "Not here. I bid you return with me to the city. There we will discuss what has happened."

The other lords agreed immediately. Everyone mounted their horses and followed Aragorn back towards the gate of the great city. Eldarion trailed behind last and, upon passing the broken body of Berúthiel, dismounted briefly. He noticed Kir's dagger missing from her chest and supposed the man had retrieved it already. So Eldarion stooped and picked up the sword Anguirel. An artifact such as that should not be lost, he decided, and intended to give it to Aderthon as some sort of closure for the death of Tinneth. If he did not want it, the vault of Minas Tirith would gladly accept the ancient sword of Eöl and Maeglin.

Eldarion remounted his horse and hurried after the other lords into the city. He caught up with them in the fourth level, and from there they left their horses on level six, walking their way to the citadel one level above. Aragorn led them inside to the side room he often used for conferences. There they all sat and Aragorn began relating the tale of the return of Berúthiel.

"This only was revealed to us half a week ago," he ended. "Two messengers from a resistance force against the Shadow in Rhûn came to us. They had rescued Lady Círeth and knew the enemy that we faced."

"So Lord Aderthon is now bound to this ring?" Elphir frowned at the news. "What can be done of it?"

Aragorn sighed. "We do not know yet. I spoke with Kir, one of the messengers, briefly before the battle. He had planned on binding himself."

"If it is a relic of Sauron, surely it will corrupt Aderthon," Elfwine added quickly. "Something must be done!"

Eldarion frowned at him. "Kir assures us any corrupting influence, if it is there at all, will take a long time. Lady Lúthien cleansed it of the Enemy's influence."

"Where is Aderthon?" Éomer asked.

"The Houses of Healing," Eldarion replied quickly. "They are keeping him asleep while he begins to heal, and Círeth is with him."

Aragorn sighed. "What we know of destroying it is this: it is similar to the One Ring. Destroying the rings Sauron crafted requires a place of forging he would've used."

"But the one he used lies under the waves now," Fëalas said quickly, frowning. "And Orodruin remains dormant."

Aragorn nodded and gestured to Fëalas. "Therein lies our problem. Kir mentioned dragonfire as maybe a possible alternative, but no fire drakes remain that I am aware of. Smaug was the last of those creatures in the West."

They all sat silently for several moments. Each fell lost in thoughts his or her mind conjured up. Prince Elphir finally spoke minutes later, his voice heavier than he would've liked.

"At least the battle is won." Elphir pointed this out with a wave of his hand. "Rhûn has lost its ruler and ten thousand troops, and that is no small blow to them."

"Truly do you speak," Aragorn agreed with a smile. "Perhaps Rhûn will think twice before launching a second offensive. I thank all of you present for your assistance today; the hope of the Free Peoples is alive because of you. Please stay as long as desired." He stood and they followed suit.

"Is my sister here still?" Éomer asked Aragorn quietly.

The king nodded as the walked through the throne room together. "Indeed. She is at the Houses of Healing and is resting. She hopes to return to Ithilien soon." He turned to Eldarion who walked some way behind. "Please show King Éomer to the Houses of Healing."

Eldarion bowed to his father and beckoned for the white haired king of Rohan to follow. He led the way quickly to the next level down. Here he found the Houses of Healing bustling with activity. He stopped a healer and asked where the Lady Eowyn was being tended to.

"Show King Éomer to her room," Eldarion told the young woman. When she nodded, he turned to Éomer. "I will leave you, lord. For I must see to my cousin."

"Of course," Éomer nodded.

Eldarion pushed on further into the healing houses. He dodged healers and the beds of critically wounded. Finally he came to the side room where Círeth sat beside Aderthon.

"Has he woken?" Eldarion asked her quietly.

She shook her head. "No. But the healers say it is only a matter of time."

"I have many choice words to share with him when he wakes," grumbled the Prince. "He will wish to be still asleep."

Suddenly they heard a small chuckle from the bed. They quickly turned to the patient to find him smirking, eyes blinking against the evening light coming through the window. Aderthon tried to sit up but could not.

"Lie still," Círeth ordered fiercely. She folded her arms. "Unless you want to be in here for longer."

"No." He shook his head. Then he turned his head to the prince. "Eldarion, spare me your tirade. I can already hear it in my mind."

The prince rolled his eyes and folded his arms to match Círeth's hard expression. "My father says that it was an honorable decision, however foolish. I blame Kir for putting the idea in your head in the first place."

Aderthon shook his head as vigorously as he could. "Do not blame him. I pushed him for the answers I wanted. He did not want to give them to me."

They settled into quiet chatter. Fëalas came soon and they continued for as long as the healers permitted it. But once the night had fallen, the headmaster came and shooed them all away, telling them that Aderthon needed all the rest he could get.

And yet not ten minutes later, Aderthon got another visitor. Her blonde hair fell loosely down her back and a single small braid decorated her hair. She wore a white and grey dress and walked noiselessly.

"Nimwing!" Aderthon tried again to sit up but she shook her head.

"Lie still." She poured a glass of water for him and sat down on the chair to his right. "Here." He drank it gratefully and she smiled. "I am privileged to help you. You did a brave thing today."

Aderthon chuckled. "Eldarion called it foolish."

"War calls for desperate measures." Nimwing sighed. "Had it not been for you, many more would've died. If you had done such a thing not in battle then yes, foolish would be an apt word for your actions." She chuckled.

He smiled ruefully, his characteristic smirk back on his face. With a glance at her face, he asked her a question. "How did you fare?"

"I took it upon myself to keep the nobles occupied during the battle," she admitted. "Many were...difficult. But I watched from the walls and wished I could fight beside you and your army."

"Perhaps someday," Aderthon said with a shrug. "I would welcome you by my side."

They fell silent, Aderthon blushing slightly. He hoped the darkness of the room apart from the few candles would keep it hidden from the maiden before him.

"Are you in much pain?" she asked after a few quiet moments.

He gritted his teeth. "Not as much as I would've expected. My shoulder hurts the most. But the healer who tended to me says I was fortunate. The blade missed the vital areas."

"This is good." Nimwing nodded eagerly. "Give it time and you will heal fully, this I am certain of."

And time he was given. It took a month before Aderthon was allowed to leave the Houses of Healing for good. When he was finally free, he went first to see his own house. There, Merry and Pippin greeted him warmly and prepared a grand meal that they shared with his sisters, Eldarion, and Elboron. They chatted merrily as friends do.

And yet in the months that followed, a shadow hung over Aderthon, a shadow of increasing depression. Kir, as master of the Coven, left Minas Tirith not long after the Battle, but Akilina his wife remained behind to provide what aid she could to discovering a way of destroying the Ring of Berúthiel. The feeling that he would be sundered forever from his kin, both man or elf, upon death followed Aderthon like a shadow.

And so fall turned into winter, winter into spring, and spring into summer. The days passed, Minas Tirith was rebuilt. The Pelennor once more became busy with farmsteads. Eldarion and Aderthon trained more men for battle, but during all of it they searched for answers.

Chapter Text

Aderthon stood atop the first gate of Minas Tirith, watching as the last rays of the sun filled the twilight sky. The sun had fallen behind the tips of the mountains, yet still Arien's light radiated through to the darkness of the east. A quiet, summer breeze blew his brown hair across his face. The tips tickled his cheek and he brushed them away. The crimson cloak he wore billowed behind him. Aderthon scanned the horizon, letting his gaze land on Osgiliath at the river. He knew Emyn Arnen and Amon Loth lay beyond that, and further then to the sea.

A quick glance at the ever present ring on his right hand reminded him that he could never make the voyage his heart seemed to long for these days. Not that he would leave Eldarion behind yet. But his mother and father were now forever sundered from him. A tiny, rueful smile crossed his face. For it seemed fate had determined to strand Fëanor's line in Middle Earth yet again, or one of them at the least.

He felt rather than saw when Eldarion and Nimloth came beside him. Nimloth place her gentle hand in his, saying nothing, while Eldarion stood to his other side. The maiden tightened her grip on Aderthon's hand. The two had grown ever closer since the battle many months ago, and he was quite sure he loved her. And his love of Eldarion as a brother was well known far and wide.

"Has Akilina found anything more since she returned?" Aderthon asked quietly, still watching the horizon. "I was busy with Faerval and Hweston and could not meet her today."

Eldarion sighed and shook his head. "We keep returning to the same half guess. There is only one place that still remains in Middle Earth that might actually be accessible. But even that is uncertain."

"Utumno," Aderthon groaned with a nod. "Is that the best we have? The destroyed fortress of Morgoth?"

Nimwing nodded, leaning her head on his shoulder, her hair mixing with his in the breeze. "It is better than having no hope at all. Perhaps that accursed place is still in the East."

"We do not even know where to look, other than past Rhûn," Aderthon reminded them. "And it might not even exist anymore!"

They fell quiet. He spoke correctly, and yet Utumno remained their only hope. Its location remained lost to those west of the Red Mountains. There seemed to be but one course: set out east and hope the Valar would aid them. Yet Aderthon spoke correctly. It could've sunk beneath the waves with the sinking of Numenor and sundering of the lands. They simply did not know.

And so the three companions watched the coming and going of the merchants and farmers. A few dwarves walked through the gate, visitors from the Lonely Mountain, or Aglarond, or even the Iron Hills. Men of Dale and Rohan chatted together as they entered, and a family of farmers left to return home to their house of the Pelennor.

Suddenly Aderthon's attention was drawn to a newcomer. "Who is that?"

They looked where he gestured. The figure in question stood tall atop a black steed. His hair, going to about halfway down his chest, was a red-golden color. He dressed in blacks, greys, and oranges and several large packs adorned his horse.

"That is no elf I am familiar with," Nimwing murmured. "Perhaps a visitor from Eryn Lasgalen, or the Havens?"

"Perhaps," he muttered in reply.

But Eldarion and he both felt something different about this elf. Aderthon led the way down from the gatehouse and as the elf rode through the gates, they watched him from the side. The rider stopped at the entrance, looking around almost critically. His gaze darted too and fro, taking in the city. But soon he looked hard at the three companions. He smiled and dismounted.

"Prince Eldarion, Lord Aderthon." He bowed his head to them. "I am Eglanor. And I have come to be your guide."

"Our what?" Eldarion asked in confusion.

"You're guide," Eglanor repeated. "But come now, let us go see your father. I do believe he and you will be interested in what I have to say. Word of your plight, Lord Aderthon, has gone far and wide!"

Aderthon's face went white. "You have answers, then?"

"Yes, I do." Eglanor gestured for them to walk ahead. "Now I suggest we move quickly. It is almost dinner, and I cannot wait to meet King Elessar."

Nimwing frowned slightly, but she followed both the prince and her beloved up the streets. They walked in silence, dodging townsfolk here and there. But soon enough they reached the Citadel, and had Eglanor leave his horse with a servant.

Eglanor's eyes hungrily glanced around the Citadel's entrance. When the doors opened he walked inside right behind the cousins and before Nimwing. They found Aragorn and Arwen talking with Elboron.

"Father," Eldarion began, closing the distance quickly. "A visitor has arrived, an elf claiming to have the answers we seek for Aderthon!"

Aragorn raised an eyebrow in surprise and looked over at Eglanor, Aderthon, and Nimwing. He saw the light shining in the face of the new elf and knew instantly he was one who had seen the Blessed Realm. This put the King at ease.

"Welcome," Aragorn smiled. "What is your name, my good elf?"

"Eglanor." He bowed his head to the king, queen, a son of the Steward.

"Welcome, Eglanor. Is what my son says true? Do you know anything of the Ring of Berúthiel?" Aragorn gestured for him to follow as the retired to a sitting area.

"That I do. It was one of Sauron's rings." Eglanor nodded. "I was there, you know, in those days. I came from Valinor with the Noldor, and stayed here to explore the vast lands of Arda."

Aderthon smiled. "Then you know, perhaps, where to find Utumno?!"

"Indeed, young one." Eglanor smirked. "Many years has it been since my services were needed. But I have traveled the Far East, across the Orocarni, past Cuivienen, where evil stirs that is not here in the West. It is a hard road."

"And yet one I must take," Aderthon quickly added. He looked to his king. "Shall we not hear more?"

Aragorn paused before nodding. "We will hear more. But first, Aderthon, find lodging for Eglanor among the guest houses. It is late, and I am sure he would like to eat and rest."

"Thank you, Lord," bowed the elf, standing.

Aderthon smiled and beckoned for Eglanor to follow him. They made their way to the sixth level, to an unoccupied guest house. Aderthon opened the door for him and Eglanor went inside.

"That ring is a precious thing," Eglanor told him as he stood in the door way. "It is not easy to craft a ring of power. It is a pity it must be destroyed."

"There is no other option," Aderthon argued quickly. "And it is a craft of Sauron's hand."

Eglanor's eyes gleamed. "Yes it is." He paused and nodded. "I shall remain here until called for by the King tomorrow. Do not worry, Lord Aderthon. We will free you of that ring."

Aderthon left Eglanor is higher spirits than he'd experienced in many weeks. The June breeze, blowing in the night air all around him, brought comfort instead of mockery. There was finally an answer. Finally some hope.

A/N: CONGRATULATIONS! YOU'VE FINISHED Dreams of Power! GO YOU!

Book Five, Flight to the East, will be up soon, so keep and eye out for it.

As always, I appreciate hearing from you and knowing what you enjoyed and even didn't enjoy! Did the story go as you expected? Or did I throw you for a loop.

I want to first and foremost thank Professor Tolkien for being my inspiration and providing us in the fandom with endless amounts of fun. Second, I want to thank heraldofmanwe for his support while I wrote this, cowriting and planning a few more stories as we did so.