Chapter 1 ~ Mission

The Southrons are invading. King Elessar begs your assistance as a sign of your continued loyalty.

It played continuously through his dulled mind, tormenting him while forcing him to go forward and complete his mission. His weary limbs where close upon useless and his head throbbed painfully as blood from his forehead trailed down the side of his face.

His spent mount stumbled beneath him, jarring him back to the present. As he lifted his head to take note of his surroundings, his vision blurred and the trees around him seemed to spin and bend in strange directions. He reeled in his saddle and was obliged to take as firm a hold on his steed’s mane as he could to prevent himself from falling.

Two days before he had been riding on his mission, on his way to Prince Faramir, when he was ambushed by Southrons. He had fought his way through, killing all three of his attackers, but he himself was wounded terribly in the process. It hurt to move his leg as the blood had hardened over the gash in his thigh, at least stopping the flow. Blood still trickled from the cut on his forehead and he knew he had been stabbed at least once, somewhere near his shoulder.

He had been thrown from his horse and had sustained a huge bruise on his skull. The Southrons had nearly overpowered him, but his frightened horse had foiled whatever plans they had made by prancing nervously about his master and accidentally crushing the foot of one of the attackers.

The Southrons are invading. King Elessar begs your assistance as a sign of your continued loyalty.

The message had been entrusted to him and it must be delivered. He lifted his head slowly once more and looked about him. Blinking away the blood that had gotten in his eye he found that they had lost the path. He had no idea where they were. He had failed. He would eventually fall from his horse and die. Prince Faramir would never know that the country was in danger. They would not go to the King’s aid and all would be lost. He had failed.

The Southrons are invading. King Elessar begs your assistance as a sign of your continued loyalty.

Again those words rang through his sluggish mind, reminding him of the day, only a week ago, when the message had been committed to him. The king himself had ordered him to deliver the urgent entreaty. He had sworn to his king that he would deliver the message even if it cost him his life.

The king had smiled and said he doubted it would come down to that. Surely they could still ride to Ithilien without danger of attack.

But no. They could no longer ride even to Ithilien without danger. The Southrons had invaded even so far as that, and the message would never be delivered. It had cost him his life. 

Chapter 2 ~ Warning

Belecthor saddled up the two horses and led them to the house. The humble abode before him had just enough room for the family, but it was not cramped, like the huge palace they called home usually was. Narion and his family often sought peace and calm in their small retreat and the days spent there had been the happiest of his childhood. Even now he enjoyed them more than the days at home, but some of the light was taken from his joy by the fact that his younger sister, Hirilian, was married and living in Edoras and they could no longer ride headlong through the trees.

He smiled as his youngest sister, Morwen joined him outside. They had lost the firebrand of the family, but they still had their docile little Morwen. She had never enjoyed tearing through the forest on a horse as Hirilian had, but she was still an incomparable horsewoman, as were all the ladies descended from Queen Éowyn.

"Are you ready, Belec?" Morwen questioned her brother with her beautiful smile.

"Only if you are," he answered, helping her into her saddle.

"Then let us go."

He mounted and they started their steeds into the forest. They did not take the path as Belecthor had long since tired of riding the same route. Their light mounts padded near silently over the pine needles coating the forest floor and the only sound to be heard for some time was the swishing of branches which the two riders carefully pushed away from their faces.

When they reached a small clearing, Belecthor paused his mount to allow Morwen to draw her horse up next to his. After a moment of simply enjoying the calling of birds and the quiet sounds of the forest, they again started their horses.

"Why have you not gotten married yet, Morwen?" Belecthor asked suddenly, turning to look at his younger sister.

She turned to meet his gaze. "Why do you ask?" she inquired with a curious grin.

"I do not know," he replied, once more concentrating on the low hanging branches in their path. "It is just that lately I have been watching you. Ever since Hirilian married Ceorl, actually. I worry for you. All the young men at home adore you and follow you around like a pack of loyal dogs, and yet you show no interest in any particular one of them."

She was obliged to duck under a pine branch and after righting herself in her saddle she answered. "I have no interest in any of them. They have become more of a nuisance every day."

"Then why do you not send them away?"

"You know as well as I that I do not wish you hurt any of them. After all, they are only boys, really, and they will soon mature and realize that I have no cares for them."

"But you merely antagonize them, Morwen," he insisted. "I am a man, and I have the heart of a man, the same as they. Were I not related to you in any way, I believe I would also be one of those annoying suitors constantly hanging on your tail. You are a beautiful young lady and you are as gentle as a lamb. If you allow your entourage to dangle after you for much longer, treating them as you have up to this point, with friendly smiles and no harsh words, they will soon come to blows over you.

"You do not realize what you are doing to them. Each believes that he is the only one for you, and that you feel the same. You must turn them away sometime, and the sooner the better, I say."

"And what of you, Belecthor?" Morwen questioned pointedly. "You have just as many young ladies trailing behind you as I have young men. I, too, have watched. You are kind, gallant, chivalrous, and polite to each and every one.

"I realize that this is just your nature, to treat every woman with the respect due her, but you, too, are going to hurt them when you turn them away at last." She paused. "I suppose we must both listen to our own council and discourage our following. It will be hard, though. I deplore hurting innocent young people."

"Yes," her brother answered, "but many of those young men you do not wish to hurt are not innocent young people. In fact, I have seen many of them courting other ladies of the court; not only you."

Morwen halted her horse and turned swiftly. "Who? Who have you seen doing this? Each of those young men has sworn to me that he can see only me, though I have not asked it of them. It is not my hurt pride that forces me to ask you, my brother, only my pain that they would lie to me."

"I can give you no names, dearest sister," Belecthor answered, also halting his mount. "I can tell you only that you should turn them all away without further delay. I yearn only for your happiness."

"I know this. I will do as you say, but you must promise me to do the same. It pains me to see you followed by so many young women, who’s company I know you find distasteful."

"I shall do so, then. But whom will you marry, Morwen? Have you not even an idea of whom you would wish to marry?"

"No. There is no one for me, Belecthor. The men at home are all so wild and unruly. Those of high birth, whom people say I should marry, are spoiled and weak. I wish for someone who can support me and love me for myself, not my beauty."

"No one can help loving you for your beauty, my dear," he answered, "but someone who would love you, not only for your beauty of face, but your beauty of mind and character, would be most heartily approved of by both myself and Father, should you love him."

She smiled her silent thanks and urged her mount forward once more. "And what of you, Belecthor?" she asked. "Is there none you would wed?"

"That is just it, Morwen," he answered ruefully. "I, too, have no one. That is one reason I worry so much for you, and enjoy visiting Hirilian and Ceorl as much as I do. They have found happiness in each other. I am left adrift without a place to dock, and you are left ashore without a boat to anchor at your side. Together we must remain. Together, and yet alone."

They rode on in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. Suddenly Morwen’s mare shied violently, nearly throwing her from the saddle, and the challenging call of Belecthor’s stallion rang out through the forest.

The call was answered, not by an acceptance, but by a call of submission; a weak, painful call of submission. On the ground before them lay a soldier of Gondor and in the distance Morwen and Belecthor could see a gaunt, travel worn courser making its cautious approach in their direction.

Belecthor dismounted and looped his reins over a branch to restrain his eager mount. He bent down and gently rolled the man over. His face was covered in blood and one eye was terribly swollen. His hair was matted with dried blood and his clothing was torn in many places, each rip sporting small blood stains from the cuts beneath.

As Belecthor searched for any signs of life, the young soldier cried out feebly in pain. Morwen dismounted swiftly and dug into her saddle bags. She came out with a small vial of water and some bandages.

She set to work immediately, gently washing away the blood from his face and letting a few drops of the water trickle down his throat. He moaned weakly as Belecthor lifted him. "There is naught we can do for him here, Morwen," he said as he carefully picked the wounded man up in his arms like a child. "We will take him back with us. Mother has more supplies there than we have here. Moving him might not be the best thing for him right now, but without help he will surely die here."

The wounded man cried out deliriously as Belecthor stepped up into the saddle with him. His fiery steed pranced about in an attempt to keep Belecthor from mounting, but the young Gondorian had been trained by the best and the blood of Rohan flowed through his veins, even if diluted by the blood of Gondor.

Morwen was able to lead the wounded horse behind her own with no trouble at all. The low branches caused a problem for Belecthor while riding in the front, so he had Morwen go ahead of him to clear the path somewhat. She broke the branches or bent them back and was able to clear most of the obstacles, but Belecthor’s stallion did not like the strange horse traveling ahead of him and he struggled forcefully against Belecthor’s hold.

By the time they reached the small clearing, both Morwen and Belecthor were well worn out from the exertion and were ready to reach their destination. They made better time through the clearing as Morwen was able to ride behind, thus removing the stranger’s horse from the sight of Belecthor’s feisty steed. But when again they entered the trees Belecthor had had enough.

"Morwen," he called back to her, "I am of a mind to switch horses. I could more easily lead an extra horse and hold a man before me on the saddle than control Celebros in this position."

"Very well," she answered, dismounting and taking hold of the silver-grey stallion’s reins. Belecthor dismount easily and remounted, still holding the unconscious man before him, on Morwen’s mare. Morwen then took her place on Celebros and led the way, resuming her job of clearing the path.

They soon reached the house and pulled up before the front stoop. Morwen dismounted and held the door for Belecthor while he carried the stranger into the house. "Mother, Father," she called, carefully shutting the door behind her.

Narion and his wife came from their room, smiling a greeting. Upon entering, however, their smiles vanished and Lady Annariel gasped. "Bring him to Hirilian’s old room," she ordered Belecthor.

Obediently, Belecthor carried his burden into the back of the house to the empty bedroom and placed him carefully upon the bed. Annariel and Morwen followed, gathering up what items they needed.

"Where did you find him?" Narion asked his son as the women began caring for the stranger.

"Lying on the forest floor, his horse a short distance away."

"How far was he from the main path?"

"Maybe a full afternoon’s ride, possibly more. He had quite obviously lost his way or he has been unconscious the entire time."

"Southrons!" the wounded man called deliriously. "Tell . . . Faramir . . . aid."

All in the room looked nervously at one another. "That does not sound good," Belecthor stated matter-of-factly.

"No," Narion agreed. He crossed the room to the young man’s bed. Motioning to Morwen, who moved out of his way, he sat down in a chair next to the bed. "What must you tell Prince Faramir?" he questioned loudly, hoping he might possibly get through the delirium clouding the young man’s mind.

"Southrons . . . attacking . . . King . . . asks . . . aid . . . show . . . loyalty."

Narion turned to his family. "If what he says is true," he stated gloomily, "Gondor is under attack. The Southrons are invading and King Elessar asks father’s aid as a show of our fidelity. Belecthor," he addressed his son, "you must ride home and inform your grandfather of the danger. Be sure to tell him that the information source is far from completely trustworthy and that he should send his men to Minas Tirith to confirm the warning before attacking the South. We do not want to begin a war for no reason."

"Yes, Father," Belecthor answered obediently. "I shall go immediately." He kissed his mother and sister and went to gather what he would need.

They heard him gallop away some time later. No doubt he had taken the time to care for both Morwen’s horse and the stranger’s mount before leaving. Narion left the women to their work and went back to his room. They would have to remain there for the time being. It was critical they did not move the wounded man until he was more fully healed; the ride through the forest had nearly done him in as it was.

He would have taken his entire family back home, but that would have left the wounded man to die alone. He could not do that. Nor could he have gone with his son, for that would have left the ladies alone with only a wounded man to protect them. And he could not leave his son here to protect them while he ran home to his father. It just would not have felt right to him. Still, he wished there was more he could do.

Chapter 3 ~ Short Cut

Belecthor maneuvered his way through the thick growth. Perhaps taking his long unused short-cut had not been the best idea, but it would save time in the long run . . . he hoped. Beneath him Celebros snorted restlessly and stamped as Belecthor halted to let the great horse catch his wind.

They had been traveling for some time now and, while keeping to the path, they had continued more or less at a full gallop, thus cutting several hours of time off their journey. If all worked as planned, the short-cut should take several more hours off their over-all time.

Belecthor dismounted and unsheathed his sword which he had buckled on before leaving the house. He was determined to make as much progress as possible, and thus he began hacking his way through the thick underbrush. He had never been fond of cutting through foliage, but it was better than allowing the horse to trample his way through. Less noise anyway.

He pulled up suddenly as his foot splashed in a swift moving stream that he had not seen through the trees, nor heard over his own rustling. Good, he thought, almost there. Celebros snorted and pranced about; he had ever been water shy. Belecthor took a close hold on the reins and spoke soothingly to his mount, gently rubbing the velvet muzzle.

Once he was certain his mount was calmed sufficiently, Belecthor mounted and urged Celebros into the stream. The water did not even reach the tops of the silver horse’s hooves until he stepped out into the middle of the stream, then it washed up around his fetlocks. He snorted nervously and shied away from waves splashing over a stone and Belecthor dug his heels lightly into the stallion’s ribs urging him forward.

He was able to navigate their way safely to the other bank where they were obliged to scramble up a steep and muddy incline, which covered Celebros’ forelegs in filth. Once they had reached the top, the path lay before them. Belecthor smiled happily to himself and glanced at the sun. It was easing slowly into the West. He had saved half a day’s ride. The palace was only a league’s distance now. He patted his mount’s damp shoulder happily. They would be home soon.

~*~*~*~

As Celebros’ hooves clattered on the paved walk, the guards at the gates called for him to halt. "Who goes there?" one called into the darkness.

"It is I," Belecthor replied, pulling Celebros to a prancing halt before them and tossing back the hood of his cloak, "Captain Belecthor. I would see my grandfather."

"I believe he has retired for the night."

"Very well," Belecthor answered, "I shall see him in the morning. Good night."

"Good night, my Lord," they answered, allowing him to pass.

Once Celebros was stabled, Belecthor entered the palace. He had to see Faramir right away. He crept silently down the empty halls and halted before his grandfather’s door. Hesitating a moment, he rapped softly, grimacing as the echoes reverberated through the hall.

After a moment, Prince Faramir himself, a loose robe thrown about his shoulders, opened the door, a candle in his hand. "Belecthor!" he cried softly, ushering his grandson into the room. "Is anything amiss? I hope your family is not in danger."

Belecthor bowed slightly to his grandmother Éowyn, who likewise had a loose robe about her, before answering the Prince. "Grandfather Faramir, my Lord," he said, "my family is well, but they might be in danger, as might we all."

"Please sit down and tell us your tale," Éowyn said, motioning to a seat by the hearth. "And take off those boots! They have mud on them. Faramir, rekindle the fire so we may have some light."

Belecthor sat and removed his boots while Faramir piled small twigs about the still glowing coals in an attempt to ignite them. "Now," Faramir said as a small flame jumped up and began dancing around the kindling, like the tongue of a snake flicking over the leaves on the ground, "please explain yourself."

"Well, my Lord, Morwen and I were riding through the woods when we found a wounded soldier of Gondor. We brought him home to our parents to be treated and it would seem that he is a messenger from the King."

"And what news does he bring?" Faramir asked, placing a large log over the now roaring flame and brushing his hands together in an effort to rid them of the soot that now clung to them.

"If his delirious callings are to be believed and have been properly understood, Gondor is under attack. She is being invaded by the Southrons and King Elessar asks your assistance as a sign of continued fidelity."

"I see. And your father sent you here alone to tell me this?"

"Yes. You see, we could not move the soldier again for fear that it would do him more ill than good, and we could not leave him nor Mother and Morwen alone. Also, I know of a shorter route home and it has stood me in good stead this day."

"Very well, my boy," his grandfather said, "go get yourself some sleep and we will tend to this matter in the morning."

"Yes, my Lord."

After Belecthor had departed, his boots in his hand, Éowyn turned to her husband. "Faramir, you know as well as I that such a thing as this cannot be put off too long. It must be addressed as soon as possible."

"Of course, my dear."

"Then why do you postpone it until morning? Why do you not deal with it immediately?"

"Because, my dear, now is a time for all good young men to be sleeping; and also beautiful wives. But it is a time for all good Stewards to be awake and deciding what is to be done. Now, Éowyn, please return to bed. I shall come to a decision tonight, and then we shall address it in the morning. Good night."

"Good night, my Lord," she replied, kissing him lightly before returning to her blankets.

Faramir placed another log atop the fire and settled back into his chair, wiping his filthy hands on a nearby rag. It was going to be a long night.

Chapter 4 ~ Awakening

Slowly things came into focus. Where was he? He felt a soft bed beneath him and there was a roof above him, but he had no memory of ever getting there. The last thing he remembered was falling from his horse.

Why had he fallen? Then he remembered the short battle and his subsequent ride. He lifted his hand and put it to his slightly aching head; some kind of bandage was wrapped about his forehead. He tried to sit up, but a sharp pain lanced through him, reducing him to a gasping heap, once more lying back on the mattress.

His groaning attracted the attention of a beautiful young woman who opened the door to his room and looked curiously in. When his eyes met hers in a steady stare, she smiled happily and called out behind her, "Mother, he has awoken."

She then advanced farther into the room and crossed to his side. "Are you feeling any better?" she questioned politely.

"Yes, thank you," he replied cautiously, fidgeting under the quilt. "Where am I?"

"You are in the humble abode of Narion and family."

"Who are you?"

"I am Narion’s daughter, Morwen. And you are . . .?"

"Eradan, soldier of Gondor and servant of the King. How long have I been here?"

"Only one day and night. You were in a bad way and in need of care when my brother and I found you. Do you remember?"

"I remember only falling from my horse. I have never seen you nor your brother."

"I did not think you would remember. Still, do you remember nothing before falling from your horse? For if you have lost your memory, then I believe some vital piece of information may have been lost."

He thought for a moment, once more placing a hand to his head in an attempt to still the throbbing. "I remember a struggle . . . there were three ambushers who attacked me . . . I was on a mission for the King." He stopped suddenly, turning to look at her, but grimacing as his violent motion sent new waves of pain through his skull. "Who, exactly, are you? How do I know I can trust you?"

"You do not, and yet I tell you that I can be trusted. I do not blame you for being cautious; indeed I respect you all the more for it. King Elessar does not place his trust lightly, and it would not do for one he trusts to inform everyone who asks what his mission is. Therefore, I do not ask you to tell me. But my father will wish to know."

"I will tell him nothing until I am certain he is to be trusted. What proof can you give me?"

"Only that he is the son of the Steward. Beyond that, there is nothing."

"The son of Prince Faramir? Which would make you the Prince’s granddaughter?" At her affirmative nod, he struggled anew to raise himself up in his bed. "My Lady, I did not realize. Why did you not inform me?"

She pushed him gently back, a task which was no difficulty as his full strength was still somewhat lacking. "It was not necessary to tell you. You are wounded and ill; you must remain in bed." She rearranged the quilt and resumed her seat.

Eradan closed his eyes against the pain. Would it never go away? It felt as though a drummer was beating out a rhythm in his head and in his leg someone else prodded him with small daggers. He heard another enter the room, but his eyes refused to open. Weariness overtook him for a moment, until he heard a new voice whisper to the Lady Morwen.

With a struggle, he opened his left eye to a slit and peeked out. He saw a tall man pulling a chair up to the bed and sitting down. Realizing that it was the son of Faramir who sat there, he opened his eyes and made an effort to show respect in any way he could. But he found that it was quite beyond him to bow or even place his hand over his heart. Every limb was screaming with weariness and pain.

Morwen moved to the other side of the bed and pulled back the covers, exposing another large bandage, this one stained with blood. "Oh dear," she whispered breathlessly.

"How is it, Morwen?" her father questioned.

"I am afraid it has begun to bleed again and will need to be cleansed. I shall tend to that."

She left the room quickly, pulling the door shut behind her. "You are the Steward’s son?" Eradan questioned.

"Yes, my boy, I am Lord Narion." He held up his hand on which rested his ring of office, a simpler version of the ring his father wore. "I trust my daughter has not increased your pain with her tending?"

"No, my Lord, no. Rather she has lessened my suffering by a great deal." He paused, once more closing his eyes as pains of weariness pierced his eyelids. With an effort, he opened them again. "She is lovely," he said after a moment.

"Yes," Narion agreed, looking thoughtfully out the window, his head resting on his folded hands. Both men looked up as the lady in question re-entered, completely unaware that she had been the object of their discussion.

She set immediately to the task of uncovering the wound in his thigh. Her brow furrowed with sympathy as the old bandaging had to be carefully washed away from the wound, for some of the blood had dried, thus adhering the bandage to his flesh.

Eradan himself was in no little amount pain, clenching his fists tightly and clamping his jaw against the flow of choice vocabulary that leapt to his lips. When finally all the old dressing was removed, she began washing the wound itself. She inhaled sharply and grimaced as she probed the injury.

A deep gash stretched from his mid-thigh to near his knee. Her mother had been the one to dress this wound and Morwen had, up to now, not known it was as bad as it was. Narion’s face, too, screwed up in pain and sympathy when he glanced down at it. "Dear me," he said softly to himself, "that is quite a scratch."

"Yes," Morwen replied, not even pausing in her work. "But I can see evidence of healing and no inflammation, so everything is going well." She labored gently for a while before finally redressing the wound. Eradan had been unable to bring himself to look at his leg and was merely glad she had finished.

He was not so pleased when she began work on his shoulder. He had been stabbed right below his collarbone and bone showed through the gash it had left. "This is not good," Morwen said sorrowfully, "The wound does not appear to be healing at all."

Narion bent down to examine the injury and shook his head. If only we had some athelas," he grumbled to himself, "then we could do more for him."

"Yes, Father," Morwen answered, cleansing the wound as best she could. "It would seem that the bone has been chipped. I know not where the fragments are, but if the inflammation of the wound itself is anything to go by, I would say it is infected rather badly. Could you hand me that flask please, Father?"

He complied with her request and grimaced as she poured some of the alcohol onto a clean cloth and gently dabbed the inside of the wound. "I will not question you now, my boy," Narion said, noting the sweat breaking out on Eradan’s forehead and the firm set of his jaw. "I see that you are desirable only of rest and an end to your pain, and therefore I shall leave you until another time. Morwen will finish her tasks soon and then you may get some sleep. Do not take overlong," he said to his daughter, gripping her shoulder firmly for a moment.

"I will not, Father."

Narion departed, leaving Eradan to endure more of the gentle yet painful tending. "I am sorry if this causes you pain," she said apologetically as she finished with his shoulder and cleansed his several cuts with small amounts of the alcohol.

"Not so very," he answered, trying to sound as natural as possible through gritted teeth.

"In any case, I shall be done shortly, and then I shall see to your head."

"I am sure it is nothing," he answered, wishing only that he could get some sleep.

"Let me be the judge of that," she answered, beginning to gently remove the bandaging from around his head. He struggled to remain awake and as helpful as possible, by lifting his head and moving where she told him to and so forth, but finally his weariness and pain overcame him and his head dropped back on the pillow.

Morwen smiled and finished her tasks before gathering up her supplies and leaving him in peace.

~*~*~*~

I have never experienced raw alcohol placed in an open wound like that, but if the sting of the deluded rubbing alcohol dabbed on an over-scratched chigger bite hurts as much as it does, then I hate to imagine the pain I just put Eradan though. :)

Chapter 5 ~ Council

Faramir had summoned his sons and his chief commanders and gathered them together to discuss the situation. Belecthor was ordered to wait out in the hall; he would be called when his input was needed.

Sitting on a bench in the cold hall held no appeal for Belecthor, but he understood his grandfather’s reasoning and waited patiently, straining his ears to the limit in an attempt to hear what was being said. But only muffled sounds reached him and he was forced to sit back and wait patiently.

~*~*~*~

"My Lords," Faramir began, motioning for silence, "I have summoned you here to decide what is to be done about a warning we have just received. The source of this information has been revealed to be unconfirmed, but the information itself could be of vital importance to the continuance of life as we know it here today."

A murmur ran through the room but ceased as Faramir again motioned for silence. "It is believed that we are called upon by the King himself, to aid him in defending Gondor against an invasion of the South." Once more the room was overrun with whispering and murmuring, but Faramir rapped on the table, regaining order. "Again, I tell you that this information is unconfirmed, but nevertheless, it is my decision that we should send aid."

~*~*~*~

Out in the hall Belecthor heard raised voices and confusion, but over them all his grandfather’s voice could be heard, muffled and unintelligible though it was. He hoped things were not getting out of hand.

~*~*~*~

Confusion took hold of the room. Commanders shouted their questions in an attempt to be heard over other commanders and men rose from their chairs; all that was accomplished was a few moments of unorganized, mass confusion. But order was brought to the room as Erinmir, heir of Faramir, rose and raised his arm for silence. "My Lords, please," he shouted over them all, "calm yourselves and be patient. All questions will be answered before this council is dismissed."

At last all noise ceased and the Steward was able to continue. "Now, I know that many of you are wondering where this information was received and how we came upon it. I can tell you only that a messenger of the King was found wounded and dying in the forest; I can give you no details as I was not there." He paused before continuing. "However, I realize that you are overcome with questions and I call upon you now to inquire as you will. I shall attempt to answer you as best I can."

He resumed his seat and indicated the first man to rise. "My Prince," the commander said upon rising with a slight bow, "I wish to know on what grounds you have decided to send aid when no threat has been confirmed. Could we not simply send a messenger and have him bring us news before mustering an army and sending them away from home with no clear idea of why?"

A murmur of assent rumbled through the room, but was stilled as Faramir began speaking. "Think for a moment. A messenger was sent by the King to us, or so we assume. Let us, just for the moment, say that, indeed, the messenger was sent by the King and the South was attacking. It would seem foolhardy to send yet another single messenger alone along the same road as before, as he, too, would no doubt be set upon by the same enemy that has brought about the near end of the other young man’s life." He paused. "I would sooner muster the army and send them off on an unknown mission, than send one man to do a job that another could not.

"And," he continued, "should Gondor be under attack and Elessar asks our aid, what would be his reaction when only one man arrives. He would be expecting an army to help him, but what he would receive would be a single man that must ask a simple question, ride all the way back here to tell us the answer, and then we muster the army and ride all the way back. It is madness. It would be a much better idea to send a large number of men to ask the same question. If the rumor be false, what have we lost but a small amount of money? If the rumor be true, then the army is already there and ready to go to their aid. Then we have lost nothing and gained only time, and time is the essence of all in a game such as this." So saying, he relaxed back in his chair and motioned for the next question.

~*~*~*~

Belecthor sat impatiently in the hall, would his information never be needed? The council had seemed to grow heated for a moment, but then his grandfather’s cool voice could be heard once more, only this time it lasted much longer. He crossed his legs and leaned his head back against the wall. Time seemed to drag.

A guard walked down the hall and bowed slightly to the young prince sitting dejectedly in the hall. "Good morning, my Captain," he said as he passed.

"Good morning, Ostoher," Belecthor answered, recognizing the face of one of his own men. "Ostoher," he called after a moment; the young man halted and turned toward his commander.

"Yes, my Captain?"

"Have you any word of when we shall again be sent out?"

"No, my Lord. I was informed that you were on holiday with your family, and we would be posted here at the palace for sometime. Therefore, I volunteered to fill in for a guardsman who has taken ill."

"Is the job not wearying?"

"A trifle, my Captain," the young man replied with a smile. He had heard about the year when Belecthor had been posted as a guard of the palace by his grandfather, who had felt that it would steady the boy somewhat. "But it is better than sitting around at home with no way to use my time."

"Have you neither wife nor kids, Ostoher?" Belecthor asked with a smile.

"No, my Captain, I am only in my nineteenth year."

"So young?"

"Yes, my Captain. You do not disapprove, do you, my Lord?"

"No, Ostoher, of course not. I myself was in the military in my nineteenth year, but I have seen you fight in battle and at practice, and your skill is that of a soldier twice as old as yourself."

The young man flushed slightly with pride. "Thank you, my Captain," he said, bowing and removing his helmet.

"But do not let me keep you from your job," Belecthor said as voices were once more raised in the room across the hall. "I thank you for your time, it has made the weary task of waiting so much easier for me. Farewell."

"Farewell, my Lord."

The young man took a step back, replaced his helm upon his head, and continued on down the hall. Belecthor settled himself back against the wall and closed his eyes. He hoped the council was over soon, he was not made to sit idly in the hall. Already he could feel Celebros’ muscles rippling beneath him and hear the rustle of leaves as they tore through the forest. He was made for action.

He rose suddenly as he heard the door across from him open. His uncle Celvandil stood there. "You are summoned, Belecthor," he said, stepping to the side of the door.

"Thank you, uncle," Belecthor said, rising and entering the council room. He smirked, remembering the first time he had been in this room. He had accidentally smashed an expensive vase of flowers standing upon a table, and thus was banished from the room for some time afterwards. But that had been when he was still a child; his entire life had changed since then.

He heard the doors shut behind him and bowed to his grandfather. "Belecthor, my boy," Faramir said with a smile, "these men would like to hear what you told me last night."

Belecthor heaved a great sigh and steeled himself for a long session of questions and answers. He was not meant to be a diplomat or a prince. His was a life in the army, and he wanted no other. With a deep breath he began his tale.

~*~*~*~

"My Lords," Faramir said at last, rising from his seat, "I believe we are all in agreement. Aid shall be sent to King Elessar. All in favor say ‘yea.’" The room reverberated with the reply. "All opposed say ‘nay.’" Only the sound of a commander clearing his throat broke the silence. "Very well," Faramir continued, "this council is adjourned. Belecthor, you may go."

With a sigh of relief, Belecthor bowed to his grandfather and practically fled the room. After being left in the hall for the morning and shut in a small council room half the afternoon, with only a short break for food and drink, he needed to feel the wind on his face and the prancing of a fiery steed beneath him. At last, he was free.

Chapter 6 ~ Return Home

Morwen crept into Eradan’s room to change his bandaging again. His wounds had been healing nicely and almost all of the inflammation was gone from his shoulder. She hoped not to wake him, for what he needed most was sleep.

Silently she crossed the room, tiptoeing across the hard stone floor, and took her place in her customary chair. She gently pulled back the covers, glancing up at Eradan as she did so. Very awake and rather amused grey eyes met hers and she jumped slightly, "Oh," she said hurriedly, "I did not know you were awake."

"So I noticed," he said wryly. "You do not need to worry about me, I would not mind being awoken. It is not usually my way to remain asleep for so long, and it seems strange to me. I feel as though I have no strength left after lying abed for so long, and I want only to be rid of this entire, painful mess."

"I understand how you must feel," she said, gently removing the bandage on his leg, "for Belecthor is exactly the same way. And I suppose I am too, when it comes right down to it, but if you do not remain in bed, you may grow worse, and then you would be confined to bed for even longer. So, please, try to be patient."

"I will," he assured her with a smile. "I have gone through this before, although it was never as serious as all this," he added, motioning towards his shoulder and his leg. "I have usually been confined to my back for only a day. How long have I been here now?"

"Only three days. But if you remain patient, I say that, by the look of your injuries, you will be able to ride home with us in another day. Even your shoulder has been healing."

"That is good news," he breathed with a sigh. "How is my horse? Has he been getting proper care?"

She looked at him in mock indignation, pausing in her work. "Of course. What do you expect of those descended from the Lady Éowyn, Shieldmaiden of Rohan? That we would simply turn him out in his weakened state?" He grinned at her and she continued with a smile. "Yes, he is doing well. He had a few minor wounds, but they have long since healed and he has as much perk as any horse I ever saw."

She again bent to her task. Upon uncovering the gash, she was overjoyed to find that it had almost fully healed. "Why, Eradan," she cried happily, "look."

He lifted himself up and glanced down at it. "Wonderful," he said happily. "You are a skillful healer, Lady Morwen."

"No, you are a strong man, and strong men do not long stay abed." She smiled at him. "Now lie back down. I am afraid you are trying to do too much. But then, that is my fault for telling you to look in the first place. Now, come, lie back down." She pushed him gently, careful of his wounded shoulder.

"How is he, Morwen?" Annariel asked from the door.

"He is doing much better, Mother," she answered. "His thigh has nearly healed completely," she added, indicating the wound uncovered before her.

"Oh, I am glad," Annariel said, crossing the room to the bed and looking for herself. "Yes, I would say we will be riding out of here by tomorrow, or the day after at the latest." This statement was met with relief and joy and Annariel turned to go. "Continue, Morwen, do not let me interrupt your work. I will prepare something for him to eat; for his breakfast disappeared so swiftly, that I am inclined to believe that his appetite is returning."

He smiled up at her. "My mother always said that no matter how serious a malady beset me, my stomach would recover before aught else."

Lady Annariel laughed pleasantly, closing the door behind her as she went. Morwen finished with his leg and moved to the other side of the bed to tend to his shoulder. "This one does not look so hopeful," she stated sorrowfully as she uncovered it, gently washing away the dried blood. "It would seem that it has again become infected, but not as badly as the last time. I am afraid I shall have to treat it again."

"Very well," Eradan replied, already gritting his teeth against the expected pain. He hissed sharply through his teeth as the searing pain shot through him, burning his flesh and making the hair on the back of his neck rise up in protest. He had never thought anything could sting so much.

Morwen’s brow furrowed sympathetically. "I am sorry, Eradan," she said gently, soaking a fresh rag in the alcohol. "But it must be done." He did not even attempt to answer her, for his teeth were clenched and his hands were rolled into fists. As she again dabbed his shoulder, his eyes began to sting and water, his fists tightening and his teeth grinding slightly. She finished at last, and as the last lingering sting drained away, his jaw relaxed and his hands uncurled, revealing marks where his fingernails had dug into his palm. "I hope that is the last time we have to do that," Morwen said, placing her bloody rags in a basin of clean water.

"No more than I," Eradan replied in a husky voice, running a weak hand through his black hair.

She smiled and bound his wound, placing some herbs in the bandaging. The cut on his head had already healed and needed no more attention and so she gathered up her things and headed for the door. "Now, get some rest," she ordered him before shutting the door behind her.

"I shall try," he muttered to the closed door. "I shall try."

~*~*~*~

The next morning, Narion saddled up the horses and packed their things on the packhorse. He hoped that they had not missed anything of great importance at home. Perhaps, even now, Belecthor was on his way to war in Gondor while his father remained on holiday. The idea was irksome, but he strove not to think about it.

He looked up as his wife and daughter appeared at the door of the house, Eradan behind them. He was walking under his own power, but anyone could see that it pained him and only his sheer determination was keeping him on his feet. "Good morning, Eradan," Narion called pleasantly.

"Good morning, my Lord," he answered, taking the reins of his own horse. "Is it a long journey to the palace?"

"We will have to camp on the way, but it should take no more than a day and a half, if we ride slowly.

"Very well. Let us begin."

They mounted and moved out, the rising sun piercing through the trees around them and bathing them in much welcome warmth.

~*~*~*~

In the late afternoon of the following day they pulled up before the palace. Eradan dismounted with an effort, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he leaned heavily against his mount, a hand to his wounded shoulder.

Morwen had continued her gentle care of his injuries while on the road and his leg was completely healed, albeit a trifle sore, but his shoulder remained the same. The inflammation had not gone down, nor had it gotten worse. It simply remained, a constant worry to those caring for him.

He felt a gentle hand on the back of his shoulder and he turned. Morwen stood there, a worried smile gracing her features. "Are you alright?" she inquired.

"Yes, my Lady," he half-lied, forcing a smile. "I am fine. Do not let me hold you any longer. I shall see to the horses."

"Oh no you will not," she insisted forcefully. "You are coming inside. The stable boys will see to the horses. You still need your rest, or you shall never recover. Besides, Grandfather will no doubt wish to see you."

He allowed Morwen and Narion to lead him into the palace, Lady Annariel following behind. They were greeted at the door by a cheerful Belecthor and a welcoming Faramir. "Bring him down here," Faramir instructed them, showing them down a few hallways and to an empty bedchamber. "He may remain here until he is fully healed. Morwen, as you have been doing so up to now, I believe it would be best for the patient if you would continue caring for his wounds."

"Yes, Grandfather," she replied with a slight curtsey before being enveloped in a warm embrace from behind. "Uncle Celvandil!" she exclaimed happily, turning and embracing her uncle in return. "I am so glad to be home at last," she said, releasing her uncle and taking off her cloak. "But I am tired, so I believe I shall retire to my chambers for a while. Belecthor, could you bring up my satchel, please? I believe you know which one it is."

"Of course, Morwen," he replied, taking her hand and leading her from the room.

"What is the decision?" Narion asked his younger brother, Celvandil, as they moved out into the hall.

"We will be moving out tomorrow, provided the young soldier has confirmed the rumor. Will you be joining us?"

"Yes, the rumor is true and I would not miss a battle if my men were going, you know that as well as I. But now, like my daughter, I must retire to my room. Many things will be happening on the morrow and I must prepare for them." So saying, he set off down the hall, his wife by his side.

"Yes," Celvandil muttered to himself, "and who knows what could happen. May the Valar protect us."

Chapter 7 ~ Muster

Faramir lined his commanders up before him. Each was a proven fighting man, and each had the scars to show it. Two of his own sons would be going to battle, Narion and Celvandil, and also his grandson Belecthor. He himself would remain in Ithilien to prepare the rest of his army for a possible attack on Ithilien itself from the South. Now that Eradan had confirmed or denied all the rumors that floated throughout the fiefdom, the Steward was able to prepare accordingly.

Word had been sent to Prince Legolas and his people to prepare themselves, and the messenger had returned bearing thanks from the kind Prince. Faramir had no doubt that any Southron who dared set foot in the realm of the Son of Thranduil would regret it soon after.

"My Lords," he began at last, meeting the gaze of each man in turn, "you know your duties. You are all veterans of many battles and, I trust, you shall again win a victory for Gondor.

"Celvandil, you have been slightly foolhardy ever since childhood, and I pray you shall listen to the council of others before again risking all as you did in the last battle." His son flushed slightly, but made no protest. After all, the unplanned charge had won them the victory, but it had also risked a great deal. Even he now saw the danger of such a move.

"Narion," Faramir continued, "you have done well as a commander, and I am proud of you and your brother, but I must warn you. It has been brought to my attention that you remain ever at the front, and that it nearly cost you your life in Rohan. You were not even to have been in that battle, and yet you returned with a broken leg and a wonderful horse dead. Take care in the coming fight. Lead your men, but do not risk over much in the process."

"Yes, Father."

"Belecthor," Faramir said, standing before his grandson and looking him in the eye, "you have grown much since you first entered battle, and you have matured wonderfully. But like your uncle, you are overeager and do not always listen to caution. Take time to contemplate your moves, for the lives of many hang in the balance." He placed his hand on the young captain’s shoulder. "But I am proud of you. Take care."

He addressed each of his commanders, giving them advise and encouragement before again speaking to them all. "You know what we risk in this battle. All of Gondor is threatened, and it is up to you to bring aid to our King. Go now, and prepare your men. Farewell."

All bowed and moved off, each in his own direction, to do as he was bidden. There were many farewells to be said and still much to do.

Sorry it took so long to answer reviews and get this posted, but I’ve been sick for several days and I’ve only just been able to get back on the computer.

Chapter 8 ~ Tears and Frustration

While the rest of the family bid their men farewell inside, Morwen stood upon the front steps of the palace as she had so many times before. It never ceased to worry her, sending her brother and father off to war, and each time she and Hirilian had stood upon the palace steps, watching until not even the dust of their passing could be seen on the horizon. But now her sister was married to a Captain in the army of the Riddermark and was not there to comfort her. There was no sister’s shoulder to cry upon, and so she forced herself to hold back her tears. "Do not let Father see you cry," Hirilian had told her, "for it pains him so." Morwen could hear her voice even now, reminding her to hide her fear until after all had departed.

Narion strode forth from the palace, his helmet under his arm, pulling his gauntlets in place. He stopped before her and placed his hand on her shoulder. "Farewell, my dear," he said softly, kissing her forehead affectionately before placing his helm upon his head. "Take care of your mother for me," he commanded her lightly, as he had ever since she was a small barefooted child running about the palace.

"Yes, Father," she replied, embracing him tightly. She felt his armor cut into her arms and cheek, wishing, as she always did, that he could put off his mail forever and live in peace at home. "Keep Belecthor out of trouble," she added as her brother joined them.

"I shall try," Narion smirked. "Keep well, Morwen."

"Farewell, Father." She turned to Belecthor as her father walked to his waiting mount. "Return alive," she whispered as she embraced her brother tightly.

"I always do," he replied lightly.

"Luckily," she muttered, a slight smile lingering about her lovely lips. "Just do not take more risks than is necessary."

"Yes, my Lady," he replied submissively, releasing her and smiling. "Farewell."

"Farewell, dearest brother." She watched as Belecthor mounted and the column moved out. She waved to her father and uncle as they passed, and then was forced to close her eyes in an attempt to stem the tide of tears that threatened to overflow.

She started and turned swiftly as she felt a gentle hand grasp her shoulder. Standing there, his arm in a sling, was Eradan. "Do not be ashamed of your tears, my Lady," he said gently. "For the tears of a Lady bring a slight amount of joy to the hearts of men, even as they bring pain. No man wishes to go to war thinking the women of his country do not worry for him, or grieve for him should he die.

"So show them you care, but give them also a smile of encouragement to strengthen their will. Let them know you trust them with your life."

She gazed up at him through tear-filled eyes. "But why do you grieve, Eradan?" she questioned, noting the shimmer and pain in his own eyes.

"I grieve for these young men," he answered, indicating the soldiers riding by with a nod of his head. "They have given everything for their country, and many will give even their lives. I know what they feel. I know what they are thinking. I know, for I have felt those same feelings and thought those same thoughts, and each time I have realized that I may be going to my death."

"Then why do you go?"

"To protect the innocent, such as yourself. To preserve the good in this world. To fulfill my oaths, and to bring down evil, tyranny and the enemies of our country, but also because of the strange perverseness of Men. We have a love of battle, an urge to combat, a feeling of satisfaction and fulfillment after a hard won victory on the field. Which also pains me now, more even than the pain of my shoulder.

"I feel that urge, that call to battle, as does every one of these soldiers riding away now. They feel it, and they ride to answer. I feel it, and it pulls my very heart from my chest, but I am stuck here, helpless to change my position in any way, while other men go off to fight the battles I long to enter." He paused in an attempt to control his frustration. "So I suppose," he concluded, "you might say that I grieve for my own sake, for I am burning with jealousy towards those brave men."

She looked up at him, her tears no longer falling. "I do hope this does not mean I will be having to chase my patient half-way across the country," she said with a slight smile.

He grinned. "No, my Lady, for now I shall remain under your kind care. I only hope I will soon be healed enough to join them."

~*~*~*~

For you men out there reading this, I'm a girl, and so I really know nothing about the true feelings of fighting men, only what I have read and taken note of, mostly in Westerns. Therefore, if anything in this chapter goes against the actual feelings when being left out of something you truly love doing, I apologize whole-heartedly. Forgive a girl striving to capture a feeling she has never had.

Chapter 9 ~ To War

Narion, at the head of the column, lifted his hand and all pulled their mounts to a prancing, snorting halt, awaiting orders. Belecthor watched as his father trotted to the top of the rise before them, the sun glinting off his helmet. After a moment, he descended, cantering back down to them.

"Men of Ithilien," he called loudly, "on the horizon, a war rages. Prepare yourselves for battle!" Commotion ensued as soldiers tightened straps, checked weapons and entered formation.

Once all was ready, Narion and his brother Celvandil leading them, the soldiers of Ithilien moved slowly forward; their lines stretched over the plain in an impressive display of power. Nothing could defeat them this day.

As they neared the fighting, their speed increased and they were soon at a full gallop, the margin between them and their enemy quickly shrinking until they were upon them.

The dark faces of the Haradrim flashed passed the riders, their expressions grim, fearless and yet despairing as they were cut down in the prime of life, torn from all they had ever known.

Belecthor and his men made a sweeping ride along the opposing lines, pushing their right wing back as Celvandil and his company did the same on the left. Narion led his men valiantly, straight into the middle of the enemy forces, his sword flashing in the sunlight, his battle cry ringing through the air.

The men of the South were soon pressed back into their own camp, where they resisted fiercely, slaying a good many of Gondor’s forces. Still the men of Ithilien fought, their cries echoing across the plain, the sound of metal against metal resounding throughout the field. They would not be turned from their goal until Narion at last called to them, pulling them back from the field. Nothing had been gained, men had been lost, but the battle was won for the day.

The surprise had been too great, for an army to have suddenly come rushing down upon them had frightened the men of Harad. Tomorrow, the battle would not be won by surprise, for they now knew that reinforcements had arrived and they would be ready for them. They might even call for more of their own; and so close to their own land, they would get them.

Belecthor rode to where his father mingled among his men. Narion was offering encouragement and advice, finding those that needed care for their wounds and directing the healers to them. He himself had a long scrape along his cheek from which blood welled in great red drops which were trailing down the side of his face.

"Father?" Belecthor ventured as he reached his side, offering him a handkerchief.

Narion took the cloth and pressed it to his face. "Yes, my son?"

"You did not heed Grandfather’s advice."

"I realize this, Belecthor; but it was necessary to the success of the charge. Had I not been out front, leading my men, their courage would not have reached the fore as fully as it has today. Do you not see? If their leader remains behind yet orders them ahead, they will believe he is afraid to charge with them, that there is no hope. What chance is there of success then? What chance of survival? But if he be at their head, leading them to the victory, then they take heart, knowing that there is at least a small margin of hope.

"In the future I shall be more careful."

Belecthor grinned mischievously, "I shall remember that, Father," he warned. "Obey your parents only should their advice fit your needs."

Narion glanced over at his son, a smile slowly spreading across his own face. "Now, this does not give you free rein, young man, you must still obey your mother and father. Just be cautious."

The commander of the Gondorian forces rode over to meet them. "Hail, my Lord," he called. "Will you not dismount and have a bite to eat?"

"It would be my pleasure," Narion answered as they clasped wrists. "How do your men fare of late?"

"Today was the first victory in several days. Their hope has been waning and things were looking dark indeed. Therefore, I thank you for your timely appearance. Gondor needs your help."

"And we are here to give it," Narion answered forcefully. "I am Narion, son of Faramir. The young man on my left is Belecthor, my son and one of my Captains. This," he said, gesturing as Celvandil rode up, "is my brother Lord Celvandil, also one of my Captains."

"I am Elendur, commander of the forces here assembled as of the untimely death of our captain, Hurin."

"My sympathy, Elendur," Narion replied, as he bowed his head, his hand covering his heart. "I trust the men under your command have not given you trouble."

"Nay, my Lord, they have followed my commands just as well as they had our captain’s. But come, let us find you and your men something."

As they rode into camp, Narion noted the lack of tents. These men have been living with none of the comforts of home, he thought grimly, taking notice of the faces of those he passed, and yet in their eyes I see not discontent and frustration, but hope, reborn of our arrival, and the intention of remaining and finishing what they have begun. Elendur is correct. There should be no fear of mutiny or desertion from these men. I can only hope my own command is as selfless and hardy.

They dismounted near the fire as three soldiers approached and took their horses. "We will care for your mounts, my Lords," one said, bowing slightly before them.

Belecthor cautiously handed Celebros’ reins to them. "Watch him," he warned the young soldier, "he has a temper worthy of the Dark Lord himself." To Celebros he turned and spoke softly in the tongue of the Elves before following his companions to where meat sizzled tantalizingly over the fire.

As the food was served to them, Narion discussed the battle with Elendur; questioning the commander on the tactics the men of Harad had been using, how they had countered them, and the details of all recent engagements.

Celvandil, after finishing his portion of meat, joined them in their discourse while gently tending to Narion’s small wound, adding in his own comments about what he had seen and how he felt his men would react to certain savage acts of war Elendur claimed the enemy was capable of committing.

Belecthor listened for awhile, but his young mind soon began to take other paths of more interest. He let his gaze wander across the camp. Men of all ages were moving about, pitching tents, starting fires, some even sang softly. He wondered how things were at home. Had Ithilien been attacked? If so, had anyone in his family been killed or wounded?

He banished this nagging worry from his mind and again turned his attention to his food. It was far from the best he had ever had, having lived with the Elves from time to time, but it was much better than the fare on the recent journey. One thing the army of Ithilien lacked was a good cook.

Belecthor noted Ostoher a short distance away. The young man had pitched his tent and placed his blankets inside, but he was offering it to one of Elendur’s men who did not have a tent of his own. Belecthor shook his head in amazement. Men like Ostoher were few, he decided.

"What say you, Belecthor?" Narion asked suddenly.

Belecthor, startled, quickly turned his attention back to his father, spilling his cup in the process. "Pardon, Father?"

"I asked you what you thought about the fighting ability of our men in the morning. After all, they have just finished a long ride and then a battle. Do you believe they will be up to another battle on the morn?"

Belecthor remembered the eager cries of his men as they rode into battle and the suppressed energy so obvious on their faces once they had been called back. "Yes," Belecthor answered, glancing over to where several of his men were sparing with one another, their young faces lit by the crackling fires around them as they played, almost as small boys with wooden swords. "Yes, I believe they will be ready."

Elendur nodded grimly. "Let us hope so. For if they are not, Gondor may yet lose this war. Battle will come swiftly on the morrow."

~*~*~*~

Belecthor slowly made his way down the line, watching warily, lest he fall victim to one of the shafts that plagued his men. The battle was slow that day and it was mostly sitting behind the defenses, dodging arrows and sending back a few whenever possible. He paused in his journey, "How are you, Ostoher?" he asked the young man standing beside him.

"I am well, my Captain," he replied with an encouraging smile, fingering his bowstring lightly.

"No injuries yet?"

"No, my Lord. How do you fare?"

"Still holding strong. I was warned before leaving home, you see, and I am trying my very hardest to remain out of harm’s way and still have a place in this fight."

"The Lady Morwen?" Ostoher questioned amiably.

"Yes, but also the Lord Faramir, and my mother, the Lady Annariel, and my Grandmother, Lady Éowyn, and my Aunts and my Father among others. It would seem that all of Gondor wishes me to return unharmed." The two men laughed for a moment, a strange sound on the battlefield and those around them glanced curiously their way. "Tell me, Ostoher," Belecthor continued after a pause, "have you no one to return home to?"

"No, my Captain. When I was orphaned as a child, I went to live with my widowed aunt, for she had no children. She died only a few years ago, and I am left with no one. I decided to join the forces of Ithilien, for I felt that it might save the life of someone with family if I was killed in his stead. That is one reason I seem so fearless in battle to those around me. I have nothing to lose, and so, nothing to fear."

Belecthor looked sympathetically and yet wonderingly into the bright, youthful eyes before him. What could life be like with no mother, father or family of any kind? Having grown up around so many relatives, Belecthor could not imagine such a life. And yet Ostoher seemed content with nothing.

An arrow whizzed suddenly between them, coming so close to Ostoher that its mangled feathers scraped across his face, disrupting the perfect flight of the arrow and sending it tumbling end over end to the ground a short distance away. Belecthor stared down at it in shock. It seemed to him that it showed just how close to the edge Ostoher lived, risking his life in every battle for the good of another, to save the life of someone with a wife and children or loving parents.

When he looked back at Ostoher, the young man stood, his gaze fastened across the plain, a slight smile gracing his features as he lowered his bow. "He will not bother us again," he said softly.

"Who will not?" Belecthor asked curiously, for Ostoher had spoken as though he had just rid himself of a bothersome insect which had buzzed incessantly about his ear.

"The Southron who fired that arrow, just now," he answered calmly, turning his gaze back to Belecthor. "Should you not continue on to wherever it was you were going, my Captain?"

"Yes, of course, Ostoher. I enjoyed my time with you. Farewell."

"Farewell, my Captain," Ostoher replied calmly, pulling another arrow and firing as he spoke. Belecthor took note of the fact that his arrow had found its mark even though only half his attention had been centered upon it. Legolas himself could not but have admired Ostoher’s marksmanship, he thought as he continued down the line in search of his father.

~*~*~*~

Celebros pranced nervously, his ears erect, his breath forming small clouds as he snorted his displeasure. The cold air of early dawn added to his energy and Belecthor was hard put to it to hold him in.

All along the lines, men held the reins with iron fists, their faces, young and old alike, showing the wear and tear of battle, and the grim determination that had carried them through thus far. They were pale from exhaustion and cold, their armor coated with the dew of morning as they sat upon their horses, preparing for yet another charge.

Even after two months of fighting, Belecthor could still feel hope throbbing through his men. They clung tenaciously to their ray of light in the darkness, their precious drop of water in the desert; the small chance of victory in this war. That they could win, forcing the Haradrim back into their own land and out of Gondor.

Celebros tossed his head and took a step forward; Belecthor pulled back on the reins, halting his mount and bringing him back a step, his mount’s long silver tail thrashing behind him. Whispering softly and soothingly in Sindarin, he patted the damp, silver-grey shoulder as the restive mount beneath him stamped and blew loudly. Celebros had seen his master safely through many charges in his three years as a war horse, and Belecthor hoped the record would stand unmarred at the end of the day.

The sun broke over the eastern horizon, bathing all in the bright orange light of early morning, dispelling the grey tinting and transforming all with its radiance, its splendor, and yet the men of Minas Tirith and Ithilien took no note, for they had seen the sun rise often enough for it to become common place and of no interest to them. They concentrated on their leaders, who had moved to the front, their mighty steeds prancing about, crushing the dewy grass under hoof and calling to their fellow horses in the lines.

Belecthor shifted his weight in his saddle as Celebros tossed his head, fighting once more against Belecthor’s hold. Belecthor waited for his father to give the command. Narion raised himself up in his stirrups, shading his eyes against the glaring light of the rising sun and peering across the plain to where the men of Harad were camped, his stallion standing as a rock beneath him, his attention also on the far camp.

Stirring in the encampment was seen as the men of Harad rose and prepared themselves for the day and Narion settled himself into his saddle once more, unsheathing his sword and holding it high. "Charge!" he called loudly, breaking the stillness as he spurred his destrier into a full gallop, his men doing the same behind him.

Belecthor urged Celebros to his fastest, his command following him; and the hooves of Gondor churned the wet earth, throwing it back into the faces of those behind as all charged bravely, their battle cries ringing through the still morning air as they rode through the light mist toward their adversaries.

~*~*~*~

Narion fell to the ground, an arrow protruding from his shoulder, his stallion galloping back to camp. The pain in his arm was terrible and any use of his left side caused excruciating jolts of agony to shoot through his entire body. The charge continued on around him, sweeping the enemy back, back, away from Gondor, but he was left behind to simply watch from his kneeling position on the ground.

He felt someone’s hand gently pull him down from his knees and onto his back. He looked up into the grim young face of Ostoher, one of Belecthor’s men, whose horse had fallen a short distance away. "Come, my Lord," he said, lifting Narion up in his arms with little difficulty. The strength in the young man’s arms amazed Narion. Never had he been lifted from a battle field with less trouble.

Ostoher bore him back to camp, stumbling a few times over the fallen around them. "Do you need to rest, lad?" Narion asked. "I could probably walk if I need to."

"No, my Lord," he answered, his breath coming easily. "It would only worsen your condition. I am fine."

When the young soldier at last lay him down near a fire, Narion allowed his muscles to relax, mindful of his throbbing shoulder.

Ostoher removed his helm, his gauntlets and his vambraces to free his movement. Narion noted the large hands and the forearms corded with muscle. The boy had large bones and, undoubtedly, they were covered over with muscle, hardened by honest toil in the service of his country. Narion doubted the young man had an ounce of fat on his tall, lean body.

Ah! To be young again! he thought as darkness slowly overtook him, blocking all thought from his wearied mind.

~*~*~*~

Sorry this chapter was so long, but thanks for sitting through it. I just hope your on-line provider doesn’t yell at you and charge you a blue-million because you were on so long. :)

Dr_seuss, I hope Ostoher meets your approval. I wasn’t even going to put him in, really, but it gave me some good material, so thanks. ;) I just hope everyone was able to last through all the talking. I’m not very good at battles, and I didn’t want this one to be exactly like the one in WHWB (even though there is another charge at dawn and Narion got himself wounded again :) ). Thanks for your patience, everybody!

And Éomer, thanks for your help again. Like I say, I can’t spell very well and Coriel gets rather fed up with the strange places I stick commas. :)

Chapter 10 ~ Farewell

Morwen rapped gently; at Eradan’s answering call, she opened the door and entered. But she stopped abruptly as soon as she was through the door. "Eradan," she said, shocked to find that he was packing his few belongings, "where are you going?"

"Home," he answered simply.

"You cannot be serious . . ." she began before stopping and sighing. "No," she concluded, "I suppose you are right." She crossed to the window and rested her head against the cold stone.

He left his pack unfinished on the bed and joined her by the window. "I have told you before," he said gently, placing a hand on her shoulder, "I long to join the fight. I have remained here these two months merely because I had not yet gained sufficient strength. Now that I am fully healed, I cannot longer remain."

"I know," she assured him, still staring out the window. "It is just that these long weeks have changed me. I will not know how to spend my time if not tending to your wounds or riding through the woods with you."

"You lived for many years without me," he said kindly, "you will be fine. In a few months you will have forgotten all about the good times we have had."

She felt a lump rise in her throat and she forced it down. No, she commanded herself fiercely, do not cry, Morwen, not here, not in front of him. "Well," she said, striving to sound casual, "do not let me delay you. I will let you return to your packing." With a forced smile, she left the room, fleeing to the stables.

Eradan remained by the window, watching her go. He would miss her; miss her a great deal. But she was not for him. What had he to offer but a miserable existence in Minas Tirith? No, he should leave right away.

~*~*~*~

Out in the stables, Morwen saddled Eradan’s horse. She knew he would be out soon and she felt she had to do something for him. She could not simply let him ride away without even a farewell. She felt the tears begin to fall, but did not care enough to wipe them away. Eradan was leaving, and she would not, could not, hide her grief.

She lifted the saddle onto the horse’s back, running her fingers gently over the girth before fastening it. How many times had Eradan handled the very same strap?

She came to herself with a start. What was she thinking? She did not care what Eradan had touched; she could not care. But no, she decided, no, it was no use. She had changed since Eradan had entered her life. Nothing would ever be the same again.

Upon arriving home, she had fulfilled her promise to Belecthor and had turned away her following. This had left only Eradan to fill her free time and they had spent long hours talking or riding or walking or simply sitting in silence as Eradan read a book and Morwen stitched. In those hours spent alone with him, she had become terribly fond of Eradan. She had not admitted this to anyone, not even to herself, but it confronted her now and she was forced to face it bravely.

She loved him and he was leaving, perhaps never to be seen again. He was off to war and the fact that he might die scared her beyond reckoning. Life was unfair.

She slipped the bridle over the stallion’s head and fastened the throatlatch. She then pulled the steed’s head down until it was on level with her own. "Take good care of Eradan, for me," she whispered, stroking the silky cheek before her. "Bring him back someday."

She turned as Eradan entered the stable, his expression miserable. Stepping out from the stall, she led his horse to him, noting with pleasure the way in which his face lighted upon noticing her.

"My Lady!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

"I have come to bid you farewell," she answered, blinking back the tears that threatened to fall yet again. "I shall miss you," she said simply, losing the battle against her tears. They fell quickly down her cheeks, leaving wet trails over her fair face.

Eradan, pained by her sorrow, reached up and gently cradled the side of her small face in his large hand, wiping away her tears with his thumb. "Farewell, my Lady," he said, taking the reins from her hand. He strapped his small pack behind the saddle before turning back to her.

Taking her hand in his own, his kissed it gallantly before mounting and trotting his horse out of the stables and into the trees without looking back.

Morwen pressed her hand to her own lips as she watched him disappear into the forest. When, at last, she could see him no more, she fled to the confines of her room, weeping bitterly.

~*~*~*~

Dr_seuss, I hope this met your approval. I remember you said you were waiting on this scene, and this was the best I could do. Hope you liked it. :)

Chapter 11 ~ Home Again

Belecthor breathed a sigh of relief as the palace came into view, Morwen standing upon the front stairs, her dark tresses blowing in the wind. She waved to them as they entered the gate and Belecthor could tell, though a goodly distance away, that a smile graced her fair lips. He always enjoyed returning home after a long battle, for Morwen tended to spoil him for a few days and he was looking forward to that treatment as he rode.

He dismounted painfully as the reins were taken by a stable boy, removed his helm and climbed the stairs to where his younger sister waited. He pulled her into a tight embrace, savoring her fresh scent after three months among sweating troops and horses.

She pulled away to embrace her father before the rest of the family poured from the palace. She was forced to relinquish Narion to her mother and stood silently by for a time, watching her Aunts and cousins as they laughed and cried, hugged and kissed, and talking almost constantly the entire time.

Belecthor approached her from behind, taking her elbow in his hand. "Come," he smiled, "let us go inside."

She nodded happily and together they escaped the group on the stairs and entered the palace. She led him to his room and shut the door behind her. "Any wounds?" she questioned.

"None to speak of, my dear sister."

"Any sore places?"

"Several."

She smiled as he set his helm and gloves upon a small table and gently lay himself on his bed, his arms spread out around him. "Sit up," she commanded lightly, crossing to where he lay.

Obediently, he slowly raised himself up, sitting as straight as he could, a hand held over a large dent in the side of his cuirass. Morwen began gently removing his greaves and vambraces, laying them carefully on the table to be put away later. She then removed the cuirass with all the tassets still attached to be removed for cleaning.

Belecthor closed his eyes and hissed through his teeth, pressing his hand gently to his ribs as she removed his steel collar and the heavy woolen tunic. When all that was left was the woolen under-tunic and leggings with their attached mail sections, Morwen departed to allow him to change into something a little more comfortable.

She closed the door softly behind her and journeyed to the kitchen. Upon arriving, she found her mother already preparing a tray for her husband. Morwen smiled. "How is Father?" she asked as she filled a tankard with ale for her brother and placed it on her own tray.

"Rather tired," her mother replied, "and he has several new scars. The worst is an arrow wound in his shoulder that has barely finished healing.

"His face is also marred. Somebody gave him a rather large scrape on the cheekbone. He will have a shallow groove there for the rest of his life."

"Does it mar his good looks or accent them nicely?" Morwen questioned.

Annariel laughed with her daughter, both pausing in their small tasks for one blissful moment. "It accents them very nicely, and if he was not so old as he is, I would fear the maidens would plague him as they did before our marriage, and as poor Belecthor is now plagued.

"Now that we speak of him, how is Belecthor?"

"He has barely a wound on him, as far as I can tell. It would seem that he escaped in better condition than Father. But then, Belecthor is like that. And he did promise me he would return alive."

"As he promised us all, dear," her mother answered, placing a large helping of meat on a plate and setting it on her tray. "I shall return to your father now. Take good care of Belecthor."

"Yes, Mother." Morwen hummed happily as she piled food upon her tray, deciding against the small vase of flowers she would have placed beside it had she been taking it to anyone else. Belecthor would not have said anything about it, but she knew he would not have approved.

When at last she had all she thought he could eat, she journeyed back to her brother’s room where she tapped with the toe of her small boot. Belecthor opened the door, his hand still to his side, and stepped aside to allow her to enter.

She cleared a space on the table with one hand and carefully placed the tray there. Crossing to the bed, she pulled back the covers and fluffed the pillow. "Do you wish to lie down, or sit at the table?" she questioned brightly.

"I shall sit," he answered, his voice heavy with pain as he closed the door. "Tell me, was Ithilien attacked at all?"

"No, we have not seen any fighting here at home. Grandfather is quite pleased about that. Sit down," she ordered firmly, taking notice of the furrows of agony creasing his forehead as he crossed the room.

He eased himself carefully down into his chair, his hand never leaving his side. Morwen pushed his hand out of the way and removed his light shirt. "I thought I asked you if you had any wounds," she complained as she worked.

"It is not a wound," he protested weakly, "I am merely bruised, that is all."

"Yes, you are bruised, badly," she answered, examining the black and blue welt on his side. "Your ribs are bruised, also. I should have known, for your armor was rather badly dented. What happened?"

He muttered something rather grumpily and shoved a piece of meat into his mouth rather violently. "I beg your pardon," she said, adding a note to her voice that plainly informed him that he had better speak up.

"I fell off Celebros," he growled, a flush rising to his cheeks and his accent thickening.

Morwen struggled to stifle a laugh; she managed to escape even a slight smile. "Surely there must have been a reason. For that could not have bruised your ribs with all that armor on. It must have been something more."

"I was hit with a scimitar, alright? I wish you would just forget the entire thing."

"That will be a little difficult to do," she answered sympathetically. "For you see, it will hurt so very much, that neither of us will be able to forget about it for a long time."

"I plan on trying," he answered, shaking a piece of meat at her. It was a mistake. Morwen had peppered his meat liberally, just as he liked it, and when he shook it, some of the pepper drifted into the air.

Neither of them noticed for awhile and Morwen began gathering his armor up from wherever she happened to lay it when she had removed it. Suddenly Belecthor sneezed loudly, a small squeak of a scream following it closely as his damaged ribs were jostled rather violently and all his breath was cut off.

Morwen rushed to his side, pushing the plate of offending meat farther away from him on the table. "Are you alright?" she asked, wishing there was some way in which she could help him.

"No," he growled irritably, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps, his teeth clenched tightly.

"Do you want me to get you some fresh meat, without pepper?"

"No, Morwen, you do not have to do that. I will be fine in just a moment." His breathing slowly became deeper and more relaxed until at last he was able to continue with his meal, albeit carefully.

Morwen lifted Belecthor’s tunic from its place in the corner where it had been thrown when he removed it. She would have to get that cleaned, she decided, wrinkling her nose at it. It smelled horrible after being worn in battle for three months straight without a wash. She coughed softly.

Belecthor turned to look at her, careful not to jar his ribs. "Ah," he said softly. "Before you turn that over to the washers, Eradan sent you a letter. It is in the pocket."

With thumping heart, Morwen pulled the note from Belecthor’s sweaty pocket and slipped it down into her own clean one. She longed to open it, but it would have to wait until later. Right now she had more important things to attend to.

"So he arrived unharmed and before the battle was over?" she questioned calmly, gathering together all of the dirty linens.

"Oh, yes. It would seem he has a good deal of friends. Everyone in camp was glad to see him and things looked brighter simply because Eradan was back. And I could see why, for there are few men who are as skilled in battle, and as willing to go into it. Watching him spar with Ostoher is something one must see to believe. You know Ostoher, do you not?"

"Yes, I met Ostoher in the hall while he was on duty as a guard."

"Ah, yes. As I was saying, both of them are amazing fighters, and to see them struggle against one another is quite a show of skill. They are two of a kind."

"I am going to take these down to be washed," Morwen said, tucking his dirty linens into a small sack. I shall return for your armor in just a moment. Do not get up. I will take care of everything, just as I always have."

"Yes, my Lady," Belecthor said around a large mouthful of meat.

"And do not talk with your mouth full. Did Mother never tell you that?"

Belecthor nodded apologetically as he chewed. Morwen smiled and closed the door behind her. On the way to the washroom would be a good time to read the letter. She pulled it out slowly and broke the seal. Inside were three paragraphs of neat, clear writing. She read through the lines slowly.

Lady Morwen,

I thank you for all that you have done for me in the past months. Your gentle care has brought to me better health than ever I have had before. Fear not for me, for I have survived the battle, but rather remember me as your humble servant, who cannot repay all you have done and who will come to your aid should ever you have need of my assistance.

Thank your kind mother for me, and tell her that never have I fared better, than when she was cooking. Her skills over a fire are remarkable if not amazing and like none I have ever known before. I long for them now as I am served the fare of war, cooked over-long and over a fire of green wood.

Last of all, send my deep gratitude to your Grandfather, the Prince Faramir, for allowing me to remain so long under his roof. His hospitality has touched the life of a simple soldier in the service of his King more than he can ever know.

Your grateful servant,

Eradan of Gondor

She reread the first paragraph and smiled to herself. It was not much, and there was nothing to hold to her heart except his offer of assistance in her need. ". . . remember me as your humble servant . . ." She felt that she was up to that task. She smiled to herself; little did he know how she thought of him.

Looking up, she found she had completely passed the hallway she needed to take and turned around, slipping the letter back into her pocket. She would take good care of that.

~*~*~*~

A small matter of whether or not they would have pepper has been discussed between myself and Coriel. I have decided that they had just finished a war with the South and they are bound to have captured something. Maybe they managed to take a bunch of pepper, or maybe they have it all the time, but however they got it, Belecthor is regretting it whole heartedly. :)

Amaniel, this was your idea you know. You are cruel to poor Belecthor, bruising his ribs that way. Why’d you go and hit him with a scimitar? ;)

Chapter 12 ~ Minas Tirith

As Minas Tirith came into view, Lady Annariel sighed happily. "At last," she said softly, "a warm bed. I do not mind journeys, but I do not enjoy sleeping on the cold ground."

"Nor do I, Mother," Morwen agreed, urging her mare into a trot as did the rest of her family.

They reached the city gates as darkness overtook the land, dropping a vale over the sun and chasing it from the sky. "Halt!" came the command from above. They pulled up compliantly, their mounts stirring restlessly beneath them in the cold winter air. "Who goes there?"

"It is I, Lord Narion, son of Prince Faramir," Narion called up to the guard. "I have business with the King."

They could hear the muffled order to open the gate and as they swung slowly in, Morwen shifted her weight in the saddle. She was more than ready for a rest, a meal and a change of clothes.

They were greeted by a small group of soldiers as they entered the city. "Good evening, my Lord," their leader said pleasantly. "Welcome to Minas Tirith. His majesty will rejoice to know you have arrived safely. He has awaited your coming for several days. Would you care for an escort to your lodgings?"

Morwen looked the small group over, taking note of each face in turn; there were several men younger even than herself in the group. "No thank you," Narion answered. "I believe we can find our own way." Morwen’s gaze stopped suddenly, her breath catching in her throat as she met the eye of the soldier in the rear of the group. It was Eradan.

"Very well, my Lord," the man said politely as the gate swung shut behind them, the echo of its closing reverberating through the stone street. "I shall keep you no longer. Good night, ladies," he added with a bow.

"Good night," Annariel smiled in return, but Morwen had not even heard.

Eradan gestured slightly with his head and Morwen noticed that her family was beginning to leave. She tapped her heels lightly against her mare’s ribs and soon caught up to them, her mind and heart in a turmoil. After so long, her love had not died. It had been a year and several months since he had ridden from her life. An entire year since last she had seen his face or heard his deep voice.

Belecthor glanced over at her thoughtfully. He, too, had taken note of Eradan’s presence, although it had not affected him as deeply. Morwen’s reaction had been unexpected, to say the least, for she had hidden her feelings well, but he was not sure how he felt about it. He would have to consider it.

The next morning, Narion went straight to the palace to see Elessar. He had always enjoyed his job of traveling about on business for his father and often brought his family with him. Today he wanted to get all business out of the way so that he and his family could spend some time together in the city before heading home only a few days later.

Belecthor awoke as the sun burst through his window, shining directly in his face. He groaned and covered his eyes with his blanket. He made a mental note; he would have to do something about that before bed that night. He debated keeping the soft blanket on the bed, or covering the window.

He yawned lazily and stretched his arms over his head. He had lain awake most of the night thinking and so did not feel like getting out of bed. Morwen swung his door open and entered with a pitcher of fresh water. "Get up, Belec," she ordered, jerking the covers off him before placing the pitcher on his washstand.

He muttered something unintelligible and rolled over, facing the opposite wall. She slapped him lightly with the back of her hand and turned to go. "Morwen," he called before she was out of the door.

"Yes?"

"Did you see Eradan yesterday?"

She bit her lip, crossing to sit beside him on the bed. He rolled back over to face her. "Yes, I did," she answered calmly.

He searched her face. "Is there anything wrong, Morwen?" he asked gently.

She sighed. "Hirilian always told me that neither of us could long keep a secret from you. Although I feel that I have succeeded up to a point."

"You love him?" it was more of a statement really.

She looked down at her hands. "Yes," she answered, lifting her eyes to meet his gaze. "Yes, I love him. I have loved him for an entire year and more. Ever since he came into our care. It nearly broke my heart when he left and did not return."

"You still love a man who nearly broke your heart?"

"I understand why he left," she answered.  "He felt that he was not worthy of me and so did not want to encourage my love by remaining by my side." 

Belecthor took her hand in his own, squeezing gently. "I do not know him well," he said quietly, "but he is a strong man. His commander speaks highly of him and was delighted when he arrived to join the fray. Are you sure he is the one?"

"Yes, Belec, I am very sure. I thought I would forget him, just as he said I would; but I could not. I tried to live my life the way I used, but it was no good. I love him dearly and now that I have seen him again, I feel that I can never again leave Minas Tirith."

Belecthor frowned slightly. His father had planned to leave in only a few days, and if Morwen would not go, questions would be raised. He wondered if there was some way in which he could delay their departure. Surely his parents would not object to lengthening their stay. His mother had commented on her wish to remain longer, to postpone returning as long as she could, and her husband had seemed not opposed to the idea. Perhaps there was a way.

He squeezed her hand gently. "We will see, dearest. Remember, you are something extremely precious to me, and I will hate to lose you." She smiled affectionately down at him. "But now I wish to change in preparation for the day, and I desire some privacy. If you do not mind."

"Not at all. I shall see if breakfast is ready. Come down when you are finished."

Belecthor watched her as she left the room, the heavy oak door closing behind her. There had to be a way to make her happy, and if there was, he would find it. No matter what.

Chapter 13 ~ Night Watch

Belecthor pointed to the wall. "Up there," he said quietly. Morwen smiled her loving thanks and started up the stairs. She could see Eradan’s silhouette against the moonlit sky and her breath caught in her throat for a moment. Ever since their talk after arriving in Minas Tirith, Belecthor had been acquainting himself better with Eradan. He had gone everyday for two weeks to meet with him without Morwen’s finding out, a feat he was rather proud of. That evening he had asked her to take a walk with him, a walk which ended where Belecthor now stood, below her on the street.

She approached Eradan slowly. The guards were placed farther apart on the wall at night, thus increasing their privacy. No doubt Belecthor had known this, and it was the reason he had waited until Eradan was on night watch. It would be like him, Morwen thought happily.

She reached Eradan’s side without his hearing her; his gaze was fastened on the plain before him. She moved up beside him, her arm rubbing gently against his.

He gave a start and turned swiftly towards her, instinctively reaching out, his left hand grasping her arm as his right reached for his sword. When he discovered who it was, he relaxed and his grip lessened, but he did not release her arm. "Good evening, my Lady," he said softly. "What are you doing here?"

"I came to see you," she said softly, gazing, enthralled, up at him. She could feel his warmth, he was so near her, a welcome feeling on the cold winter night. Their breath formed small clouds as they spoke before being whisked away by a chill breeze.

He released her arm and turned back toward the fields of Pelennor, avoiding her gaze. "You should be with your family on a night like this," he objected, although without force.

"Do you wish me to go?" she asked.

He turned toward her, looking deeply into her beautiful eyes, his own bright with longing, but shadowed with pain and doubt. "No," he answered truthfully.

"Then I shall stay," she said, pulling her fur lined cloak more closely about her.

Their eyes held steadily, searching, as their hearts reached tentatively out. They remained so for some time, unmindful of anything save each other, until Morwen reached gently out and caressed his cold face with her warm hand. He pressed his own gauntleted hand over her small bare one, enjoying her warmth. "You are so cold," she said gently.

"One can hardly help that on these long night watches," he answered softly.

"How long must you remain here?" she questioned.

"Until midnight, my Lady."

"That is not for several hours yet!" she exclaimed.

"I will be fine," he assured her gently, pushing a loose strand of ebon silk back from her face.

She took a small step nearer, sliding her hand up his arm as she did so, leaning slightly forward. His own hand eased its way slowly along her arm until it reached her shoulder, pulling her into his arms. She entered his embrace willingly, her breathing quick and erratic as was his own.

She savored the feeling of warmth and love she found in his arms, unmindful of the fact that he was in full armor which was chilled due to the weather. Nothing could dampen her spirit now.

She wrapped her own arms tightly about his neck. The raised flange of his steel collar cut into her arms, but she did not care. She lifted her face and their lips brushed lightly.

Morwen felt her heart skip a beat and her breath caught once more in her throat. She could feel Eradan’s muscles tense around her, pulling her ever closer to him.

~*~*~*~

Belecthor watched silently from his place at the top of the stairs. Had he caught his sister in that position without having sent her there himself, fists would have been flying at that moment. There was nothing he treasured more than his family. For the most part, his mother was his father’s responsibility, but he had the care of his sisters.

He watched in happy, heart-rending agony as Eradan claimed completely and forever the heart of Belecthor’s youngest sister. He was losing her. He had lost her. She was no longer only his own; he must now share not only Hirilian, but also Morwen, with another man. So far, he had no regrets. As long as both were happy, he could not wish to change life for them.

He smiled as Morwen pulled away from Eradan’s embrace, her hands gently caressing his face. Belecthor hated to intrude on their privacy, but he knew his father would have wanted it no other way. And he could also act as a sentry, he decided.

He sighed. It would be hard, giving her away, after clinging so tightly to her. The memory of their long talk, right before Eradan entered their lives, came back to him and he smiled wryly. The Powers certainly had a sense of humor. Now he needed wait only to find a place to dock, since Morwen had found someone to harbor at her side. He was content to wait.

He turned suddenly as the sound of approaching feet caught his ear. He whistled softly, a bird call that had been their secret code all through childhood. Morwen would understand.

~*~*~*~

Morwen smiled happily up at Eradan. The lingering shadow of doubt had swiftly left his eyes, the pain soon following, and she could see the longing slowly being satisfied. She knew only one thing. At last, Eradan was hers and nothing could ruin the moment.

A low whistle cut through her thoughts like a cold blade. It was Belecthor! What did he want? She recognized the bird call with a start. Eradan felt her jerk and looked quickly down at her.

"What is it?" he asked softly.

Morwen pulled quickly out of his embrace, taking a few steps away from him and turning to face the field. His hands fell to his sides and, feeling his sudden pain at having done something wrong, she spoke softly. "Do not fear, my love," she said, striving to sound casual, "you have done nothing to upset me. It is simply that Belecthor has warned me that someone is near."

As she spoke, Belecthor stepped between them, pushing Morwen a few feet farther down the wall. "Move over," he whispered. "I do not know who it was, but it does not really matter. I will have no ill rumors about you being spread throughout the city. Come now, move down more, I am still pressed up against Eradan and I must have more room."

They could all hear the sound of someone leading a horse as he passed just behind and a little below them on the street. Belecthor held his breath, listening for anything out of place, but the peasant passed without incident and he exhaled loudly. "Better," he said softly, "but I believe it is time we were leaving, dear sister."

Morwen sighed. "Just a little longer?"

"I am afraid not. I told father we would not remain out overlong. Of course, Mother has probably guessed where we are by now. Whether or not she has told Father, I do not know."

Morwen pushed him out of the way and embraced Eradan once more. "Good night," she whispered softly.

"Farewell, my Lady."

~*~*~*~

This chapter took a long time in the writing. I’ve been working on it ever since I began this story, and I struggled over it for a long time before getting it right. I hope you enjoyed it, despite the horrid ended.

Epilogue ~ Things Change

Belecthor sat in a shadowed corner, watching his youngest sister dance with her new husband. They seemed lost in the music, caught up in the spell of love. A spell which had never been wound about Belecthor. Things were changing and he could not stop them.

He heard a child crying and looked across the room to where Hirilian was trying to quiet her youngest. The newborn babe, named Éowyn after their grandmother, refused to be shushed and so Hirilian took her outside into the cool evening air. Meanwhile her husband, Ceorl, was trying to convince a whining child of two years that he did not need another piece of sweet bread.

Belecthor smiled. Ceorl was like a brother to him and he had not held it against him that he had married Hirilian. Indeed, Belecthor had been very happy with the arrangement. But he could not help longing for the days of innocence and laughter gone with Time.

Now that Morwen was married to Eradan and would be living in Minas Tirith, Belecthor would not have either of his sisters with him at home. He would still have a palace full of cousins and their children, but it would not feel the same.

He noticed his nephew Widfara a short distance away. The child caught his glance and smiled up at him. Belecthor left his corner and sat down next to the boy, putting his arm around the small shoulders. They were already remarkably broad for a child of three and Belecthor could tell the boy would become a strong man like his father.

Harding caught sight of Belecthor from across the room and crawled away from his father in favor of time with his uncle. He climbed laboriously up into Belecthor’s lap and threw his small arms about his uncle’s neck.

Belecthor took a large slice of sweet bread from a platter behind him, glancing across the room at his brother-in-law as he did so. With luck he could get away with this without notice. But he found that Ceorl was vigorously shaking his head in their direction, his expression one of grim determination and fear. Belecthor broke the piece of bread in half, handing one half to the small child in his lap, who grabbed it with a squeal of delight, and giving the other to Widfara, who accepted it with childish thanks. Ceorl sighed heavily and shook his head slowly, throwing Belecthor a look that obviously said It is your own skin you are risking. Just wait until your sister learns of this.

Belecthor grinned. Yes, things were changing and he could not stop them. But he did not really mind after all.

Epilogue 2 ~ Family

Morwen glanced once more about the room. Was everything in order? She smiled as strong arms wrapped themselves about her waist from behind. Leaning back against her husband, she sighed deeply.

"You are working yourself too hard," Eradan protested softly, pressing his cheek against the side of her head. "Hirilian will not mind if something is not perfect. She will understand."

"I know," his wife answered, "but you know how I am. I want everything to be right."

"But we will have five children running about the house. Nothing will remain perfect for very long."

"That is true," she admitted, turning to face him, "but I still must do my best."

His kissed her forehead gently. With three children of their own, they had not had much time to themselves. The few moments alone in the guest room were more than welcome, but he knew it could not last.

He smiled wryly as their son Anardil crawled in, his chubby hands and face filthy. Morwen sighed again. "I thought I told them to stay out of that," she complained.

Eradan bent and lifted his son up in his arms. He took one of the child’s hands in his own and studied it. "It looks like soot," he decided at last.

Morwen smiled. "Yes, Eradan, I could have told you that. Look, it is all over him. Could you give him a bath and a change of clothes? I am going to find Artamir. He is probably just as messy."

Eradan kissed her lightly before carrying the two year old from the room. She found her oldest still digging in the bucket of ashes she had neglected to take outside. "Artamir!" she called sternly. The three year old looked guiltily up at her. "Did I not tell you to leave that alone?" He looked down at the bucket full of ashes, then down at his hands.

"I am not that dirty," he defended himself quietly in his small voice.

Morwen glared at him, stifling a grin. The boy’s tunic was covered in the silver and black powder and it coated his entire forearms, not to mention his grubby little face. "Go to Papa," she said, "and wash up. Aunt Hirilian will be here soon."

The child scurried from the room, glad a bath was his only punishment. Meanwhile, Morwen swept up the ashes, once more putting them in the bucket, only this time she carried it outside and left it behind the house. The boys would no doubt find it again before it could be disposed of, but at least it was out of the house.

She waved pleasantly to a neighbor lady before glancing out over the Pelennor field. From the front of their house, it was possible to see most of the great field and it was a view she never tired of, especially in the evening when the sun was setting. But for now, she scanned the field and was delighted to see a small party of riders approaching the city.

She hurried back inside to finish a few last minute things before they arrived. When she could hear the clatter of hooves on stone, she hurried back out the front door.

Hirilian called a greeting as she dismounted and the sisters were soon in one another’s arms, laughing and talking happily. Ceorl dismounted and lifted Éowyn down from her place before him on his saddle. The boys hopped down from their own horse and ran to their Aunt Morwen.

Harding chattered incessantly and Widfara remined happily silent as Morwen pulled them into a loving embrace. Ceorl smiled cheerfully, Éowyn still in his arms, as he, in turn, was embrace tightly. "Where is Eradan?" he asked curiously, kissing his sister-in-law on the cheek.

"Here," Eradan called as he and the boys joined them on the street. He looked rather comical next to the two boys, for they were immaculately clean, their hair still damp, while he was drenched from head to toe.

Nevertheless, Hirilian embraced him affectionately and Harding insisted on being held as Eradan and Ceorl clasped wrists. "Harding!" Hirilian scolded lightly. "You are five years old. You do not need to be held."

"He is fine," Eradan said gently, pushing the lad’s golden hair out of the young face.

Ceorl grinned. "You and Belecthor spoil these children," he said teasingly.

"You are not much better, Ceorl," Hirilian smiled, hooking her arm through her husband’s.

"Please, come in," Morwen said, opening the door. She grimaced as crying came from her bedroom. The noise had awakened Arvegil. She rushed to his bedside and lifted him gently, soothing him and rocking back and forth on her heels.

Hirilian followed her, removing her cloak and hanging it in the hall as she went. "Let me see the young man," she said, approaching her sister. Morwen turned, finally calming the child. "What is his name?" Hirilian asked, gently caressing the small head and its thin covering of soft black hair.

"Arvegil," Morwen answered proudly.

"He is adorable," Hirilian said. "May I?" she asked, holding out her hands.

"Of course," Morwen replied quickly. "He is a very sociable child and does not care who holds him, merely that he is held." She handed him gently to her sister, smiling as the young boy fell once more into a deep, untroubled sleep, gurgling softly.

"Does he sleep this often every day?" Hirilian asked incredulously.

"Yes," Morwen smiled. "He sleeps between feedings, just as did his brothers."

"Mine will not sleep," Hirilian lamented. "Even at night they remain awake for long hours. Where they get their energy is an unsolved mystery." She cradled the newborn gently for a while before looking up at Morwen, a twinkle in her eye. "Have you heard from Belecthor lately?" she asked.

"No, not for a few months. Is anything wrong with him?"

"He has a very unusual illness. Unusual at least for him."

Morwen’s face lit up as she caught her sister’s deeper meaning. "Has it finally happened?" she asked excitedly.

Hirilian nodded, a smile gracing her features. "He met her only this year."

"I heard that they were having trouble in Ithilien this year and Mother came to stay with us for a few months. Has that been resolved?"

"Oh yes, they have finished with that and they are cleaning up the aftermath. It was during all of the trouble that he met her, and they are already betrothed."

Morwen sighed happily. "Dear old Belecthor," she said wistfully, "I never thought it would happen. The way he used to tease us. I told him he would regret that one day, and now I am sure he does. Especially if you know about it, Hirilian," she added, glancing knowingly in her sister’s direction.

"Oh, yes. He came to visit a few weeks ago, and that is when I learned of it. I can assure you that he has heard all of his own words come back to haunt him. He took it well, but I could tell that he regretted every word. So let us not tease the poor boy anymore. After all, he has found a perfectly wonderful lady. If his loving ramblings are anything to go by, she is the most beautiful, the most polite, the most lady-like, the strongest, the most learned, the most loving, the most wonderful lady in all of Ithilien."

The sisters laughed pleasantly, remembering their own foolish ramblings while betrothed. They could only hope Belecthor was as happy in his marriage as they were in theirs. The excitement of married life had not dimmed in the slightest for either of them and their husbands had proved to be everything they ever hoped for.

Morwen smiled and sighed. "You can continue holding him or put him back in his crib," she said, indicating her youngest son, still asleep in Hirilian’s arms, "but I must go get dinner on the fire."

She kissed her baby’s head fondly and left the room. As she passed their husbands, she heard them conversing on their latest campaigns while Widfara listened intently. Harding, Éowyn, Artamir and Anardil played loudly on the floor.

No, she decided, things were not perfect, but they were fine just the way they were.

Author’s Notes ~ Odds and Ends

For those of you who are wondering, in the second epilogue, Widfara is seven years old, Harding is five, Éowyn is four, Artamir is three, Anardil is two, and Arvegil is only a few weeks.

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Belecthor’s tale will be the next story published, for those of you who wanted more details on the topic of the last conversation between Hirilian and Morwen.

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Again, thank you to all who read and review, Eomer and Grey Wonderer especially. Your continued interest in my characters helps keep the baby plot bunnies growing. They no longer have any fear of growing weak and dying before reaching maturity, thanks to your support. Thank you.

~: Chigger :~