Disclaimer: I do not own Aranarth son of Arvedui, nor Eärnur son of Eärnil, nor Vorondil son of Pelendur, and I definately do not own Glorfindel or the Witch-king or, indeed, anything of Middle-earth, which is the creation of J.R.R. Tolkien.

It was a bittersweet victory, and more bitter than sweet. Aranarth had heard enough times from his father the story of how Eärnil had taken the throne that should have been his. He had been only a boy at the time of the mythical crown-stealing, and listened in rapture to tales of the upstart Captain who had become King and Pelendur, the Steward who had seen fit to deny Arvedui – the true heir of Isildur, and married to the daughter of the last King as well – the throne.

Even then, the power of Arthedain was waning. Now, in the ruins of his kingdom – not even his anymore, for throne, crown, and father were all lost now – he owed the defeat of his enemy to the son of the man who had taken his father’s birthright away. To rub salt into the wound, the other who stood by the side of Eärnur as they argued over tactics was also the son of an usurper – Vorondil, son of Pelendur the Steward, who had come to lend guidance and his sword-hand both to the prince, and had shown his worth both on and off the battlefield.

None said it, but for all his noble blood Aranarth was nothing but the leader of a defeated people, son of a defeated King. Victory belonged to Gondor here –along with their allies from Rivendell, the leader of whom was the fourth occupant of the royal tent and for all that Aranarth knew was asleep in that chair, eyes open but perfectly still, not a single strand of golden hair gone astray. His expression was one of vague amusement jaded by long years, as if nothing they could possibly do would surprise him, although what Eärnur was planning to do possibly came close.

Aranarth might not be a prince any longer, but at least he was not fool enough to go chasing a Wraith towards Mordor. “We have won here, my prince.” Vorondil, a sensible man, was doing his best to dissuade Eärnur from his plan. “There is nothing more to be gained, and certainly not by rash, unwise, decisions.”

“I will see him dead!” The prince was flushed, gesturing more and more wildly as his temper grew. “It is not enough to have destroyed his army – I will see him bleed, Vorondil. I will crush his thrice-cursed skull into dust before I am done!”

Idiot, Aranarth thought, and found himself speaking without meaning to. “Words are all very well,” he drawled, leaning back in his chair, “but it will take more than brash courage to defeat the Witch-king. He is no mere man, to be bled like the boar you hunt in Ithilien.”

“I do not think that one who fled from him should be speaking to me of courage, Chieftain.” It took all the willpower Aranarth had not to draw his sword then and there, let his blade speak for him. For he had not fled this battle, after all. While he struggled with his temper, feeling his cheeks redden, Eärnur continued. “I will meet him on the battlefield, and I will win.”

“If you meet him on the field of battle, it will be the end of you.” Glorfindel spoke at last, and Aranarth could swear that with each word the air grew more and more chill around them. Perhaps Eärnur felt it too, or perhaps he was merely shocked into silence, for he did not interrupt. “His time, too, will come, but it is not now, and not at the hand of any prince of Gondor. He is beyond you. Far off yet is his doom, and not by the hand of man will he fall.”

“If you insist.” Eärnur murmured, unexpectedly, “then I will not seek him out. There is much to do, though.” He hastily collected what papers he needed and took his leave – fled would be a better word - Vorondil trailing him like a faithful dog. The Elf neither spoke nor otherwise acknowledged their departure.

In fact, Glorfindel did not seem to be speaking, or moving, or giving any sign at all that he was living, other than the slight movement of his chest that suggested that he was, indeed, yet breathing. When Aranarth moved to ask him if he was unwell, and received no answer, he reached out to the Elf and found his hands cold as ice. A rustling behind him was another of the warriors of Rivendell, this one dark haired and even leaner and more aloof than Glorfindel, if that was possible. “The Sight has taken him.” he said, as if that was supposed to be some sort of explanation. “He spoke words of prophecy to you?”

“Prophecy…” The Elf had spoken in Sindarin, and it took a moment for Aranarth to fully understand his words. He nodded, frowning. “You mean – what he said, it will come to pass?”

“Yes, and then again, perhaps no.” Two more Elves followed the first into the tent, ministering to Glorfindel and muttering to each other in Sindarin so rapid that Aranarth was sure no Man could be expected to follow the conversation.

“What sort of answer is that supposed to be?”

“An Elvish one. You can go now. We will take care of him.” Thus dismissed, Aranarth paused for just a moment before heading out to seek the warmth of a good fire and a good meal to go with it. But there was one more thing he had to do, and he gritted his teeth as he approached Eärnur once more.

“Prince Eärnur. I did not mean to suggest… I mean…” He sighed. “I am sorry. But please, reassure me that you will not seek him out? I have seen too many good men fall to the Wraith of Angmar already.”

Eärnur glanced up, perfectly calm again. His previous temper-tantrum had passed by as a storm skirting the coast, and his smile was perfectly genuine. “I will not seek him out.” he said, and turned back to his work. Aranarth said nothing more, but he had seen the lie in those eyes, seen the battle-lust clear as day. Now I know, he thought, and even by the warmth of the fire he shivered, as if struck to the bone by cold. It will come to pass, after all.