Traitor
By: Cassia and Siobhan


Rating: PG-13

 

Feedback:
cassia_a@hotmail.com and siobhancl2@aol.com


Spoilers:
Maybe little ones for previous stories in our series and other LOTR stuff 
possibly.

Disclaimer: 
We own nothing of Middle Earth or any of Tolkien’s worlds or characters. 
Everything recognizable belongs to JRR Tolkien; anything else belongs to us. We 
have no permission to use these characters and are receiving no money for this 
story. This story was written for enjoyment only.  Please do not use our 
original characters or situations without asking first.  Thank you. 

Summary:
Fifteen years is a long time... a long time in which Aragorn and Legolas have 
not seen one another.  When Legolas is accused of being a traitor to Gondor 
there are some who would like Aragorn to think that things have changed more 
than he realizes.  Embroiled in a strange mesh of deception and intrigue 
Legolas’ one chance may rest with his old friend... but will Denethor’s dislike 
of Aragorn turn the elf into a pawn in more than one game?  And can any of them 
figure out how they are really being betrayed before Legolas and Gondor both pay 
the price?

Series:
Yes, part of the massive Mellon Chronicles. LOL

Other stories in the series are:
Captive of Darkness
Hope
Father’s Love
Never Alone
First Meetings
Change of Heart, Change of Mind
Exile
Return
Mistaken Identity
Vilya
Black Breath
Sickness
The Seventh Stone
Betrayal
Legolas’ No Good, Rotten Day
Priceless Treasure
The Stars of Harad
&
Dark Visions

Also part of this series and already written, but chronologically taking place 
after this story:

And So The End

 

This story will make more sense if you have read those first, although if you 
want to give it a whirl by itself, we try to recap and explain most of the 
references back to the other stories when they pop up, but having read the rest 
of the series is strongly recommended.

Warnings:
Character torture and angst. 
You expected any less? :o)

 

Additional disclaimers:
’kay, I think you all know where we stand on Aragorn’s relationship with Elrond 
and the twins, so let’s axe that disclaimer to save a little room up here... 
What else... oh yes...

We are writing this on book information alone mostly, since the parts of the 
movie that will deal with Gondor and Denethor are not out yet, so it may or may 
not conflict with the movie-verse universe when they come out, but at least, we 
feel, it works with the book.

The Gondorians in this story, such as Alcarin, have no relation to any persons 
of the same names in the LOTR decipher trading card games.  LOL it seems that we 
just all got our names from the same place.  :o)

Also, please note that we know *nothing* about military ranking and all that, so 
it’s very probably the at many times we totally messed up the chain of command, 
but it is highly unlikely that Gondor’s army followed the same ranking system 
that ours does anyway, and since Tolkien never saw fit to tell us exactly how it 
did work (or if he did I completely glossed over it and don’t even remember) we 
have created our own ranking system for them that goes as follows:

(top is the highest position and bottom is the lowest)

--Captain (sort of like Generals)

--Commander

(Commander is often used simply to denote someone who is above someone else as 
well though)

--Lieutenant

--Sergeant

--general soldiers

 

Obviously, there are probably other ranks, but none that are necessary for this 
story.

Oh, and we gave Denethor green eyes for no particularly good reason except that 
we couldn’t find a color in the book and the movie isn’t out yet.  :o)  Forgive 
us if we messed up.  (LOL yes, considering who created him he probably had GREY 
eyes, but you know, that gets so boring after a while...)
Also other details in the appendixes regarding some of the events in this story 
may or may not have been changed or tweaked slightly for the purposes of the 
plot.  Please accept the changes, as always, as artistic license on our part and 
do not flame us for them.  Thank you!

Please note and HEAR YE ALL: I am going to explain this once and hope it makes 
sense ever after.  Aragorn is a man of many names, including Estel, Strider and 
Aragorn, he has now added another, Thorongil.  While which one people use when 
speaking to him obviously reflects whatever name he was currently going by (ie: 
the Gondorians know him only as Thorongil) we use all these names 
interchangeably in the narrative parts of this story so we may have Thorongil in 
one paragraph and Aragorn in the next.  Just so you are all aware that these are 
*one and the same person* everything should be fine.  :o)

 
Any spelling, date, cannon or character errors are the fault of the authors only 
and are completely by accident.  We are not an expert on Middle Earth and have 
never claimed to be.  So please forgive any omissions that you might find.  Also 
please forgive the inevitable typos, spelling errors, etc. and enjoy the story 
anyway. 

 

All righty then, this is now the longest header to date, so I will not make you 
suffer any further, but get on with the story!

 

 

___________________________________________________________

 

 

-Traitor-

___________________________________________________________

 

~*PART ONE*~

 

A man walked slowly to a small tent erected in the middle of the camp.  The 
fires had long ago died and the soldiers who occupied their bedrolls were sound 
asleep.  The battlefields were silent, at rest for the moment.

The warrior’s steps dragged slightly with fatigue, weariness from the long days 
of battle.  A soft sigh escaped his lips as he dropped onto the stump that had 
been drug in front of the tent opening – an impromptu chair.

With thoughtless familiarity he drew his sword and began to run a rough wet 
stone along the blade, sharpening the razor edge and smoothing out the notches 
and scratches it had acquired during the long day of battle. 

The stars twinkled quietly in the dark velvet of night, catching his attention 
and he turned his eyes towards them, seeking the ever-familiar star that shone 
so brightly in the northern quadrant of the sky.  His movements slowed and 
stilled until he was simply sitting gazing at the heavens.  The slight breezes 
moved the wayward strands of hair gently away from a battle-scarred face.  A cut 
ran from his upper lip to just under his right nostril, a wound he had sustained 
in a skirmish last week.  It was healing well, but it would leave a scar on his 
face, one that was mirrored in other similar wounds he carried on his body and 
on his heart.

The cool winds felt good as they combed through sweat-soaked hair.  The grime of 
war never quite left the soul even when the body had been washed clean and he 
closed his eyes against the memories of the day.  The southerners were fierce 
warriors; it took all the cunning and strength of his troops to keep them at 
bay.  They were insidious, difficult to track and blood thirsty; nothing like 
the peaceful Far Harad tribes that had adopted the ranger years ago when he 
temporarily lost his memory.  No, the men they fought now sought victory at any 
cost, throwing away even their own lives at will if it meant the death or injury 
of their Gondorian enemies.  Where the fire of their hatred had come from 
Aragorn would never understand.

The world of men had grown tiresome.

As he watched the distant star a word slipped unbidden from his lips and he 
remembered a more peaceful time, a more peaceful people - the ones he called 
family.

“Eärendil.”  The elvish word caused him to smile.  “Milyon dortho a adar a 
terein nìn.   Ingon ha lù na peltakse aen.  I long for my home and my brothers 
and father.  Perhaps it is time to return.”  The sound of what he considered his 
native language, one he had rarely spoken in over fifteen years, rolled easily 
off his tongue.  He whispered the words quietly to himself, nodding in 
agreement.  Absently his fingers touched the brooch at his neck; the one his 
father, Lord Elrond had named him for among men.

Aragorn, known to the men of Gondor he was now Commander over as Thorongil, 
gazed across the quiet camp.  The sentries on the edges of the encampment paced 
relentlessly back and forth, their gaze every once in a while flickering over to 
rest on their leader.  Thorongil held their trust and had won their hearts as a 
good leader and a decent, caring man.  The passage of years and the stench of 
war had not changed that, although it had worn the sharp, youthful edges off of 
the human... taking a certain measure of his innocence with it.

Slowly the ranger turned captain unfastened his bucklers, laying them aside.  
The battle today had been fierce and bloody; his gear would need some cleaning. 
Was it not bad enough that they must guard against the dark shadow of Mordor and 
fight the ravages of raiding orc parties that were never fully sated?  Must the 
human world be intent on slaughtering their own as well? 

Men fighting men.  Fighting, killing... for what?

Aragorn shook his head sadly; almost ready to condemn his own race, but the 
soft, wise voice of an elf cut through his dark thoughts.  His father had told 
him of the ancient times, of the struggles of the elves, when immortal fought 
immortal brother and many were slain.

“Often my son, freedom and wisdom are found through pain and war.  And as much 
as it is detested it is at times unavoidable.  You may chose not to have 
conflict with a people, but they have the free will to choose to have conflict 
with you.  Never rush into battle in anger, let fighting be your last resort...”

Aragorn smiled at the memory.  Such a long time ago.  He recalled that certain 
lesson, how his father had caught him scuffling with one of the town children 
that often found it fun to taunt and torment the young orphan.  When Elrond had 
broken up the scuffle the child had run home to Strayton but not until after 
Aragorn had taken it upon himself to make sure he learned just how well the 
elvish-raised youth could fight.  Well-aimed punches had broken the child’s nose 
and Aragorn had been highly angered that his father had not allowed him to 
continue teaching the other boy a lesson.  It was at that time that Elrond had 
sat him down and begun instructing the young man about war, fighting, battle and 
the nature of the beast – anger.

“I would wish for you that you may never experience war, but I fear that I would 
wish in vain.  However, I foresee that that is not in your future for some time 
my son.” He had pulled Aragorn in a tight embrace and gently kissed the boy’s 
head before looking him over for injuries.

Aragorn smiled softly as he remembered the way Elrond had touched his cheek, the 
elderly elf’s eyes so sad at the thought of his son’s future... and he had been 
right.  Aragorn fought back the memories of the men slain earlier that day, the 
southerners who had lost their lives so needlessly and his own men who would not 
return home to families and loved ones.  How would he ever tell them?  Some of 
them had been his friends. 

What road had he traveled that had brought him here?  His thoughts filtered 
through his time with the Rohirrim, the free spirited proud people of the horse 
lords who roamed and protected the Riddermark.  That was long before he had come 
to Gondor.  He followed his memories down through to his recent past, lighting 
on that fateful day when Éomund, no longer such a youth as he had been, had 
introduced him to the Steward of Gondor, Ecthelion II.

The tired warrior dropped his gaze to his hands; hands that held his sword, now 
cleaned from the blood that had stained it earlier.  The elvish writing 
interwoven on the ornate handle, perceptible only to one who knew how to 
identify it, caught his attention.  Waves of memories washed over him once more 
and he fled into their sweet release, letting the faces of friends that he had 
lost be replaced by dear ones from his younger years. 

He thought of Legolas, perhaps the best friend he had ever had or ever would 
have and wondered how the elf was fairing.  Last news from the north he had 
received was months and months out of date, but it seemed that all was mostly 
peaceful and he was glad that none of his dear ones in the north were facing 
anything like he was down here.  He wondered if they ever thought of him as they 
went about their lives.  He knew his father did, for every now and again he 
would still receive letters from the elf lord.  He treasured those touches of 
home, but he wondered if Legolas or his other friends remembered him still. 

It was so easy in the day-to-day stress of battle to forget.  The sheer 
overwhelming necessity to stay alive replaced all thoughts of family and friends 
with its obsessive drive to return home that night, to save the man next to you, 
to simply make it through the day.  Aragorn realized with a touch of sorrow that 
he hadn’t even thought of Legolas or his brothers or his father in a few days. 

“I miss you mellon-nín.”  He whispered again to the dark of night, “But I am 
glad you are far from this place.  Perhaps I will come to you soon.  To all of 
you.”

Yes, the world of men was wearing on him.  If they could secure Gondor’s borders 
and stop the push of the Haradrim through the southern road by summer’s end, 
then perhaps that would be enough and he could leave in good conscience.  The 
thought struck him that this was what his heart had been planning all along.

Aragorn glanced quickly up again as the winds stirred around him; something was 
coming.  Nothing had changed, the night was still peaceful, the men still slept, 
yet everything was different and nothing was the same as it had been only a few 
moments ago.  Whether it was his foresight or just intuition he was not certain, 
but one thing was as clear as the bright night sky - his future lay with men 
only a short while longer.  It was time to go home.

He missed the smell of Rivendell in the mornings when the dew was still on the 
ground.  He had forgotten how it felt in the valley when the wind would chill 
slightly before the snows fell.  And most of all he missed the ring of his 
brother’s laughter and the warmth of his father’s hearth.  The ranger’s heart 
lay in the woods, in the hills... his spirit ached for the elves, for home.  A 
smile touched his lips as his desires hardened into resolution.

Soft footsteps alerted him to the presence of another.  Tarcil, his 
second-in-command, approached him softly.  The Gondorian warrior was worried 
over his Captain, it seemed that Thorongil slept rarely of late and his heart 
seemed weighed down.  The Commander walked quietly up to his superior’s tent.

“Thorongil?”

Aragorn turned at the soft question.  A small smile that did not reach his eyes 
greeted the soldier.

“Yes, Tarcil what it is?  Shouldn’t you be sleeping with the others?  What keeps 
you awake?”  He glanced up at the man who stopped in front of him.  The 
Gondorian bowed his head slightly out of respect.

“Lord Denethor requests your presence.  He wants to discuss the casualties and 
our plan of attack for tomorrow.  But if you like...”  The man faltered, unsure 
if his opinion should be voiced aloud.  He had learned that in times like these 
it was not always wise to speak openly what was on ones mind.

Aragorn raised an eyebrow, tilting his head to the side and encouraging the 
warrior to proceed, “What it is Tarcil?  It is all right, you may speak freely, 
we are alone.”

With a small nod the warrior continued, “It’s just that, if you like I will tell 
Lord Denethor that you are sleeping.  You need not recount the day with him now. 
Surely it is more important that you get some rest, you seem... well my lord you 
seem overly tired of late.  A good night’s sleep would do you well, he cannot 
deny you that.  And...”  Tarcil shifted slightly.  “Well, beg pardon sir, but 
sometimes he seems to forget that you are the same rank as he and aren’t bound 
to report to him.  I mean no disrespect, he just seems to request a lot of you, 
that is all.”

The man’s worry over his commander touched Aragorn’s heart and he stood slowly 
to his feet.  Re-sheathing his sword and dropping the sharpening stone down on 
the wood stump, he clasped the soldier’s shoulder affectionately and turned the 
warrior toward his own bed.  Aragorn set the man at ease, “Worry not Tarcil.  
Denethor is simply concerned about the outcome of the war.  He wishes to give 
his father a good report of this day.  I will see to it that he can and then I 
will retire immediately.”

When the Gondorian turned back on his leader with a questioning look, Aragorn 
laughed softly, “I promise, now off with you.  I can't have a sleepy 
second-in-command tomorrow, we have that valley pass to take back before this 
over.”  He gave the man a gentle shove and watched as the soldier nodded, 
pleased with his commander’s answer and walked off to find his own bed.

For the first time in months Aragorn realized his heart was light, thrilled with 
the decision to head for home at the end of this warring season.  He walked off 
to find the other Captain and give him the report he sought.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

Legolas Greenleaf turned his face towards the sun, enjoying the blissful caress 
of its warmth and the gentle brush of the breeze through his long golden hair.  
He loved the trees of his home, but sometimes it was good to leave the shadow of 
the wood and walk in the green meadows where the shadow that had fallen over his 
home did not extend. 

He had not left Mirkwood for the better part of ten years.  Not a long time for 
an elf, but just long enough for the prince to enjoy the prospect of a change.  
Considering the fact that for the first two thousand years of his life he had 
hardly left the forests of his home at all, it was ironic that he could consider 
a mere decade of any significance at all.  But, the prince supposed, his close 
associations with the human world these past few decades must have rubbed off on 
him a little. 

The rolling countryside of Gondor rose up to meet the elf and his light steps 
moved swiftly across the green grass as he breathed the sweet spring time air.  
It wasn’t just the change of scenery that was inspiring him and he knew that; it 
was the prospect of being reunited with a very dear friend whom he had not seen 
in some time. 

The passing seasons had fled away so quickly... it did not seem like fifteen 
years since he and Aragorn had parted last on the green fields of Rohan.  Again 
the strange paradox of an elvish - human friendship was apparent, because to an 
elf, those fifteen years seemed of small consequence.  Legolas was unchanged, 
the passing years mattered little to those of the immortal race.  And yet... 
Legolas knew that for Aragorn those years were probably long ones.  That was the 
way with the human world.  Everything happened so quickly and so much changed 
almost overnight.  It was almost frightening sometimes. 

Legolas had once heard Lord Elrond refer to the human race as a bright flame, 
and the analogy fit well.  For while they came and went so quickly as it seemed, 
their passion for life burned hot and bright, warming those near... at least 
that was certainly true for his and Aragorn’s relationship, the prince knew. 

That was indeed the reason that Legolas had undertaken this journey in the first 
place.  He knew not how the human wheel of time would spin things, but he wished 
to see his old friend again before many more seasons passed.  A part of his 
heart was almost fearful... he really did not know how it was with humans... 
would the years have changed Aragorn very much?  Would the young man he had come 
to know and love as such a dear friend still remember him in the same way, or 
did time change things like that in the world of men?

Still, on a beautiful day like this one Legolas couldn’t let his heart rest on 
those faint, nagging doubts.  It was going to be good to see his friend again 
and borrowing trouble from a possible future did no one any good. 

Mirkwood and Rivendell kept in much better contact than they had in former years 
and thus Legolas had remained updated on Aragorn’s whereabouts, for Elrond had 
his ways of knowing what was going on in the world and often his thoughts 
strayed to his youngest son, now so many years absent.  So it was that Legolas 
knew he would find Aragorn in Gondor, in Osgiliath to be precise, or so the last 
word he had on the subject had said.  Although exactly what nature of business 
the human had there or other such particulars the elf prince knew not.  

Save for one venture into these lands some years past on his way to Harad, 
Legolas knew nothing of this area of the world, so he simply followed the Great 
River, remembering from his previous trip that Osgiliath lay near the Anduin. 

Upon crossing a hill and rounding the steep bend at its base, Legolas saw in the 
not so very far away distance a small troop of men laboring along the southward 
road.  They had many wagons and pack animals with them, but by their armor and 
the devices on their shields, they were soldiers of Gondor, not traders. 

Legolas had known there were others in the general area for some time now, but 
the presence had not felt evil or threatening, so he made no effort to alter his 
path. 

Almost just as he came into view of it, he saw disaster strike the little 
caravan. 

One of the wagons, heavy laden with bulky items swathed in protective burlap, 
jolted in a deep rut, upsetting its load.  The heavy contents shifted sharply to 
one side, placing a great deal of stress on the rear axle of the wheel that was 
still in the rut.  The strained joint snapped suddenly, causing the cart to 
topple sideways, directly onto the two soldiers walking beside it. 

Reacting quickly, Legolas sprinted towards the site of the accident, reaching it 
almost before the other soldiers in the party did.  Caught on the good wheel 
that had skidded sideways and driven deeply into the earth, the heavy wagon 
teetered precariously over the heads of the two men trapped beneath its weight, 
threatening to crush them completely at a moments notice. 

Only one other soldier was already present.  The others, having been strung out 
over a greater distance, were still arriving on the scene.  The soldier was 
valiantly leaning his shoulder into the slipping cart, trying to save his 
friends, but the wagon just dipped further downward. 

Bracing his back against the center of the tipping wagon and planting his feet 
firmly, Legolas pushed back against the crushing weight.  The groaning load 
creaked to a halt.  The man who had been pushing started at the fair being’s 
sudden appearance and just stood for a moment, staring in surprise as the elf 
supported the weight of the heavy load alone. 

“Push!” Legolas told the man somewhat shortly.  Now was *not* the time for 
wonder.  Whatever was in the cart was truly heavy and Legolas could feel the 
strain against his taught muscles.  He was at least as strong as any two men, 
but he could not support the wagon indefinitely by himself.  The soldier quickly 
pulled himself together and threw his weight next to Legolas’. 

Fortunately the few minutes Legolas had bought them were enough, for the other 
soldiers arrived on the scene very quickly and through their combined efforts 
the cart was righted, freeing a pair of severely bruised, but unbroken soldiers. 

Legolas stepped back, pulling out of the way and straightening his tunic as the 
two men were retrieved and the broken cart stabilized. 

Presently a tall man with dark hair turned his attention towards the newcomer.  
The white plume on the soldier’s crested helmet set him apart as the ranking 
officer of the group.

“Most welcome is the help that comes unlooked for,” the young man managed to 
find gracious words and not stare at the elf as was his first inclination, which 
was more than could be said for some of the others who were gawking with 
unrestrained curiosity. 

The lieutenant shot his men a withering glare and everyone quickly went back to 
their business, hurriedly unloading the now useless wagon and distributing the 
extra load onto their other carts.  “For your timely aide we are sincerely 
grateful.  Forgive my men, but we do not often see any of the firstborn in these 
parts anymore, although I hear that that was different once.  Might I know who 
we are indebted to and to what errand we owe this happy chance?”

The man was courteous, but, Legolas could tell, cautious.  He wanted to know who 
this stranger was and what he was doing here, but without seeming so rude as to 
ask outright.  The elf smiled slightly. 

“I am Legolas son of Thranduil of the woodland realm, I journey south towards 
Osgiliath seeking a friend I have not seen in some time.  I am glad that I could 
be of assistance, although I think you had better secure the weapons you are 
transporting more tightly before you continue if you wish to keep such from 
happening again,” the prince offered helpfully.  He knew they would not know his 
or his father’s name, but introduced himself properly anyway since he had 
nothing to hide. 

“We also follow the road to Osgiliath,” a hint of suspicion crept into the man’s 
voice as he eyed the elf.  “You know your way around here well then?”

“Not well,” Legolas shook his head, his tone cooling as he understood that the 
human did not trust him.  “I have been here only once before and I did not stay 
long for my errand at that time called me down into Harad.”

“Harad?” The Officer’s ears perked up at the name and his body posture stiffened 
slightly; that was disquieting news given their current political state.  “Tell 
me, Legolas, how do you know what we carry?”  It was supposed to be more or less 
of a secret.  “And why do you travel thus from the far lands alone?  Our scouts 
have given no report of you, although you must have been near us for some time 
now.  What brings you to seek an elf in the lands of men?”

“I do not require a body guard nor a companion to slow me down,” Legolas said 
somewhat briskly.  Caution was one thing, suspicious prodding was another.  He 
had done nothing to earn this man’s distrust, nothing except being different, 
and the prince was tired of his race always placing him in a suspicious light 
when he walked among humans.  “And I am not following you if that’s what you are 
asking.  If your scouts did not observe me I cannot account for their lapse.  As 
for the person I seek, I do not count only elves among my friends, but men as 
well else I would not trouble you with my presence.”  He would say no more of 
Aragorn to these or any men because he knew that his friend’s very existence was 
often a carefully guarded secret and his affairs really were no business of 
theirs anyway.  “As for your cargo, if you wish to hide what it is do not wrap 
it so tightly that one can see the shapes of breast plates and swords through 
the burlap.  Now, if everything is under control I will be on my way and bother 
you no more.”

“Wait,” the soldier shook his head.  “Your pardon Legolas, I did not mean to 
seem rude or ungrateful, nor was it my wish to offend, as it seems I have done. 
 My name is Alcarin, lieutenant commander of the Ramanna division.  It is my job 
to be wary, but I believe you mean us no harm.  You are welcome to travel with 
us for a time if you will, since our roads lie together and perhaps give me a 
chance to make amends for my initial greeting.  Much of Gondor’s history lies 
with the elves or so they tell me, but I have never had the chance to know any 
of your kindred for myself.  The times we find ourselves in now have given us 
reason to be cautious and wary of anyone not known to us.”

Legolas smiled somewhat dryly.  “Do you make such an offer out of sincere desire 
for my companionship or to keep me near so you can maintain a watch on me until 
you decide if I truly am who I say?”

The lieutenant met Legolas’ smile without embarrassment at being guessed out.  
“Perhaps a little of both.  You are free to do as you will of course, but the 
offer stands if you care to take it.”

Legolas chuckled softly.  Humans.  So suspicious.  “I fear that I much prefer to 
travel alone,” the prince admitted.  “But if you wish it, and to prove that I 
have no ill intent in your lands, I will go with you as far as the Dalthad.”  
Legolas knew the humans would only slow him down, but he also knew that despite 
the lieutenant’s gracious words the soldiers could detain him if they truly 
thought he was a threat to their mission.

The prince was quickly realizing that he had stumbled upon no ordinary column of 
troops conveying supplies. This party was guarding a rather large arsenal of 
newly crafted weapons and armor.  Legolas hazarded a guess that they were 
dwarf-work that the Gondorians had contracted for, which would make them even 
more valuable.  That understanding made Alcarin’s skittishness about strangers 
who appeared out of nowhere and were going the same direction as they were even 
more understandable. 

Legolas did not know that Gondor was currently at war with the Haradrim forces 
in Near Harad, but if he had he would have understood even better how unsettling 
his earlier introduction had seemed.  Besides, he knew that the burden of 
proving his good intentions lay on him since he was the stranger in these lands. 
It would be no different should a human have entered his father’s lands.

“Good, then we may travel as friends,” Alcarin smiled, obviously relieved. 

Legolas took the extended hand and nodded.

 

___________________________________________________________

 

~*PART TWO*~

 

 “Have you ever seen it, Aragorn? The White Tower of Ecthelion, glimmering like 
a spike of pearl and silver, it's banners caught high in the morning breeze... 
Have you ever been called home by the clear ringing of silver trumpets?”

“I have seen the White City.  Long ago.”

 --Boromir and Aragorn, FoTR

~~~~~~

 

The air was crisp and cool as the war-weary battalion crossed the long plain of 
the Pelennor.  They were some of the last to return and these units had suffered 
some of the greatest losses.  Yet the moment they sighted Minas Tirith in the 
distance, rising from the earth like a glittering white gem, every heart seemed 
to lift a little more and weary steps became swifter. 

The Haradrim had finally been beaten back, but the cost had been high.  A 
traitor in their ranks had very nearly caused the loss of three entire companies 
when they were ambushed in the little wooded valley of Ravenbrook.  Fortunately 
for them, Thorongil had judged something amiss when he came upon the enemy’s 
trail and rode swiftly to the aide of the beleaguered troops. 

Mounting a daring and nearly suicidal rear-assault on the carefully airtight 
attack of the Haradrim, Aragorn and the small company with him had driven a hole 
in the enemy’s defenses, allowing the trapped legionnaires to break free.  The 
ambushers became the ambushed and the tide was turned.  It ended up being a 
rather spectacular victory for Gondor and a deciding moment in the war.  Very 
soon after the Haradrim began to retreat and press their attack no further. 

With the situation at last firmly in control, the weary troops were slowly being 
called home as border outposts were refreshed and re-outfitted with new 
battalions.  Even with the war over, Gondor could never afford to lax on the 
security of its borders. 

Denethor and Thorongil’s main hosts had been some of the last to be recalled, 
staying until they knew that all was truly peaceful and under control once more. 
Wounds had been tended and rest taken in the weeks they had waited to be called 
home, so it was a proud, freshly scrubbed host of men who marched towards Gondor 
and a victor’s welcome.  The nearer they got, the more you could see the 
anticipation on their war-weary faces. 

Aragorn, riding at the head of his column, saw the White Tower of Ecthelion 
gleaming in the early morning sun like a beacon to lead them home.  From their 
high vantage point the tower guard had already seen the returning soldiers and 
the moist air carried the sound of trumpets ringing already within the city to 
herald their safe return.

Aragorn glanced at Denethor, riding at the head of his men some distance away.  
The future steward smiled slightly when the sounding of the trumpets reached his 
ears.  Many of the soldiers did.  The horns called to them, welcoming them home, 
filling them with pride for themselves and their city, despite all the horrors 
and death they had seen. 

Aragorn could not deny that he felt that pull in his own heart as well.  Yet as 
he entered the massive gates he could not help thinking how very far removed the 
city seemed from the events happening outside its protective circles of walls.  

Here life went on, babies were born, chores were completed, children played in 
the streets, running out to see the returning soldiers, smiling and waving and 
cheering.  And that was as it should be.  It was, after all, what they fought 
for; to keep these lands safe for children to be children and for the general 
populace to continue its normal existence unhindered. 

Aragorn let his eyes drift back to the white tower ahead of them as they passed 
slowly through the different layers of gates that crossed the main road leading 
towards the palace.  As much as he wanted to go back to the lands of his youth, 
he knew he could not leave until the threat that was promising to devour these 
people was gone.  And despite what everyone seemed to think, he knew this was 
far from over.  Aragorn had that responsibility to them... to his people.  No 
one else may ever know it, but he knew, and he would see them protected from the 
threat that was even yet waiting to fall upon them. 

Many people gathered by the sound of the trumpets, turned out to cheer the 
returning troops home and the faces of the men, taught and drawn from long 
months of fighting eased and smiles began to appear.

The word “Ravenbrook” was on a number of tongues and it seemed that news of that 
particular venture had already reached the general public.  Thorongil looked up, 
surprised to realize that many of the well-wishers were chanting his name amid 
their cheers. 

He was complimented, obviously, but in a way he wished they wouldn’t.  He wasn’t 
the one to be praised; it was the men under his command and their courage that 
had won the day.  Yes he had led the way, but they had followed him into that 
death trap without a moment’s hesitation.

Aragorn stole a sideways glance at Denethor, now riding abreast with him and 
withheld a silent sigh.  The future Steward’s dark hair fell in clipped waves 
about his face, pulled back from his forehead by the thin circlet resting on his 
brow.  In all honesty he looked a little older than Aragorn, although in reality 
he was a year his junior. 

At the moment Denethor’s face betrayed little, but a distinct rigidness in the 
corners of his mouth told that he was not pleased to ride in the shadow of the 
people’s admiration for another.  Aragorn knew that this conflict, and 
especially the treachery surrounding the attack at Ravenbrook had taken a strong 
toll on the other Captain and he warranted that Denethor was not looking forward 
to having to make the report that they both knew lay ahead of them. 

The crowd’s adulation was doing nothing to ease the growing tension between the 
two Captains, although there was unfortunately little that Aragorn could do 
about that.  He had tried his best to be a friend to the other man, but Denethor 
would have none of it. 

When they reached the innermost set of gates, horses were left behind as was the 
law, and the soldiers were lined up and then dismissed.  Denethor and Aragorn 
alone entered the last sets of doors and made their way into the great hall 
where the Steward of Gondor was waiting for them. 

The two Captains strode up the length of the long hall together, their plumed 
helmets tucked neatly under one arm.  With their armor cleaned of battle stains 
and their uniforms fresh, they did not look as ones who had been fighting a long 
and wearying set of campaigns, save for the grim lines of their faces.  They 
stopped before the Steward’s seat. 

Both of them bowed respectfully, saluting in the manner of the city, and then 
stood at attention. 

Ecthelion II was no longer a young man, although his stature was undiminished 
and he held his snowy-white head with the dignity and bearing of his long and 
powerful bloodline.  The Steward rose to greet his returning captains.  His eyes 
lit up and he smiled.  He went first to Denethor, resting his hand on the young 
man’s shoulder and giving him a gentle squeeze.  “Welcome home my son, it is 
good to see that you are well.”

The Steward then crossed to Aragorn and touched his shoulder.  “And you as well 
Thorongil, stories of your actions proceed you.  That was a brave thing you 
did.”

Thorongil nodded respectfully.  “Thank you sire, but I did only what was 
necessary, the men are the true heroes, especially those who did not return.”

Ecthelion smiled, Thorongil’s selfless answer only raising his opinion of the 
younger man.  That however, was hardly necessary, for he already openly favored 
the Captain as something close to a second son. 

Denethor’s hand tightened on the helmet clasped under his arm but he said 
nothing. 

Aragorn glanced furtively towards the younger man.  He wanted no strife between 
them.  “We were fortunate that Lord Denethor had fortified the northern hills so 
well already, if the enemy had been able to come down on us from that side as 
well many more lives would have been lost.”

Ecthelion nodded, looking back towards Denethor.  “Then my son at least did not 
totally disgrace himself.  However I would hear how he allowed the men to be 
taken in such a trap in the first place before I judge that.”

Aragorn flinched inwardly for Denethor’s sake.  Denethor had not been present at 
the battle of Ravenbrook, but it was he that had ordered the men to go thither. 
Aragorn knew that question was the one that the other Captain had been dreading. 

Denethor’s gaze did not waver but his knuckles whitened slightly.  “We were 
betrayed.  My senior officer, Mardil, broke trust with us and gave away our 
position to the Haradrim.”

“Mardil...” Ecthelion shook his head.  That was grave news, but unfortunately 
not entirely unexpected.  “Did I not tell you that he had changed Denethor?” the 
Steward’s voice was sharp.  “He was with you on this mission against my better 
judgment.”

“I know that father and I... I am sorry,” Denethor ducked his head quickly 
before bringing it up again.  “Mardil has paid for his crimes.  I will not make 
such a mistake again.”  Denethor and Mardil had been friends as children; the 
shock of the betrayal was still an open wound inside him although he let no one 
close enough to see it.

Ecthelion touched the side of his son’s face gently, directing the younger man’s 
eyes towards him.  “Denethor your people are counting on you, I expect more from 
you than this.”

The younger man nodded once, his features taught. 

Ecthelion sighed slightly and turned away.  “Now then, the borders are secure 
once more for the time being.  What say you both?  Do you think the Haradrim 
have taken significant losses to make them think twice before trying such 
tactics against us again?”

“Yes sir,” Denethor nodded quickly.  “All together their casualties number in 
the thousands.  Their warlords are power hungry, but they are not united and 
internal fighting continues to keep them much occupied.  We should not have to 
worry about them for a long time.”

Aragorn’s face became troubled.  He feared that he could not concur with his 
fellow officer’s assessment. 

“You don’t agree Thorongil?” Ecthelion turned his keen gaze upon the other 
captain, sensing the man’s hesitancy. 

“Respectfully, I’m afraid I do not,” Aragorn shook his head slowly.  “My Lord, 
if the Haradrim warlords were all that were behind these attacks, I would most 
certainly concur with Lord Denethor’s conclusions.  However I believe that the 
battles we have fought thus far have been tests only.  Distractions to measure 
our strengths and weaknesses, to see our tactics in action.”

“I see,” Ecthelion nodded thoughtfully, pacing slightly in front of his great 
seat as he considered the other man’s words.  “But if the Haradrim have some 
overriding goal as you say, it shows a level of unity that we have yet to see 
from any of them.”

Aragorn shook his head once more.  “Lord Ecthelion, I do not purpose that the 
Haradrim *are* behind these attacks at all.  It is my belief that they are being 
used.  Either directly, with their paid consent, or indirectly as unwitting 
decoys.  The real enemy we have to fear is the ones who have stirred them up for 
this purpose.  Sire, the Corsairs of Umbar have been our enemies time out of 
mind.  I see their fingerprints in the doings on the borders.  Weapons forged in 
Umbar have been found on many of the Haradrim dead and I believe that the 
Corsairs stirred up the old blood feuds between Gondor and Harad for their own 
purposes.  Umbar has always maintained that Gondor should be theirs and I 
believe that they are massing their power to strike, and strike hard.”

It was too much for Denethor, who shook his head in disbelief.  “You *believe*? 
They hate us, yes, it has always been thus, but do you honestly think they would 
be so foolish?  They are nothing but pirates!  Rabble!  You overestimate them I 
think Captain Thorongil.”

“Do I?  I think not,” Aragorn refuted quietly.  “For twelve years now they have 
been building their massive fleet to new proportions, stockpiling weapons as a 
farmer stockpiles wheat against a long winter.  These attacks we have weathered 
are only the first wave.  If we allow them to continue with their plans and 
strike first, the losses will be high.”

“And if we start a needless war with Umbar, the losses will be higher!” 
Denethor’s tone rose slightly.  “We have just returned from a war Thorongil!  
The people are weary of strife; it is draining our resources and our country.  
And you would have us now assail a power of that level and start another bloody 
conflict, and for what?”

Ecthelion was still deep in thought, his brow creasing, but he raised his hand 
to halt the debate between the captains.  “*If* the Corsairs *were* prepared to 
strike as you say Thorongil, what would your council be?”

“Strike first,” Aragorn answered calmly.  “It does not have to be long or 
bloody.  They are not yet ready.  All their arms are designed for attack, not 
for defense.  A swift blow now would cripple them.  Catch their ships in the 
harbor where they are useless and cannot maneuver, do not wait until they have 
sailed down the Anduin and are pummeling our cities with death!  Already their 
ships have been sighted on the Anduin as far down as Lithiant, what could they 
be doing there other than gathering recognizance?”

“What proof have you of all this?” Denethor questioned.  “What proof that we 
would truly be avoiding a conflict and not merely be starting one?  You speak of 
ships and sightings, but have you seen them?  You speak of weapons, where are 
they?  We have seen naught but the swords of the Haradrim and the reports of a 
few soldiers and some peasants who may or may *not* have known what they saw.  
This country needs peace, not more war.” 

Inside, Denethor’s heart seethed.  He fancied that he could see through to 
Thorongil’s true motives in this matter.  Surely, the other captain would like 
nothing better than another chance to further his name on the battlefield.  To 
march into Umbar unannounced and unprovoked to ‘subdue’ the supposedly hostile 
area and become a hero as the savior of Gondor, no matter how many needless 
lives were cost in the process. 

“Yes, they need peace, but sometimes peace comes at a cost, and cannot be 
obtained by waiting until it is too late,” Aragorn replied quietly, but with 
conviction.  He was as weary of war as the others were, perhaps even more so.  
He wanted nothing more than to go back north and see his family again.  But he 
could not leave knowing what he knew.  Ecthelion had to be made to see the 
threat hanging over them all or the cost would be very high indeed.  “And there 
is an even graver reason.  The shadow on our eastern borders rests not.  If the 
Corsairs attack and our defense seems at all uncertain, rest assured that Mordor 
will not squander an opportunity to empty its wrath on us and unloose total 
obliteration on our heads.  We live in an uncertain world my Lord, surrounded by 
enemies, we cannot take that chance.”

“And what if by inviting war with Umbar we bring down that very shadow that you 
claim to fear Thorongil?” Denethor questioned tersely.  “I say again, that I do 
not see the need for this.”

Ecthelion looked between the two captains.  He could tell that they both held 
stoutly opposing views on this subject and he sighed slightly.  “Your words fill 
me with unease Thorongil, for the Corsairs have been heavily on my mind of 
late... and yet Denethor is right.  We have no solid proof, and I would not walk 
into a war that could be avoided.”

“But your highness...” Aragorn started to protest, Ecthelion however raised his 
hand for silence. 

“Hear me out.  I would not start a needless war, but neither would I discount 
your concerns, for your council has always been wise in these matters.  
Therefore, it is my decision that we need to look into this matter further 
before any decision is reached.”

Denethor did not look pleased. 

“Captain Denethor, you and Captain Thorongil will lead a force of men to 
Lithiant *together* to check on the rumors of activity coming from there.  
Report to me what you find and we will discuss this more at that time.”  He 
hoped that working together more closely would resolve whatever conflict was 
slowly growing between the two men.  As the heads of the Gondorian army, the two 
captains had conducted campaigns together, but they had never shared command of 
a single force.  “I expect you to aide one another in order to get to the bottom 
of this.  Captain Denethor will be in charge, but Denethor I want you to listen 
to Thorongil, because he has wisdom in many matters that it would do you well to 
learn.”

Aragorn cringed inwardly.  That remark was *not* going to help his and 
Denethor’s relationship at all, although the Steward did not realize it.

Denethor bristled slightly, but only bowed his head.  “As you command my lord.”

Ecthelion nodded somewhat wearily.  He was tiring more and more easily of late. 
“Then you are dismissed my son, I will see you later, I wish to speak to Captain 
Thorongil now.”

Denethor nodded stiffly and bowed once before turning on his heel and exiting 
the room darkly. 

Aragorn sighed as he watched him go.  This was not going to be an easy task.

“You do not think I handled that well?” Ecthelion surprised Aragorn with the 
question.

The younger man shook his head quickly.  “It is not my place to judge your 
actions M’Lord.  If I gave such an impression it was not my intent, I would 
never offer you such disrespect.”

Ecthelion smiled.  “And yet you do not approve, why?  I expect you to speak the 
truth to me Thorongil; you always have in the past and that is something I count 
on.  I know you must understand that I cannot rush heedlessly into conflict with 
the Corsairs on your word alone, however trusted it may be.  And on top of that 
my son does not support your cause.  If we are to war, it must be with common 
purpose, Gondor is too weak to support disunity.  Is it that you do not like 
being under my son’s authority?”  the older man chuckled.  “If I thought I could 
reverse the positions I would, but I would not wish on you the problems that 
would cause Thorongil.”

“No sire, I have no reservations about serving under Captain Denethor and I 
understand your reasons in all these matters.  I hope that our trip to Lithiant 
may uncover something useful.  If you sense hesitancy in me my lord...” he 
paused.  “Permission to speak to you freely sir?”

“You know you always have it,” Ecthelion nodded.

“I... I fear that your son thinks your opinion of him is ill,” Aragorn admitted. 
“Mardil’s betrayal hurt him deeply.  When the treachery was discovered, 
Denethor was forced to take Mardil’s life with his own hand,” the Captain spoke 
softly.  “He feels shamed.”

“As he should for not listening to my council in the matter,” Ecthelion looked 
saddened despite his words.  “Or yours.  We both warned him.  His folly almost 
lost us the war.”

“He wants only to prove himself in your eyes my lord,” Aragorn said quietly. 

“And you think I treat him too harshly,” the Steward nodded, understanding now.

“That is not my place to presume,” Aragorn shook his head.  “I speak only what I 
see.”

“Know then Thorongil that that is more than my son would do for you.  He would 
like only too much for you to fall out of my favor, don’t think I haven’t seen 
that,” Ecthelion shook his head.  “Denethor is a good man, but he is proud and 
too often lets his emotions lead him, as this Mardil case is an example.  He 
will be a fine Steward of our people... but understand this Thorongil,” 
Ecthelion paused, his gaze suddenly very serious.  “I do not have much longer to 
live, I can feel my years failing me.  If I seem to push Denethor, it is because 
I know that his time is coming all too soon and I would have him ready for it.”

Aragorn nodded.  “I understand sire, but... I wish you would tell *him* that.”

Ecthelion let his breath out slowly, wearily.  “My son and I... we have almost 
become strangers Thorongil.  I cannot talk to him like I talk to you... I wish 
he were more like you.”

Aragorn looked away. 

“There is something else weighing on your mind Thorongil, I can feel it.”

“Yes,” Aragorn looked back.  “When... when this task is completed and whatever 
end can be reached is reached... I would humbly request your permission to leave 
your service.”

Ecthelion nodded slowly and held the other man’s eyes.  “I would not keep you 
unwilling Thorongil, but I would grieve to lose you.  Tell me one thing, and I 
will be content with what you decide should that time come.  Is it because you 
do not wish to serve my son when he replaces me?”

Aragorn shook his head.  “If I thought he would accept my service he would have 
it, but it is not that my lord... my heart yearns for the lands of my youth and 
I feel that my time here is drawing to a close.”

Ecthelion released the younger man’s gaze.  “Then you have my blessing 
Thorongil.  You will be sorely missed when that day comes.”

“Thank you sir,” Aragorn nodded and bowed.  “One request if I may?”

The Steward nodded. 

“Say nothing of this to anyone if it please you.  I would not have the men think 
that I sought to abandon them at the same time that I wish to lead them into 
war, for that is in no way my intention.”  Aragorn knew that Ecthelion himself 
would hold no such notions, but he did not wish for others to become confused. 

“I will do as you wish on that matter Thorongil.  May your mission be successful 
in leading us to a course of action, whatever that course may be.”

Aragorn bowed once more and then left.  Walking back out into the sunlight he 
turned his face towards the warm rays as the brilliant light glinted off the 
silver and blue of his uniform.  He had a feeling that this mission was going to 
prove very... problematic. 

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

The lights of the soldier’s fires danced cheerily in the dark night.  At first 
Legolas had sat apart from the Gondorian troops, but the week’s travel had worn 
the edges off their unfamiliarity and he now regularly joined Alcarin and his 
men around the fire circles at night. 

“If the spiders are that big, I would hate to see the flies!” Elan, a young man 
of perhaps seventeen shook his head in wonder at the information Legolas had 
shared about his home.  The young soldier had a pretty obvious case of 
admiration for the elf after having been treated, at request, to a sample of the 
prince’s marksmanship and other abilities.  Legolas found the young one’s 
attention both endearing and humorous. 

“You need more than a flyswatter to handle them I’d guess!” another soldier 
laughed heartily.  

Legolas smiled at their mirth.  He knew they had finally begun to trust him 
because there was no longer a guard posted carefully out of sight of his 
sleeping area.  They thought he didn’t know, but of course he had known all 
along.  He did not grudge them their wariness, a stranger in his father’s realm 
in such a situation would have been treated just as carefully until their intent 
was known.  As a prince, Legolas could appreciate their position, but he could 
also appreciate that they were at last beginning to trust him. 

The men liked hearing stories about elves and the lands to the north where they 
had never been, and for the most part the prince had been warmly welcomed into 
their little group.  There were a few, like Castamir, Alcarin’s 
second-in-command, who still kept his distance from the stranger and preferred 
to have little to do with him, but it was the exception rather than the rule and 
Legolas was pleasantly surprised by how easily these men had accepted him.  In 
Gondor at least, the elven race was not feared, even if the common folk still 
knew little enough about them. 

Dalthad was only a day or two’s march distant now, and Legolas fully intended to 
part ways with them there.  The slow pace of their travel, further hampered by 
over-burdened wagons, had begun to chafe at him.  Still, his time with the 
troops had been a good experience. 

Little did he realize as he lay down to rest that night just how quickly 
everything would change. 

___________________________________________________________

 

~*PART THREE*~

 

Legolas didn’t know what it was that woke him but his senses were instantly on 
the alert and he automatically reached for his weapons as he sat up.  The rest 
of the camp was still sleeping and his quiet movements did not wake them.  
Trying to figure out what had alerted him, Legolas slipped his quiver over one 
shoulder and picked up his bow, sliding quietly to the edge of the camp and 
peering into the darkness beyond. 

Nothing stirred, nothing seemed amiss, and yet...

The elf moved quietly towards the woods on the far-left flank of the camp, 
sliding away from the others and passing over the starlit grass without so much 
as a whisper to give away his passage. 

He paused.  The sense of danger pressing near made the hairs on the back of his 
neck prickle warningly and he fitted an arrow to the string of his bow, looking 
around, straining to see any movement in the dark, moonless night that would 
give away the nature of the threat that was screaming in his mind. 

Nothing.  Silence.  The wind in the tree branches.  What had drawn him over 
here? 

Was he the only one that sensed something wrong?  Had the sentries heard and 
seen anything he wondered?  Turning back towards the camp, now some ways 
distant, he scanned for any sign that the two men standing guard on the 
perimeter were on alert... that’s when the elf realized that there was no sign 
of the sentries.  But there *were* a number of dark shapes moving silently 
around the wagons on the opposite side of camp.

Legolas shouted a warning, but was now too far away to rouse anyone.  Suddenly a 
volley of arrows from the shadow of the trees behind him hissed silently by his 
head and grazed his side in the dark.  Feeling the sharp, passing bite of the 
arrow, the prince threw himself to the ground and rolled out of the path of the 
second volley. 

One of the mules nickered and brayed in irritation as it was quickly hitched 
back to the wagon it had only recently been freed of. 

Startled from his sleep by the sound, Castamir rolled up on his elbow and saw 
the moving forms.  Then his gaze fell on the empty sleeping place across the 
fire from him; Legolas was gone.  Swearing loudly the soldier jumped to his feet 
and raised the alarm.  

A cry of warning went up as the sleepy troopers jumped to their feet, looking 
around and trying to see what had happened, but the alarm had been sounded too 
late, their position was already surrounded.  Absolute chaos erupted as the 
unknown attackers clashed with the awakening troops, attempting to overwhelm 
them and press their surprise advantage.  Cold steel crashed and slashed under 
the stars and in the darkness it was difficult to tell who was a friend and who 
was an enemy among the mass of churning bodies. 

Rolling swiftly once more, Legolas came up on one knee, stringing an arrow 
faster than sight and letting it fly into the darkened woods.  He had nothing to 
aim at other than the direction that the projectiles were coming from but he 
whipped off a few in that vicinity anyway.  No more arrows came from that 
direction but a swift rustling of the trees on his immediate right made the 
elven archer spin and swiftly dart off another two rounds.  There was a muffled 
cry and a crash which told Legolas that this time he had definitely hit 
something. 

Turning towards the camp once more, the prince saw that most of the wagons had 
successfully been pulled away by the attackers, who now had the soldiers 
completely encircled.  Running back to help, Legolas put an arrow on the 
string... but in the darkness and with everyone moving so quickly it was hard to 
tell the soldiers from their attackers and he could not shoot.  Relinquishing 
his bow for his knives, the elf jumped into the fray. 

However the attackers did not seem interested in obliterating the soldiers, only 
keeping them detained long enough so that the wagon loads of armor and weaponry 
could be safely gotten away. 

Less than a half-hour later nearly all the attackers had either run off after 
their fellows or were dead. 

Breathing heavily, Legolas sheathed his knives as he watched the last two 
attackers fall at the hands of the men across the camp.  Suddenly a strong set 
of arms grabbed him from behind and threw him forward to the earth.  The elf 
squirmed around quickly, ready to deal with the new threat, but when he found 
himself staring up into Castamir’s angry face he stopped, thinking the Gondorian 
had mistaken him for an enemy in the dark. 

Instead of releasing him however, as Legolas expected, Castamir pressed his 
bloody blade against the elf’s throat.  “Oh no, you’re not getting away too.  
Don’t move a muscle if you know what’s good for you.”

Legolas’ eyes registered shock and then anger.  “What do you think you are 
doing?”

“That’s what you have to answer elf,” Castamir ground out through his teeth, 
keeping Legolas pinned firmly on the ground. 

Torches were quickly being kindled and soon the ruined camp was illuminated by 
the twisting, dancing glow of firelight casting skipping shadows across the 
forms of the dead and dying. 

Alcarin kicked over the body of one of their fallen enemies.  The apparent 
feelings of disgust and anger were ones that were shared by all the soldiers 
present.  The armor and weapons they had been transporting were gone; stolen 
right out from under them, and on top of that a number of their own were now 
dead.  They dare not follow the numerically superior force that had attacked 
them while it was still dark and by morning they would be miles away.  This was 
a catastrophe. 

The lieutenant’s eyes caught on Castamir and Legolas, finally taking in the 
situation.  Several other soldiers had also seen and gathered round. 

“What?” Alcarin’s voice was short and clipped, his eyes demanding an answer from 
SOMEONE about what was going on. 

“Ask *him* that,” Castamir gave the elf under him a small shove.  “I woke up and 
raised the first alarm, guess who *wasn’t* in their bed.”  Several of the other 
men nodded hesitant concurrence.  It was true; they had seen the same when they 
were rudely awakened. 

With a jolt Legolas realized what the man was accusing him of.  “Something woke 
me, there was movement in the woods and I went to look,” he protested quickly 
and not without a hint of indignity.  “By the time I saw the danger to the camp 
it was too late.  There were attackers in the woods and we traded arrows.  I 
returned here to help with the fight.  Let me up.”

“Convenient,” Castamir growled.  “You thought there was something out there and 
you didn’t bother to wake any one else?  You’re either a liar or an idiot.”

“I did not realize the danger was so near at hand.  I shouted a warning but was 
too far away to be heard.” Legolas leveled the soldier holding him down with an 
even glare.  “It may have been an error on my part but it does not make me a 
traitor or whatever else you are thinking right now.”

“Let him up,” Alcarin jerked his head at Castamir, silencing his under officer 
with a motion when the other man started to protest.  “He says there were arrows 
fired by the woods. It’s easy enough to check.  Some of you men go and look 
around there for what may have happened.  Bring torches and be wary in case 
there is anyone still out there.  Roel, Hurgil, see if you can figure out what 
happened to the sentries.  I want to know why we had no warning of this!  Tegan, 
Mannon, make sure the area is secure and there is no one else about.  The rest 
of you... care for the dead,” the lieutenant issued a rapid string of orders to 
his men before his eyes fell back on Castamir who still had his sword at 
Legolas’ neck, kneeling over him. 

“It is not in our law to assume people guilty on circumstance alone Castamir.  I 
said let him up,” the young man repeated somewhat tersely.  “Watch him, but 
let’s not jump to conclusions, do you understand me?”

Castamir nodded grudgingly as he slowly backed off and allowed Legolas to sit 
up.

“Your pardon Legolas, but understand that I don’t know what to think right now. 
So I’m going to ask you to stay right here and not attempt to do anything until 
we have a little more information to work with,” Alcarin requested, catching the 
elf’s eyes for a moment. 

“Of course,” Legolas nodded.  He was innocent and had no intention of trying 
anything that would make him look otherwise. 

Castamir eyed the elf in an unfriendly manner but did as his commanding officer 
bid him.

More torches were kindled and soon the entire area was as bright as daylight.  
Fifteen or twenty long minutes passed with soldiers going back and forth and 
carrying out their tasks, removing the dead, salvaging their goods and other 
errands that did not hold the prince’s attention. 

Despite how much he would have liked to help, Legolas stayed kneeling on the 
grass because Castamir glared at him every time he moved and seemed to consider 
even the thought of the act of standing as a breech of the orders Alcarin had 
given. 

He looked up when the small group of men that Alcarin had sent to check the 
woods returned. They were carrying two bodies with them and Legolas supposed 
they were some of the attackers he must have shot. 

The looks on the men’s faces were grim as they greeted Alcarin and without 
knowing why, Legolas’ heart gave a funny skip as a small feeling of dread crept 
back into his stomach. 

“We found no arrows on the ground anywhere near the woods or any signs of a 
fight.  What we did find... was what happened to the sentries,” the soldiers 
reported with a dark tone as they laid their burdens down. 

Two dead men... but no.  Not just dead men.  Dead soldiers.  Young Elan and his 
friend Krit.  As the soldiers laid them down they were forced to let the bodies 
roll on their faces, because a single long arrow protruded from the back of each 
of the slain sentries. 

Legolas eyes widened with a flash of horror he could not suppress because he 
knew whose arrows those were.  They were his. 

“We found them just on the edges of the woods.  They could have been dragged 
there and left but we found no marks to indicate such, so it is more likely they 
fell where they were killed,” the soldiers continued, their looks bitter.  It 
was hard to lose the young ones like this. 

Alcarin squared his jaw as he knelt to examine the bodies, pulling the arrow 
from Elan’s back.  “Bring me his quiver,” he gestured towards where Castamir had 
deposited Legolas’ weapons after removing them from him before. 

“There’s no need,” Legolas said quietly.  “You are right in your guess.  Those 
arrows are mine.”  It would have done no good to deny it; elves used a unique 
spiral-bound fletching technique to make their arrows fly straighter, one that 
men had never picked up.  Legolas’ arrows might as well of had his name written 
on them, which as a matter of fact some of them did. 

An outraged murmur rippled through the camp and Castamir’s gaze turned deadly. 

Legolas wanted to say it wasn’t what they thought, that it wasn’t his hand that 
loosed those arrows.  But... could he be sure?  If their attackers had killed 
the sentries and disposed of them, they never could have used his arrows to do 
it.  He *had* fired into the woods... someone had been hit.  If no other bodies 
had been found... that thought hurt, a lot. 

“Why?” Alcarin was shaking his head slowly, his gaze locking on Legolas.  “Why?! 
 Elan followed you around like a puppy dog.  How could you do this?”

Legolas shook his head, still reeling in shock from this whole turn of events.  
“I didn’t!  Or... at least not what you’re thinking!” he protested with a hint 
of anguish in his voice. 

“I told you, I fired into the woods.  First at where the arrows were coming 
from, but then there was movement from another direction and I shot again.  I 
hit someone.  It was dark, I could not see into the trees to know.”  Legolas 
still didn’t think he could have hit *both* the soldiers, and perfectly in the 
back no less, but right now he couldn’t figure out what to think and his heart 
was hurting that he might have been able to make such a horrible mistake.  He 
swallowed hard around the lump in his throat.  He knew he wasn’t a traitor, but 
if he were even accidentally responsible for the death of these young ones he 
wasn’t sure he could ever forgive himself.  “There was no reason to believe any 
of your men would be out there, the sentries had no business in the woods.  I-I 
cannot tell you truly if I did or did not deliver the fatal shots, but I swear 
to you by everything true that if I did it was purely by accident and never, 
*never* intentional.” 

“So you say,” Castamir ground out bitterly.  “But what *would* they have been 
doing in the woods?  Unless someone they trusted had brought them there, perhaps 
saying there was danger?  Is that how it happened?  Look at them!” he gestured 
angrily at the corpses.  “These arrows were obviously fired at close range.  You 
lured them away from camp by faking having heard something in the woods.  Elan 
would have done anything you told him to.  So you brought them out there where 
we couldn’t hear and shot them both in the back, isn’t that what happened?!”

“No!” Legolas shook his head desperately.  “No!  I would never have hurt them 
wittingly!  I have no reason to!”

“Oh I’d say a small fortune in armor and weapons is a pretty compelling reason,” 
one of the other soldiers shook his head.  “With them gone there was no one to 
alert us to the danger until it was too late.”

“Who?” Alcarin’s voice cut in again, quiet and stony.  “Who were you working 
with Legolas.  Why?”

“No one!  I didn’t do this!” Legolas continued to defend his innocence, but his 
sinking heart told him that no one was going to believe him.  The evidence 
against him was overwhelming and he could not explain it away even to himself.  
He didn’t understand what had happened or how.  “I didn’t,” his voice fell to a 
whisper. 

“The facts say otherwise Legolas,” Alcarin shook his head.  “You say you were 
shot at, yet there are no arrows but yours out there.  Elan and Krit would never 
have let a stranger near enough to shoot them like this and if they were killed 
at their posts, someone would have heard something.  This is my fault,” his eyes 
hardened.  “I should never have trusted you.”

“I don’t know how to explain it either, but I swear to you I did not do this!” 
Legolas shook his head again, still in shock from this sudden turn of events. 

“I wish I could believe you,” the lieutenant said quietly.  “But that is not 
mine to decide even if I would.  Legolas son of Thranduil you are under arrest 
for high treason against the people of Gondor.”

Legolas blinked numbly as Castamir pulled his hands behind his back, securing 
the elf’s wrists firmly with tight cords.  He couldn’t believe this was 
happening.  “What are you going to do with me?” he asked softly. 

“By our law cases of treason can only be tried by the Steward himself.  You will 
be taken to Minas Tirith to await the judgment of Lord Ecthelion,” Alcarin 
informed.  “Only he can decide your fate.”

Legolas dropped his gaze as he was prodded to his feet.  His head was spinning. 
Everything seemed to have happened so fast it was unreal.  An icy bite of 
familiar fear was working its way through his insides.  Part of his mind was 
screaming for him to run, to not let this happen, but the other part knew that 
even if he got away that would only confirm his guilt in everyone’s mind and 
leave on him the shameful mark of a murderer and a traitor.  Besides, there was 
no way to run without having to hurt or possibly kill more of the soldiers.  And 
that Legolas would not do. 

The elf steeled his jaw and lifted his head.  So, he would plead his case to the 
Steward then.  If he was a killer, it was only an accidental one, and no real 
connection could be proved between he and whoever attacked them... or so he 
hoped.  After tonight he wasn’t sure of anything anymore.  But still, this was 
Gondor, not some backwater town full of superstitious ignorants who would just 
as soon hang an elf as look at one, so that was some comfort at least. 

Legolas had no choice but to put his trust in the hope that justice still worked 
in Gondor... and pray to the Valar that that was true. 

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 
Legolas sat quietly with his back against the tree he was bound to.  Darkness 
covered the small camp and only the sentries stirred on the fringes of the dying 
firelight.  The elf however was not resting, nor was he likely to find any this 
night.  It was not because his position was that uncomfortable, although it was 
far from pleasant.   No, it was his own troubled state of mind and the heaviness 
in his heart that did not allow the prince the sleep his weary body was asking 
for.

The soldiers had followed the trail of their mysterious attackers but it did not 
go very far before it led down to the river’s edge.  The wagons were left empty 
and abandoned on the sandy bank and it was obvious that the thieves had loaded 
their pilfered cargo and the cart animals onto a ship that had been waiting to 
meet them. 

The whole venture had obviously been far too well planned to be the work of mere 
highwaymen, or a crime of opportunity.  It had been pulled off with a great deal 
of forethought and cunning; they had obviously walked right into that trap.  
More disturbing than even this however, was the fact that without a doubt, the 
soldiers knew who had made off with their armor and weapons. 

The Corsairs of Umbar. 

It could only be they.  No one else would have a ship capable of carrying such a 
heavy load and yet also navigating the oft-treacherous river shoals.  Besides, 
no one else had a motive; the Haradrim had already been totally beaten back and 
in any case, the Haradrim were definitely not water-men.  Such a bold move on 
the part of the Corsairs was highly unsettling.  Alcarin had questioned Legolas 
very thoroughly after that, but of course the elf was able to tell them nothing. 
He knew less of their enemies than they did.  To him the Corsairs of Umbar were 
just a name, a far away people with an ill reputation.  He had only ever had 
experience with one of their kind before and that had been millennia ago and 
nowhere near here.   

Many of the other soldiers had obviously wished to use more stringent methods of 
questioning than just words and threats.  Fortunately for Legolas however, they 
abided by their laws regarding the treatment of prisoners who had not yet 
received fair trial or judgment and the worst that the prince got for the moment 
was dirty looks and rough handling. 

Still, it was hard.  So hard how quickly and how much things had changed. 

Legolas tilted his head back against the tree trunk behind him, half looking up 
at the stars above.  With idle grimness he wondered how long their restraint 
would last.  The prince had never been the pessimistic sort, but no matter what 
he tried to hope, some foreboding corner of his heart and mind whispered that he 
knew where this was going to lead and it was nowhere that was good for him.  He 
had been in similar situations too often in the past to have much faith in hope 
for the present; it was only a matter of time.

Legolas sighed.  Too many bad experiences with men as a race would not allow him 
to dispel those nagging apprehensions.  However, even those dark thoughts were 
not what was keeping the elf awake. 

The prince pressed his eyes closed, obscuring the stars, feeling somehow that he 
did not deserve to see their beauty.  The deaths of Elan and Krit were weighing 
heavily on his heart and spirit.  He could still see their lifeless bodies in 
his minds eye.  At first, in his shock, he had been half-way sure that he could 
not have been the one who loosed the fatal arrows, but the more he ran the whole 
situation through his mind the more convinced he became that it could only have 
been he... although there were still a few things that didn’t make sense.  Chief 
among them being what the two sentries had been doing in the woods in the first 
place and what happened to the arrows that had been shot at him. 

The only answers the elf’s weary mind could find was that perhaps Krit and Elan 
had been taken by surprise and captured silently.  Then their attackers must 
have dragged them into the woods while their compatriots went to work and it 
must have been that sense of danger that woke Legolas and drew him towards the 
woods.  Then... then the Corsairs must have fired at him and in the scuffle 
perhaps Elan and Krit tried to run...

Legolas clenched his jaw and banged his head back against the tree in angry 
frustration at himself, hitting hard enough to make bright flashes of unreal 
light shower across the inside of his closed eyelids. 

He must have shot the two boys by mistake as they tried to run.  He had been in 
sheer response mode.  He had fired without thinking and he knew it.  That burned 
his heart.  Burned badly. 

The Corsairs must have retrieved their spent arrows after he left and gone back 
to join their fellows in the fight that had broken out, leaving the bodies of 
their dead captives. 

That must be the way it happened, no other explanation made sense.  Yet there 
was still the question of exactly who *had* tipped the Corsairs off about the 
soldiers’ cargo and whereabouts... but the possibilities were too numerous to 
count.  The way things stood it could have been anything from a real traitor 
hidden in the Gondorian’s ranks, to an outside informant or spy whom none of 
them had probably ever even seen. 

Yet none of that changed the fact that anyway he thought it over, Legolas still 
found himself to be the prime suspect in the deaths of Elan and Krit.  There was 
simply no way that anyone else could have gotten hold of his arrows.  He always 
kept them all accounted for and he knew he had not been missing any when he woke 
up and headed out to the woods. 

Children.  Even by human standards those boys had been mere children yet.  
Legolas swallowed raggedly.  Elan had reminded him so much of his friend Aragorn 
when Legolas had first met him, even though Elan was younger.  He remembered how 
the teenage soldier had been awed by the elf’s bowmanship.  Elan, Krit and 
Tyrion, another young soldier, had begged and begged until Legolas agreed to 
show them more of what he could do.  Even the older soldiers had joined in to 
watch the show. 

Legolas bit his lip.  Those had been good times.  Which made them all the more 
painful to remember now.  With a soft, sad smile the prince recalled the way 
that Elan and Tyrion had argued fiercely over who got the honor of retrieving 
Legolas’ arrows from the targets until Alcarin had stepped in and settled the 
dispute by doing it himself with much good-natured disapproval.  Elendur, a 
veteran fighter of many wars, had teased the young boys about their youthful 
energy... now Elendur was dead, killed in the battle with the Corsairs.  And 
Elan and Krit were dead.  Killed by.... Legolas let his head slump forward.  
Human’s died so easily... it always saddened and even somewhat frightened the 
elf; sometimes they seemed so fragile... and he had possibly shortened already 
short lives.  This was not going to be an easy guilt to live with.

The elf prince was still awake when rosy dawn began to creep across the fields 
and forests of Gondor and he greeted the dawn with weary eyes.  Presently the 
camp began to stir and the soldiers wakened to start their day. 

Breakfast was placed on the ground next to Legolas while the soldiers took their 
own food and prepared for the day’s march.  They obviously had no intention of 
untying the prisoner so he could use his hands to eat and Legolas equally had no 
intention of bending down to eat off the ground like a dog. 

Presently Castamir and Tyrion came over.  Tyrion loosed the elf from the tree, 
although his hands remained bound behind him.  Castamir tugged Legolas to his 
feet, giving the prisoner a cold look. 

“Not hungry?” the soldier nodded at the untouched food.  “What’s the matter?  I 
wouldn’t have thought anything could turn the stomach of a cold blooded 
murderer.”

Legolas fixed Castamir with a silent glare.  He wouldn’t waste words on the man; 
it would serve no purpose. 

Legolas’ lack of response irritated Castamir and he gave the prince a shake by 
the shoulder he was still holding, putting his face close to the elf’s and 
speaking softly.  “Doesn’t it bother you at all, what you have done?  How can 
there be people like you on this earth?” the man’s voice choked slightly.  “Did 
you know that Krit was my sister’s boy?  Well he was.  Do you know that I’m 
going to have to be the one to tell her why he isn’t coming home?  But you don’t 
care about that, do you?”

Castamir’s breath smelled of alcohol and considering that it was yet early in 
the morning that was not a settling thought.  Most of the other soldiers had 
moved away to the ridge, readying for departure, leaving only Castamir and 
Tyrion to get the prisoner moving. 

“Do you?!” Castamir repeated harshly and Legolas pulled roughly away from his 
painfully tight grip. 

“If there is a traitor here, it is not I,” Legolas said icily, staring straight 
into Castamir’s eyes.  “And perhaps you know that just as well as I do.”

The soldier’s eyes flashed and he slapped Legolas, hard.  “You little son of 
Sauron!  How dare you?!”  Castamir grabbed one of Legolas’ bound arms and with 
his other hand he struck the elf across the face again. 

Legolas started and began to pull away, but Castamir jerked the bound elf 
sideways, making Legolas stumble and holding him at a disadvantage as he struck 
the elf again and again, the open-handed blows falling in rapid succession until 
the prince’s mouth and nose were bleeding. 

Half dropping, half shoving Legolas, Castamir let him fall to the ground, 
kicking the elf in the ribs and planting his booted foot on the elf’s back, 
directly between Legolas’ shoulder-blades, pressing down sharply and grinding 
the prince painfully against the earth. 

Tyrion watched with huge eyes, looking as if maybe he should do something, but 
unwilling to cross his superior officer.  Besides... it had been his two best 
friends that were killed. 

“What is the meaning of this?” a hard, questioning voice made Castamir jerk.  He 
spun around to find Alcarin approaching with a dark frown on his face.  
“Castamir?  I asked you a question,” Alcarin repeated when he stopped next to 
them. 

Castamir was lost for words only for a moment before he quickly re-gathered 
himself.  “The prisoner was attempting to escape sir.  We had to bring him 
down.”

If Legolas’ face hadn’t been pressed against the ground his jaw would have 
dropped.  “I did n-”

Castamir’s weight dropped heavily on the boot between the elf’s shoulders, 
pressing all the air from Legolas’ lungs and cutting off his protest as the 
prisoner was forced to gasp for air. 

“We had to bring him down,” Castamir repeated calmly.  “Isn’t that right 
Tyrion?”

Tyrion looked fit to choke on the unexpected question and pressure being placed 
on him when Castamir’s burning gaze bored into him.  “I - Yes.”  The young man 
steeled his jaw.  “Yes it is.”

“With all due respect sir, I told you we had to be more careful with him,” 
Castamir put in, giving another good dig with his boot to keep Legolas from 
being able to draw enough breath to protest this blatant lie.  It wouldn’t have 
mattered if he had though.  It was two to one and as a suspected traitor Legolas 
knew his word carried no weight anyway. 

Alcarin glanced skeptically between them.  “I see.  As I’m sure you both already 
know, the usual punishment for prisoners attempting to escape is twenty-five 
lashes.”

Legolas, who had been trying to lift his head, dropped it back to the earth, 
resisting the urge to moan.  This was not fair!  He had done nothing.  Nothing! 
But that didn’t matter.  It never mattered.  He balled his bound fists tightly. 

“I suppose you would be more than glad to carry that sentence out, wouldn’t you 
Castamir?” Alcarin’s tone was unmistakably dry.  He had never been on the best 
of terms with his second-in-command. 

In truth, nothing would have pleased him more, but Castamir did not miss the 
slightly acidic tone in his commander’s voice and was wary about his answer.  
All he did was nod.  “If such were my duty sir.”

“I thought as much.  However, since this escape attempt seems to have consisted 
of all of perhaps three steps from where the prisoner was being kept, and since 
it looks as if you have already carried out your duties quite zealously,” 
Alcarin glanced at the elf’s bleeding face.  “I think we can forgo formal 
punishment at this time.  If you have trouble handling him, you may use a 
restraint halter, but I expect to never have to come across another situation 
like this, no matter whose fault it is, do you understand?”  Alcarin’s gaze was 
leveled at Castamir and it was obvious that the warning was for him.

Castamir saluted, hiding the dark look on his face so that it only showed behind 
his eyes.  “Yes sir, of course.”

“Very well then, we depart in a quarter-hour.  Everyone back to their duties.”  
The lieutenant addressed the last part to some of the other soldiers who had 
stopped to gawk.  Turning away, Alcarin followed his own advice and went back to 
work. 

With one last sharp dig of his boot, Castamir released Legolas.  Twining his 
hand in the elf’s hair he used it as a handle to drag the prince up onto his 
knees. 

Legolas coughed and wiped his bleeding mouth against his shoulder since his 
hands were held useless behind him. 

Castamir had retrieved a long piece of rope and was busy tying some funny 
looking knots into it as Legolas caught his breath.  Kneeling down he threaded 
the knotted rope under Legolas’ armpits and around his chest, passing the other 
end to Tyrion when it got out of his reach.

The elf did not attempt to resist.  It would have been futile anyway.  But he 
fixed his gaze on the two humans working around him.  “You lied.  I did not try 
to run,” he said quietly now that he had enough breath to do so, his voice a 
trifle hoarse. 

Tyrion looked away, refusing to meet the prisoner’s eyes, hiding the shame he 
felt within as he passed the knotted rope back around to Castamir. 

“Go ahead and tell them that if you think it will do any good,” Castamir looped 
the rope around Legolas’ upper right arm before bringing it back around the 
front of his chest and doing the same on the left side.  “If you think the word 
of a murderous traitor is going to mean anything to anyone.”

Legolas sighed silently and looked away.  No, he didn’t imagine it would.  
However if this was the kind of justice he could expect when they arrived in 
Minas Tirith... the prince was greatly beginning to fear his future. 

Castamir brought the ends of the rope around Legolas’ back one last time and 
tied them off.  Legolas didn’t really understand what all this was about or why 
it was being done until Castamir took hold of the two lengths of rope that lay 
across his back and pulled upward, using them to drag the elf to his feet. 

The knots in the rope dug sharply into the elf’s chest, back and arms when it 
was tugged on, making any thought of resistance an extremely painful idea. 

Castamir gave the ropes a quick, vicious twist; pulling Legolas back towards him 
slightly and making the prince wince and grit his teeth in pain.  Holding the 
ropes still twisted tight, Castamir leaned forward and whispered into Legolas’ 
ear. 

“Look, I know what you are elf.  Your injured innocence act doesn’t fool me.  
Alcarin and the others may hide their own timidity behind talk of laws and 
regulations, but those laws were never meant to protect the likes of you.  Give 
me any reason at all, and I will give you the hell you deserve.  Do you 
understand me?”

Another sharp twist of the twin ropes elicited a sharp moan from between the 
elf’s grit teeth.  It was amazing how painful those simple, knotted cords could 
be when they were wrapped and twisted right.  Legolas felt as if they were 
trying to break through his skin, tunic and all, they were digging in so hard. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Castamir growled quietly, releasing the ropes and 
giving the elf a small shove away from him. 

Legolas stumbled slightly but quickly regained his balance and pulled himself up 
straight and proud, fixing a cold glare at his tormentors.  They had no idea how 
many times, or how fast he could have gotten away from them if he had so 
desired. 

“I submitted myself to be judged by your laws.  I have no intention of 
dishonoring that,” the prince said simply.  “If you do not trouble me, I will 
not trouble you.”

Castamir shot the elf a dark glance.  “It’s a little late for you to try to get 
me thinking you’ve got a noble bone in anywhere in your whole body, isn’t it?  
Now come on, we’re getting ready to move out.”

Legolas submitted to being led away.  Silently resigning himself to the fact 
that Castamir would probably always hate him and that doubtless, that hatred was 
going to create more than a little trouble for him before this trip was over.

 

___________________________________________________________

 

~*PART FOUR*~

 

Water swirled darkly before them; not the placid waters of a pond nor even the 
rushing stream of the great Anduin, these were dangerous, debris-littered 
floodwaters, seasonally swollen by rain upriver overflowing the banks of what 
was normally a small tributary.  Alcarin and Castamir regarded the water with 
looks nearly as dark and perilous as the swirling current.  The grey, swollen 
sky above reflected dully on the surface of the water as the sun sunk towards 
the western horizon. 

Legolas, near the rear of the party, did not like the look of the water, but he 
was not entirely surprised by it.  It had been raining incessantly for nearly a 
week now, such rain as was never seen in northern Gondor.  The daily deluge 
slowed the soldiers and shortened everyone’s tempers.  The elf had learned that 
silence was the best policy for his health since the soggy troops, improperly 
provisioned for their extended trek, were running out of everything, including 
patience. 

“Another delay... I do not like this,” Alcarin shook his head.  A chance 
encounter with a group of bandits who were preying on a local caravan some days 
ago had already slowed them up more than they liked.  The bandits were easily 
dealt with, but the farmers who had been returning from a trip to market had 
needed much assistance to get their now limping little party home safely.  That 
had taken the soldiers, who had nearly reached Minas Tirith, far out of their 
way and across the Anduin below Osgiliath.  Rather than back-tracking when they 
were done, they had thought to proceed on the eastern bank of the river until 
the more favorable crossings further south presented themselves since Minas 
Tirith was still a few days travel in that direction anyway.  What they had not 
counted on was the increasingly wild and swollen state of the river.  The 
crossings that were usually safe had been far too wide and dangerous to attempt, 
forcing them further south until they were now actually quite some distance 
south of their intended goal, wandering into the currently sodden land of South 
Ithilien.  The other thing they had not counted on, was running into this 
massive floodplain just below Graveshead. 

“It’s not very deep, we could probably ford it all right if it gets no worse,” 
Castamir apprised thoughtfully.

Alcarin looked uncertain.  “Perhaps... I don’t wish to endanger the men 
needlessly, floods can be dangerous.  It’s a pity we have no one familiar with 
this region’s weather patterns to advise us,” the last part was a sigh. 

“Well then we’ll have to turn back and take the crossing north of Emyn Arnen and 
Hegdegon, there’s no other way across the Anduin between here and there,” 
Castamir suggested their only alternative without enthusiasm.  None of them 
wanted to do that.  It would mean a backtrack of at least 30 or 40 miles that 
would land them just as far off course as they were now.  If the weather did not 
improve, that would be a very dismal journey.  Several of the men groaned 
audibly. 

Alcarin shook his head.  He did not want to do that unless it truly was their 
last option.  “The light is fading; we can go no further today.  We’ll camp here 
tonight and see what the morning brings.  Perhaps the waters will have receded.”

It was a dangerous decision, although none of them knew it. 

Shortly after camp was set it began to rain again.  The troops swore as the 
already muddy grass under their feet turned to puddles.  The rain had ruined 
much of their supplies and they weren’t even able to light fires.  The water 
seeped under tent edges and nothing was left dry. 

Legolas knelt impassively in three inches of muddy water.  It would have been 
impossible for him to become any more uncomfortable by this time, so there was 
no point in being annoyed.  Usually he was bound to a tree or staked down for 
the night, but since no pegs would hold in the soggy earth and there were no 
trees readily available, his guard was doubled. 

Somewhere in the hills away to the left of camp, his elven ears caught a 
disturbing, distant rumble.  He lifted his bowed head and cocked it to the side, 
listening.  Now he could feel the ground beginning to tremble ever so slightly 
beneath him.  A wave of alarm swept through the elf. 

“Something is wrong,” Legolas spoke up for the first time in days.  “Danger 
approaches.”  He did not know what or how, but he felt sure that something was 
gravely amiss. 

The two grumpy soldiers on either side of the elf gave him irritated glances at 
first, but a moment later they too began to feel the trembling of the earth 
beneath them. 

Suddenly, loud shouting outside split the dark, soggy air and made them all 
jerk.  It was hard to hear above the pelting rain, but it sounded as if a voice 
was shouting: “Get out!  Get out!”

Exchanging worried glances, the two soldiers quickly rose to their feet, 
prodding Legolas with them.  The elf needed no encouragement as the three of 
them tumbled swiftly out of the small tent into the sleeting rain outside. 

The camp seemed to be in chaos, although it was difficult at first to understand 
why.  The full moon, thickly shrouded in clouds, lent a faint, diffused shine to 
the entire nighttime sky, however, grey rain and the darkness of night obscured 
almost everything.  A loud, rushing roar filled their ears, seeming to come from 
everywhere at once. 

Something made Legolas turn around, towards the darkened shapes of the hills on 
their left.  What he saw next was not an image the prince would easily forget. 

A dark outline blotted out the pale light of the cloudy sky, but it was not the 
normal shape of the hills, it was much too close and moving much to fast.  A 
searing flash of lightening revealed an eight to ten foot wall of water rushing 
down towards them. 

By the time it could be seen, it was too late to react.  The flash flood tore 
through the valley, sweeping everything in it into the rushing roar of the 
floodplain. 

Legolas felt the water hit him and instantly he was weightless.  It was as if a 
strong hand had ripped the air from his lungs; picking him up and throwing him, 
not once, but repeatedly.  Water washed over his head, filling his eyes, ears, 
nose and mouth.  Caught in the current he could not tell which way was up as the 
darkened world spun around him. 

Breaking surface, he gulped down several rapid breaths of air before being 
sucked under once more.  The elf thrashed in the water, kicking hard towards 
what he hoped was the surface.  He was a fair swimmer, but with his arms 
securely bound behind him it was almost impossible to fight the raging current. 

Legolas could hear nothing, see nothing, feel nothing but the rough swell he was 
caught in.  Hard objects swirled around him, they could have been tree-branches, 
debris, or even other people, there was no way to know.  Something heavy caught 
him in the low back, forcing him down under the surface.  The elf kicked upward 
with all his strength, but he ran into what felt like a sea of tossing branches, 
probably from some downed tree uprooted by the sudden flood.  The rough fingers 
caught and held Legolas underwater, scratching and pummeling him as the fluxing 
current slammed and bumped them along. 

A strange, unearthly calm came over the panicking elf as he ran out of air.  All 
thoughts seemed to leave his mind.  It was not so much that he was giving up, as 
that he could not remember why he was struggling.  But as the dark, murky water 
reached up its swirling claws to claim him Legolas felt himself run into 
something soft.  The soft thing flailed slightly in the water, reacting to 
hitting him.  Then strong hands grabbed his tunic and hair, pulling him towards 
the tossing surface. 

When his head came up Legolas coughed and gasped for breath; his lungs and 
throat aching fiercely.  He could not see who his rescuer was, but the hands 
propelled him forward, pushing him up onto the broken trunk of the tree that had 
nearly killed him.  Legolas was unable to grab the tree trunk because his hands 
were still bound behind him and so he kept sliding back into the water. 

The man beside him swore.  “Grab on!”

Legolas realized with a jolt who his unlikely rescuer was, but now was not the 
time to question a helping hand. 

“I cannot!” he shouted back above the roar of the water around them. 

The man’s hands caught against the knotted halter around the elf’s chest and he 
swore again, this time in surprise. 

“You?!” Castamir spluttered slightly, trying to keep his own head above water as 
he clung to the log and supported Legolas’ weight.  “Why did it have to be 
you?!”  He almost let the elf go, almost let the water have him, but at the last 
moment he grabbed the wet ropes of the halter and hauled the prisoner up onto 
the log instead. 

Legolas winced as the knotted ropes dug into his chest and arms, but felt better 
at having something solid under him, keeping him afloat.  He was honestly 
surprised.  He had more than expected Castamir to leave him to the mercy of the 
current. 

Hooking the back of the halter over the broken stub of a tree branch Castamir 
kept the elf from sliding back down into the water again as the tree swept and 
jostled its way downstream. 

Legolas resisted the urge to cry out as his full weight fell against the painful 
restraint of the halter.  The water jerked and caught at him, banging him 
against the tree that was keeping him afloat and slamming him repeatedly against 
the punishing ropes that were both saving his life and creating flashes of 
constant, stunning pain that almost made him dizzy. 

Legolas’ weight on one side and Castamir’s on the other kept the log from 
spinning as it cut its way through the churning darkness.  Just how long that 
dreadful journey lasted was difficult to tell.  After what seemed like hours, 
but could have actually been much less then that, the flood began to even out 
and lose some of its original ferocity.  Exhausted from their long battle with 
the elements, the man and the elf slumped against their make-shift raft in 
cautious relief as the current rushing them along, settled down to a more 
reasonable pace.  In the near pitch-dark there was no way to see if or where any 
dry land might be; for the present they could do nothing but hold on and wait 
this nightmare ride out.

When grey dawn finally began to seep up the edges of the sky Legolas was beyond 
weary.  He supposed Castamir must be as well, although the human had not said a 
word to him since their first exchange and he could not see the soldier from 
where he was. 

The rain had stopped a few hours ago and the rising sun revealed that they were 
no longer on the plains of Graveshead but in the middle of a broad, flowing 
river.  The flood must have emptied into the Anduin at some point during the 
long night and now they were floating downstream.  It seemed that many of the 
other soldiers had faired the same because as the sun climbed higher and the 
steep gorge they were in narrowed out into flat plains on either side of the 
river they began to be hailed by comrades already on the sloping banks. 

The eddy they were now caught in led them eventually to shore with a little help 
and paddling.  Tyrion and an older soldier named Ostoher waded out and helped 
pull the log in. 

Castamir stumbled up onto the sodden riverbank and sat down, rubbing feeling 
back into his cold, stiff limbs while Ostoher waded back out and unhooked 
Legolas.  The elf’s legs felt a bit shaky, but once he was released from his 
anchor to the tree he waded to shore under his own power.  Ostoher eyed him a 
little warily, but he need not have worried.  Legolas was too worn-out to 
attempt anything even had he wanted to do so. 

The elf sank to his knees, letting his head and shoulders sag forward as he drew 
in deep breaths, filling his lungs in a way which the constant pressure of the 
halter had not allowed him last night.  The bruised flesh under the knotted 
ropes was throbbing painfully and it took him a few moments to regain his 
composure. 

“Where are the others, do we know how many made it?” Castamir was quizzing 
Tyrion.  The young man shook his head, obviously still a little shocked.  He had 
never seen anything in nature with as much fury as a flash flood before.  None 
of them had. 

“I don’t know sir.  Ostoher and I were washed ashore upstream sometime early 
last night.  We’ve been walking downstream since it was light enough to see, 
looking for others.  There’s some over there,” he nodded his head somewhat 
shakily across the river.  “On the opposite bank.  And you two of course.”  The 
young man looked back at the river as if it were a dragon, calm now, but 
seething underneath.  “I’ve never seen anything like that,” he whispered. 

“That makes two of us,” Castamir muttered, contemplating rising but opting for 
resting a moment longer.  “We’ll have to keep going downstream to find the 
others.  If you haven’t found anyone else yet then chances are they are further 
ahead still, if they are to be found at all.”  The last part was spoken half 
under the soldier’s breath.  The uncertainty of what they would or wouldn’t find 
weighed heavily on all of them. 

“Right then,” Ostoher said at length.  “Hadn’t we better get started sir?”  
Since Castamir was the only ranking officer present at the moment the other man 
turned to him for orders. 

Castamir nodded, rising slowly and stiffly to his feet.  “Spread out so we don’t 
miss anyone further inland.  Tyrion you take left point, Ostoher you take right 
point, but everyone stay within view.  We don’t want to get separated.” 

Ostoher and Tyrion quickly moved to obey.  Ostoher glanced back at Legolas.  The 
elf was still kneeling on the riverbank.  “What about him?”

“Leave him to me,” Castamir said with a hint of darkness creeping back into his 
tone.  Walking behind Legolas the soldier grabbed the back of the elf’s halter 
and roughly pulled him upright.  “On your feet.” 

The Gondorian twisted the ropes in his hand, making the knotted cord constrict. 
“You’re not going to give me any trouble, are you?”

Legolas gasped softly in pain, unable to stifle the sound as the hard knots 
ground deeply into his already injured flesh.  Castamir took that as a no.  
“Good.  Then I won’t have to hurt you.”  He pulled the elf back against him and 
leaned close for a moment so that only Legolas could hear his words. 

“Don’t think that just because I saved your life means I’ll hesitate to take it 
if you so much as look at me wrong, understand?”  The soldier’s hand remained 
firmly twisted in the halter, holding Legolas against him and making the elf 
work hard not to squirm under the painful pressure around his bruised chest and 
shoulders. 

“I asked if you understood,” Castamir growled slightly, twisting the ropes 
tighter.  He obviously wanted a real answer this time. 

Legolas nodded once.  Yes, he understood.  He understood that if he was long 
left under Castamir’s care alone he would probably never make it back to Minas 
Tirith alive.  Why the soldier had even bothered to keep him alive this long was 
a mystery to him. 

Castamir released the halter, shoving Legolas a few steps ahead and the elf let 
his breath out in relief at the reprieve.  “All right then, move out.”

The sun had traversed the sky and daylight was fading to evening when the little 
quartet met up with five or six more of their scattered platoon.  One of whom, 
to Legolas’ relief, was Alcarin.  The young Lieutenant looked haggard and upset. 

“Castamir, you made it,” he greeted the newcomers.  “Have you seen anyone else?”

The second-in-command shook his head.  “Just three, across the river.  They 
looked as if they were also heading downstream.”

Alcarin nodded.  “They passed us not long ago, they are going to try to swim 
across a little ways down where the water is calmer.”  He ran his hand over his 
face.  “I should never have camped us there.”

“You had no way of knowing sir, none of us expected that,” Castamir sighed.  He 
and Alcarin did not always see eye to eye, but the soldiers were trained to pull 
together in times of crisis, and this definitely qualified as such. 

Alcarin nodded slowly.  “Well, at least we are across the river,” he commented 
dryly.  “Although heaven only knows how far downstream we are now.  We have 
salvaged what we can as far as supplies go, but they won’t get us very far,” 
Alcarin filled his second-in-command in swiftly.  “I sent several of the men 
ahead as scouts earlier, they just reported back.  There is no sign of any town 
for many leagues.  However, there is apparently a somewhat sizable contingent of 
troops about a day and a half’s march south from here.  They were on the move, 
further south, but should not gain more than another half a day or so on us by 
tomorrow.  The scouts who saw them from a high hill say that the troop movements 
seemed stealthy.  It was difficult to tell from a distance, but the scouts are 
almost certain that they are ours, although their errand is unknown.  I think 
our best hope is to try to join up with them.  They will have supplies and they 
will know where we are.  But we must be cautious, if they are attempting to hide 
their movements we do not want give them away to whatever they are trying to 
avoid.”

Castamir inclined his head in agreement.  It was the only thing to do.  Besides, 
if they failed to catch up with the other soldiers, there was at least a higher 
probability that if they headed south they would run into Lithiant or some of 
its border towns that must still be ahead of them somewhere.  True, it took them 
well away from their previous course for Minas Tirith, but being unsure of just 
how far south they had already been carried by the river, it was a safer bet 
than wandering aimlessly north which, if they *were* anywhere near the area of 
Lithiant, would mean miles and miles of unpopulated wilderness between 
themselves and the South Road or the more populous areas surrounding Lossarnach. 
Let alone Minas Tirith. 

Legolas cared little what the soldiers decided.  His body ached fiercely and he 
felt worn out by the sleepless night and long day’s travel in a way that he knew 
he should not be.  He was beginning to question his presence here.  Yes, he 
wished to prove his innocence and remove the taint from his name, but at this 
rate he wondered when they would even *get* to Minas Tirith.  It was as if an 
ill fate conspired against them. 

Fires were being started against the growing evening chill, although since 
almost everything in the area was wet it was no easy task.  At least it had not 
picked up raining again.  That was one small comfort.  It was nearly dusk by the 
time the fires were going properly and the soldiers gathered around.  The light 
drew in a few more lost stragglers, and the soldiers were somewhat heartened to 
find that they had not lost as many of their number as they had originally 
feared.  In the end only two men were missing, although most of their gear, 
tents and supplies had been washed away. 

Legolas was placed with his back against a tree on the dark edges of the 
fire-ring and the soldiers prepared to bind him there.  Alcarin stopped them. 

“Put him against the tree closer to the fire.  He’s just as cold and wet as we 
are.”

Actually that was only half true, since Legolas did not actually suffer from 
cold as the humans did, but he was wet and aching and the warm fire felt good 
upon his stiff, bruised body. 

Save for the ones standing watch, the humans slowly dropped off to sleep one by 
one.  The elf however, remained awake.  Weary as he was, he could not sleep.  He 
almost never slept anymore.  It was disturbing, but he simply could not.  Elves, 
they say, could wander in waking dreams of their own choosing, but all Legolas 
could find now were nightmares.  His helpless, vulnerable state kept him on edge 
and denied his body the full relaxation needed for rest. 

The elf watched the fire slowly burn down into glowing embers with weary eyes 
and wondered what the next day would bring.  More soldiers, new men, new 
captors... would the change be a curse, or a blessing?  He had no way of 
knowing.  Only the gnawing uncertainty that had become part of his daily 
existence. 

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

Thorongil exited his tent, throwing the flap back and glancing around the small 
encampment.  He and Denethor had brought a comparatively small contingent with 
them, considering the size that they were accustomed to commanding in the wars 
against the Haradrim.  This however, was a reconnaissance mission and nothing 
more.  They were not to engage the enemy or start anything with the Corsairs if 
they found them.  They were not even to be discovered as they traveled into 
southern Gondor approaching Lithiant by way of stealth using the woodland paths 
that bracketed the Anduin.  They were a half a days march from the port where, 
if the fishermen from Lithiant were telling the truth, the majority of the 
Corsair ships were rumored to be docked, awaiting only supplies and troops 
before they made their way deep into Gondor.  *If* those reports had been 
accurate. 

Aragorn knew that Denethor not only hoped, but firmly expected to find nothing. 
Although he knew the other captain would never believe it, Aragorn hoped the 
same thing, even though his common sense and the warning of his heart told him 
otherwise.  He would like nothing better than to be wrong in this instance, for 
the threat to not be as real as it seemed... but he doubted that was the case. 

The small company of soldiers had pressed back into a thickly wooded area to 
hide their encampment and cooking fires now sparked merrily in the small glen 
that Thorongil had found for them.

Sentries constantly scouted the borders, checking in regularly.  A grouping of 
three soldiers had just checked in for the evening and their replacements left 
the fire ring as Denethor reseated himself.

Thorongil watched the other captain.  The Steward’s son sighed and ran his 
fingers through his hair; the long days of travel were wearing on him.  He was 
more weary than he would admit.  He tired of war, he tired of his father’s 
seeming displeasure of him and he longed for peace, fearing it would never come 
in his lifetime.

“Thorongil.”  The softly spoken words stopped Aragorn mid-stride.  He had meant 
to go and sit near Denethor and try to speak to his Captain.  He was determined 
to continue trying to reach the man, believing that there could be a friendship 
there between them.  He wasn’t ready to give up just yet.

Turning at the sound of the voice, he was met by Tarcil.  The dark haired 
Gondorian soldier stood a good head above his captain.

“How are the borders Tarcil?”  Thorongil smiled up at the man he had come to 
trust not only as a good under-officer and troop commander, but also as a 
friend.

“They are safe, my captain.  I doubt that we will have troubles tonight.  Not 
even the Haradrim would venture into the woods this deeply.  You have found us a 
safe place to rest.”  He continued his report as they walked slowly across the 
field. They were camped a good league to the north of Lithiant and where the 
rumors placed the Corsair’s newly built harbor. 

“Lithiant is quiet tonight,” Tarcil continued.  “No one threatens her borders 
and the Corsairs are not near it, but if the reports we have been hearing from 
the Lithiants are true, then their encampment is not far south of the town, they 
say you can see the lights they keep on through the night from the highest 
lookout.”

Noting the direction they were walking the soldier’s gaze flitted quickly over 
to where Denethor sat staring dejectedly into the fire.  “You were going to go 
accompany the Commander?”  The question held the slightest tinge of wariness.  
Tarcil was not overly found of Captain Denethor.  He had seen the jealousy in 
the man and was not pleased with the other’s treatment of his friend.

“Yes, I was.  Care to join us?”  Aragorn’s smile spread wider as the soldier 
glared at him, questioning his sanity.  “Oh come on, what can it hurt?”

“It is no use my lord.  I have seen you try time and again to win Captain 
Denethor over.  The man is intent on being quarrelsome and strong headed.  He 
will never change.”

“Every man can change Tarcil.  He is not as you assume him to be.  The burden he 
carries is great and he fears to share it with any others.  Everyone deserves a 
second chance.”  Thorongil clapped the man on the back and steered them both 
towards the fire. “Come on.”

“And a third and a fourth?”  Tarcil muttered darkly.

“If need be, yes.”  The young captain laughed at the soldier’s reluctance, 
knowing deep in his hear the man was right.  He had given Denethor many chances 
to get to know him and had tried on many occasions to smooth the rift that grew 
ever wider between them.  All to no avail.

“Denethor?”  Thorongil rounded a log that had been placed near the fire and sat 
down a few feet away from the steward’s son. “How are you faring?  You seem 
tired my lord.”

Dark, distrustful eyes shifted wearily to gaze at the two men that had joined 
him.  It was a few minutes before Denethor spoke and Aragorn feared he may have 
overstepped himself again.  The silence had nearly become unbearable and Tarcil 
shifted uneasily next to Thorongil.  Then Denethor quietly spoke up.

“I pray that we find you wrong Thorongil.”  The words were soft and held a tone 
of slight disdain.

“My lord?”  Aragorn turned towards the Commander, his full attention on the man. 
Tarcil sighed quietly next to him but the ranger shushed his second-in-command 
with a slight touch to the man’s thigh.

“I realize now that you truly believe the Corsairs are massing for an attack and 
I hope more than anything I have ever hoped for that you are incorrect.  I want 
nothing more than to walk back into my father’s chambers and tell him you were 
wrong.”  Denethor cast his gaze back to the fire, his face losing some of the 
anger that marked it.  When Thorongil started to speak the young man cut him off 
with a wave of his hand, shaking his head at the unspoken words, “You don’t 
understand.  It is not because of you that I wish it.  I do not believe Gondor 
can withstand another war.  I am not sure that I wish to either.”

“Denethor, you are not being honest with yourself,” Aragorn spoke softly.  “Both 
you and Gondor are stronger than you deem.  Whatever we find, you must have 
faith that it can be overcome, or everything is already lost.”

Denethor sighed deeply and dropped his gaze to the dirt beneath his feet, 
scuffing his boots into the forest debris.  “You want honesty?  Then try this, 
my father would take your word over mine no matter what I say. It is a wonder he 
has not put you in charge of Gondor over me long ago,” there was a clipped 
bitterness in the future Steward’s voice as he met the other’s eyes.  “I would 
that he saw me as he sees you.  I grow weary of hearing your name and being 
compared to you.  My father loves you, the people love you, you have no idea 
what it is like to be second in the eyes of all that you hold dear.  Was that 
honest enough for you?”

Thorongil turned to Tarcil and quietly dismissed the man.  The soldier was only 
too glad to leave, his captain had been right, underneath it all Denethor was 
simply weighed down by a burden too heavy for him to carry.  Why he tried to 
carry it alone rather than letting others close enough to help him, the younger 
man may never be able to understand. 

When Tarcil had left, Thorongil answered the Denethor.  “You are wrong.”  The 
northerner threw a small branch into the fire, watching the flames devour the 
dried greenery that clung to it.

A snort of derision caused him to glance sharply up.  Denethor was shaking his 
head a small smirk on his face, “That would not be a first,” he answered darkly.

“I mean that you are wrong about your father and the people and the fact that I 
do not understand what it is like to come in second to others.”  Aragorn smiled 
softly as Denethor glanced at him.  The young steward’s eyes were wary and still 
not entirely trusting.

“I have two older brothers.”  Thorongil’s smile widened and he laughed quietly 
as memory caught him up, “Two brothers who can do everything perfectly.  They 
have always been faster, better marksmen, better horsemen and by far better with 
weaponry than I.  From the time I was old enough to understand our difference, I 
could never out-climb them, out-run them or out-smart them.  It was not until 
just before I left to join Éomund and the Rohirrim that I even began to excel in 
tracking and hunting, but it has been years in the coming.  And often I believed 
that my father loved them best.”  Shaking his head and laughing lightly again 
Thorongil continued, “They are twins you see and they are the apple of his eye, 
well other than... than my sister, but she was rarely around.”  He stopped 
speaking as thoughts of his family momentarily took him away from the world of 
men and his heart ached once more to return.  He never felt right referring to 
Arwen as his sister, not with the way he felt about her, but there was no time 
or need to go into that confusing tangle of emotions with Denethor.  There were 
some things that Aragorn kept very private. 

Denethor was watching the young captain intently, a frown creasing his brow.  He 
had never heard Thorongil speak of his family.  Indeed he had never thought to 
ask the northerner about them at all.

“But my point is, my father never loved them more.  He loved us all the same but 
he was often...”  Aragorn searched for the right word, “...often more stern with 
me, if that is the right way to explain it, than with my brothers for he could 
foresee the path of my life and knew I would need it.” Thorongil’s silver eyes 
glanced up and locked onto the green ones that gazed at him so openly, “And so 
it is with your father.  Denethor, your father loves you.  You think he 
disapproves of you but he knows you will be the one to take his place and he has 
only so much time to help train you to that position.  You will make good 
Steward someday and he sees this.”

“He has told you that?”  Denethor looked quickly down to his hands fiddling 
nervously with a twig that he had found near him. 

“Not in so many words, but yes.”

“Then why does he not tell me?”  The commander looked accusingly at Thorongil, 
the pain obvious in his voice although he tried to disguise it through the 
accusation, “Why would he tell you?  You are not even his blood.”

Aragorn shrugged slightly, answers were so difficult to come by.  “You both need 
to talk to each other.  Denethor, you are his son, I am not and I will not 
remain in Gondor forever.  While I am here let us not find ourselves on 
opposites sides of every argument, can we not agree?  I do not wish for your 
place and I do not seek it.  I only want Gondor to see peace, and peace in your 
lifetime if possible.”

Denethor stood swiftly, he gaze hard on the man that sat next to him.  “If you 
truly want peace for Gondor then stop trying to find war under every threat you 
*think* is at our borders.  Let me do my job.”  Turning, he stalked away from 
the fire ring.

Aragorn sighed deeply and rested his head in his hands.

Just outside the circle of light from the fire Denethor stopped and stood where 
he was.  He knew that deep in his heart he was truly only jealous of Thorongil 
and longed to be the one whose name was on the lips and hearts of the people.  
The young captain was a good man and had never done anything to deserve his 
hatred, it was simply hard to see through the hurt.  He turned back and glanced 
over his shoulder noting the slumped position of the captain.

“Thorongil?”

Aragorn jumped slightly and glanced up at Denethor, his gaze questioning the 
steward.

“Thank you.”  The commander whispered softly before walking back to his tent.

Turning towards the fire once more Aragorn threw a log on the dying embers and 
stretched his legs out towards the flames, warming his booted feet.  He smiled 
softly to himself and shook his head.  People were so complicated sometimes he 
wasn’t sure he would ever understand them.  Glancing skyward he sought out 
Eärendil and tracked the star’s slow progress across the night sky.

Tomorrow would tell if he was correct.  For Denethor’s sake he hoped he wasn’t 
but deep inside of him, he knew that peace for the men in this land would not 
come so easily.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 
It was a new moon and the shades of nightfall were on their side as Thorongil 
and Denethor crept through the darkened streets of the small town that bracketed 
the makeshift harbor the Corsairs had quickly set up some leagues downstream 
from Lithiant.  The soldiers spread out behind the two captains, silently making 
their way to the docks.  It had taken the small troop nearly all day to reach 
here from their previous encampment near Lithiant, but they had brought only a 
few soldiers with them.  Their hope right now was in stealth and keeping their 
presence a secret. 

This was supposed to be a trading outpost, a harmless little stopping point for 
the river trade routes... except that Gondor did almost no business with the 
Corsairs and the size of the make-shift settlement they were beginning to see 
was totally unjustified for its supposed purpose. 

Wordlessly pointing to his right, Thorongil put up two fingers before his eyes 
silently indicating that he intended to head in that direction and look.  The 
unspoken communication he had developed with Legolas, his elven friend, had 
developed during the wartime he found himself in and had been put to good use 
with the other soldiers.

The shipwright’s house was just beyond the darkened shop they knelt behind.  As 
soon as they cleared the building they would be able to see the harbor without 
obstruction.

Thorongil eased around the corner of the store and crept quietly forward.  Years 
of time spent hunting in the darkened woods with Legolas and his brothers had 
given him an advantage over his fellow soldiers and he easily sidestepped a hole 
in the dirt street, grabbing Denethor’s elbow and steering him clear of it.

The light from midnight torches lit the alley in front of them and Aragorn 
pressed himself against the wooden wall behind him, flattening out in the deep 
shadows as a group of laughing men exited a bar up the street and staggered past 
their position.

The docks were bathed in torchlight as scores of men worked round the clock on 
the ships that sat docked in the harbor.  And they were most certainly *not* 
merchant ships.  Nor were they only docked here, it appeared that many had 
actually been built here.  From his vantage point Aragorn counted no less than 
fifteen of the large warships, each outfitted with enough weaponry to destroy an 
entire village.  Gangplanks connected the low, slooped decks to the shore as 
more provisions, supplies and caches of weapons were loaded into the cargo 
holds.  The buzz of nighttime activity indicated that whatever time-table the 
Corsairs were running on must be winding to some kind of apex, and soon. 

The touch of a hand on his back alerted Thorongil to Denethor’s presence as the 
man crept up next to the captain.  Aragorn watched the man’s face as he took in 
the sight of the Corsairs bustling about the armada, readying it for war.

Deep green eyes locked onto the silver ones that watched him closely.

“I’m sorry.”  Aragorn mouthed silently.  He truly wished he had been wrong.

With a soft sigh Denethor nodded and dropped his gaze, signaling the men to 
withdraw; they had seen enough.  It would do them no good to get caught here.

Aragorn’s keen eyesight caught motion to his left and he spied Tarcil in the 
shadows near the shipwright’s house.  With a small motion the captain warned his 
second-in-command and the men pulled back, fleeing into the safety of the 
shadows and heading for the rendezvous point some distance back up the Anduin, 
outside Lithiant.  There was nothing more that could be done here tonight.

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

 

“Halt, who goes there?” the Gondorian sentry questioned warily as a small party 
of men approached camp from the north.  They were not Denethor, Thorongil and 
their party who had departed this morning, although as they came closer the 
guard could see that they were wearing the blue and silver uniforms of Gondor. 

“Alcarin, lieutenant commander of what is left of the Ramanna division, we are 
friends.” Alcarin introduced them, keeping his hands up a little since the 
sentry still had his weapon pointed at them. 

“Ramanna division?” the guard questioned in surprise, putting up his sword.  
“What are you doing this far south?  Your place is in the north.”

“That is a very long story which we would be glad to tell,” Alcarin informed 
wearily.  “But not just yet I pray.  My men have been marching for days without 
rest or supplies in order to get here.  And we have wounded comrades who need 
tending, and a prisoner.”

The sentry quickly called up several other officers and the small, disheveled 
group was ushered without further ado into the center of camp, explaining the 
details of how they had gotten to this sorry state as they went. 

“It is our first stroke of luck in days that we met up with your company,” 
Alcarin told the young soldier who brought him a warm mug of mead.  “You’ll 
forgive me if I note that your trail was rather difficult to follow.”

“It was supposed to be,” the youth said with a touch of pride as more blankets 
were distributed.  “I’m surprised you found us at all, we’ve been very careful. 
There are reports of Corsair activity somewhere near here.  The Captains have 
gone to investigate.”

Castamir and the other soldiers of the Ramanna division were settling gratefully 
around the fire nearby.  Legolas had been taken off their hands by several of 
the camp sentries and escorted to the guard tent for safe keeping. 

“Captains?  Who’s in charge here?” Castamir inquired, looking up from his place 
by the fire. 

“Captain Denethor and Captain Thorongil sir, but Captain Denethor is in charge 
of the mission,” the young man informed. 

Castamir whistled softly.  “Then this mission must be important if it requires 
the attention of *both* Captains of Gondor.”

The younger soldier shrugged somewhat uncomfortably, not wishing to make too 
free with men he did not know.  “I don’t know sir, I suppose we will find out 
when they return.”

Alcarin looked around.  “Where is Legolas?  Excuse me, the prisoner?” he 
inquired of their host. 

“They took him to the guard tent, you needn’t worry, our men will watch him.  If 
you’ll pardon my saying so sir, you and your men look beat.  I suggest rest for 
all of you.”

The Lieutenant nodded.  “That sounds unreasonably good.  Wake me if the Captains 
return before morning, I must speak with them about our prisoner.  It may have 
some bearing on your mission here, or it may not.  But it is best they know as 
soon as possible.”

“Yes sir,” the soldier agreed to Alcarin’s request.  “If there’s anything else I 
can do for any of you, just ask.”

 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

It was barely morning by the time Thorongil and the reconnaissance party met up 
with the men they had left behind below Lithiant.  It had been the perfect place 
to set up their encampment.  The Gondorians in the small town were glad for the 
presence of the soldiers, the rumors of the Corsairs so close near their border 
had unnerved the citizens and some whispered that it was only a matter of time 
before the southerners raided their storehouses and stole their families as was 
their want to do.

Having the soldiers camped so near had given the leery townspeople some of the 
first days of security they had felt in a long time. 

As the men walked back into camp the first touches of light were coloring the 
sky.  Gariss, a young soldier barely out of his teens, ran out to meet the 
captains.  He did not even ask the outcome of what they had found but 
breathlessly informed them that a supply contingent that was coming up from 
Dalthad had met up with them and that they had been ambushed and lost the 
weapons to a group of Corsairs who took them by surprise.  They had further 
suffered in a flash flood somewhere upstream were the rainfall was heavy and 
sought permission to join Denethor and Thorongil’s contingent. 

“They say they caught the traitor who set them up for the enemy.  They’ve 
brought him with them