The Chronicles of Ithilien
By Berzerker_prime

Chapter One: The Final Shadow of Sauron

     The War of the Ring had not been kind to Minas Tirith.  That much was vastly evident from the numerous scars of battle that the White City had suffered during the Battle of the Pelennor.  Holes yawned in the lower portions of the city where the catapults of Mordor had found their marks.  Great gashes scraped the earth where the armaments of the city had responded.  Hills had been raised to honor the victorious dead and dispose of the foul remains of defeated enemies.
     And yet, the healing process was already well on its way.  Masons and builders worked feverishly to close the unwanted openings in the city’s buildings.  Farmers had tilled the earth of the Pelennor and were now harvesting a good fall crop, save from the area around the hill of dead fell beings where the ground was fouled.  Dwarven iron workers and woodworkers had even furnished a new gate to replace the one smashed by the Orc battering ram, Grond.  The artisans had gilt the new gates with figures and portents of the dawn of the Fourth Age; the downfall of Barad-Dur, the crumbling of Mount Doom, the crowning of King Elessar.  And at their center, resplendent in silver, were the symbols of the King; the white tree in renewed splendor surrounded by seven stars and seven stones, and at its top the winged crown of Numenor.  Thereafter, they were called the Gates of Elessar.
     Standing upon the bastion at the tip of the keel of mountain facing eastward was a small shape in white.  It was that of a young boy, clad in the uniform of an esquire of the White Company, his tabard all of white and emblazoned with the white tree of Gondor.  The boy faced ever northward from the bastion, indeed at times he even leaned out from the walls as if to see further around Mindolluin, the tip of Ered Nimrais, so much so that the Citadel Guard present believed that he might fall from the great height into the first tier of the city, far below.
     It was mid-day on the third day of the boy’s careful watch that any of the black-clad Citadel Guard thought to ask him his business.
     “Young Bergil,” the bastion captain finally inquired, “what is it that you wait for with such bated breath?”
     “I await the coming of the White Lady of Rohan, sir,” the boy answered, “Lord Faramir has charged me with announcing to him her coming from the north.”
     There was an amused chuckle from the company of the bastion’s Guard.  Some even muttered something about a fool’s errand to keep the boy out of the Steward’s considerable business.  Bergil made a rather sour face in response to all of this, but turned back to his duty.
     “My lord has given me an errand and I intend to carry it out,” he replied, “you would do no less than that for King Elessar, if he so ordered and I will do no less for Lord Faramir.”
     This garnered further laugher from the Citadel Guards, but it was quickly stifled by the captain.  “Rest your jibes, my friends,” he said, “the boy speaks the truth with clear words.  You should not belittle him for it.”  He walked next to Bergil and knelt, facing the boy eye to eye.  “You do your duty well, young Master Bergil.  You will bring the White Company much honor if you perform all your tasks with equal zeal.”
     “Yes, sir,” the boy answered.
     “Now, do your duty,” the captain finished, pointing a hand to the north.
     Bergil spun around and lifted himself up by the edge of the wall.  He leaned out and looked northward.  There, just making its way around the western tip of the mountains, was a convoy led by three of the honored horses of Rohan, each with a rider of the company of King Eomer bearing a banner.  On the left was the banner of the house of Eorl, on the right was the new banner of the third line of kings, and in the center was a new banner never seen in Gondor until that day, that of the Renewed Allegiance between Rohan and Gondor.  It had been wrought by the Lady Eowyn and her kin as a gift from the house of King Eomer to that of King Elessar.
     “The White Lady of Rohan approaches!” Bergil exclaimed, hopping down from his post by the wall and darting off down the length of the stone keel toward the tunnel that led from the Citadel to the sixth tier just below it.  Sprinting through the streets of the sixth tier, he repeated his exclamation, turning a considerable number of heads as he went.
     Finally, Bergil came to a large domed house, that of his father, Beregond.  It had been the house that he had spent the entirety of his ten years living under and it was the house he knew best and where he felt most at home.  Bergil knew that that would soon have to change, but for now, that house was home.  Two of the White Company were stationed outside its main doors, signifying with ceremonial presence that the Steward was within.  As he had for many a day since the crowning of Elessar, Faramir was consulting with his captain of the guard about the building of the newly named Minas Estel in Ithilien.
     Bergil passed the two guards without preamble and entered the house.  “My Lord Faramir!” he shouted, passing from the antechamber into the great circular hall in the middle of the first floor beyond.  There, Faramir and Beregond were standing at a table, poring over a set of maps and schematics.
     Beregond, too, was clad in the raiment of the White Company, his rank as Captain clearly evident.  He was clad in leather bleached white by some craft that Bergil cared not to understand and emblazoned with the White Tree emblem in silver.  But, rather than the Star of Fëanor at the top, there was a star fashioned in the shape of a leaf.  A cloak of grey hung on his shoulders and fell no lower than his knees, eight pointed, rayed stars embroidered on either side of the silver closure at the neck.  The captain looked across the room at his son with a slight scowl on his face.
     “Bergil!” he said sternly.  “Announce yourself to your Lord before you enter.”
     “Apologies, father... my lord,” Bergil replied with a bow.
     “Well, since you are here, what has you so excited, young Master Bergil?” Faramir inquired.  The Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien stood in contrast to his captain in nearly every way possible.  He was younger by at least twenty years and wore no raiment of the guard.  Rather, he was clad in blues of a noble hue, his cloak trimmed with silver and closed by a broach of the star of Fëanor.  Upon his brow, holding back his raven hair, a circlet wrought in the shape of vines sat, crowned with a white jewel.  Although Faramir was a half head shorter than Beregond, he managed still to hold himself as though he was taller.  His face, though seeming young, held a certain amount of wisdom beyond his years.  From his gaze radiated the brightness of one descended of the blood of Numenor; lordly, kind, and gentle, but proud and strong of bearing.
     “The Lady Eowyn, my lord,” Bergil answered his question, “she approaches from the north.  Her party will be nearly to Rammas Echor by now.”
     A smile came to Faramir’s face, somehow lifting several years from his features.  He glanced back at Beregond who was already in the process of rolling up the maps they had been studying.
     “I believe, my lord, that this will keep,” said the captain.
     “That is well,” Faramir replied, “for I have not seen my lady in four months and my meeting her will not keep.”
     “Take my horse and ride to her, then,” said Beregond.
     Faramir was about to do just that when he paused and turned to the door that Bergil had entered with a look of uncertainty.  “And what of my two shadows?”
     “As my father once said to me, my lord, love abides no ceremony,” Beregond answered, clapping a hand on to the Steward’s shoulder, “go to her and leave your men to your captain for now.”  He nodded his head toward another door on the opposite side of the circular room, half conspiratorially.  “The stable is closer to the back door, anyway.”
     His smile returned to his face, Faramir put a hand on Beregond’s shoulder in thanks, giving a nod.  Then, he turned and hurried from the room.
     “It is good to see our lord smile again, is it not?” Beregond asked of his son after he had heard the back door open and close again.
     “Yes, father, but...”
     “But?”
     “I have seen him at nights.  He walks to and fro in the Citadel, eyes downcast and shoulders bowed as if a great weight was upon them.  In those times, he seems sad and lost, father.  All the guards see it, too, but no one ever says anything.”
     Beregond gave a heavy sigh and did not reply for a long moment.  “You are more observant than I should take you for, my son; wise beyond your years,” he finally said.
     “Have I done something wrong?”
     “Nay, but heed me.  It is not something that is spoken of.  The Lord Faramir’s thoughts in those times are clearly meant for his mind only.  Do you understand?”
     “I think I do, father.”
     “Good then.”  The captain straightened himself taller and squared his shoulders.  “Come along, Bergil,” Beregond said to his son, “the King must be informed of Lady Eowyn’s coming.  And do mind yourself, this time.”
     “Yes, father.”

     Beregond’s horse was plenty fast for a horse of Gondor.  But Faramir found himself suddenly wishing for the fleet-footed horse he had ridden by Eomer-king’s bidding in Rohan when he had accompanied the funeral cortege of Theoden-king.  He had had the chance to ride hither and yon around Edoras in those few days, sometimes with Eowyn, sometimes alone, and he had come to find that no horse bred in the white city could compare to one of the great war horses of Rohan.  At the moment, he would have given anything for one so fleet of foot and so agile as them to get him through the busy and crowded streets of the city all the faster.
     Northward and southward he turned the reins as he tore back and forth down the levels of Minas Tirith.  Finally, he came to the great east-facing gate of the city, shouting a command that it be opened.  As soon as a horse’s breadth of the Pelennor showed through the great doors, he urged his mount through and shot from the city with fervor.
     It was a short ride northward, only a few minutes, that finally brought him to the Rohirrim party, Eowyn within their midst, a white beacon upon a chestnut horse in the middle of a sea of browns and greens and golds.  Upon her shoulders was the blue cloak Faramir had given her months ago during their mutual stay in the Houses of Healing.  It gave him great joy to see her wearing it for it had belonged to his mother long ago and now it seemed to have come alive again.
     The party came to a halt as Faramir approached.  He dismounted Beregond’s horse hardly before it came to a stop and went into their midst, ignoring several levels of protocol, he was certain.  But he did not care.  Eowyn came down off her horse as well and the two of them met in an embrace.
     “My lady, it has been far too long to await your return,” Faramir said to her, “your coming brings me great joy.”
     “It brings it to me as well,” she replied, “for the funeral of my uncle saddened me greatly when I am certain he would not have had it be so.”
     “Then, by his will and your leave, we will make such a joy as to be remembered.  Let us now to the King and Queen, for I believe they will wish to greet you as well.”
     “You do not know for certain?”
     “Such was my eagerness to see you again.”
     “I perceive a measure of a love-sick boy is yet within you, Steward of Gondor.”

     Faramir and Eowyn had had barely an hour’s time together before they were separated again.  Much as he desired to remain in her company, Faramir’s duties as Steward had to come first.  There was still a great deal to be done, issues to be resolved, to ensure that the King’s authority would be recognized by all the lords of the realm.  Indeed, since he had awoken and learned of his father’s death, Faramir felt that he had become equal parts ambassador, bureaucrat, speech writer, political buffer zone, and messenger.
      The latest was from the governor of the city of Calembel, a Lord Ambarhil by name, who was claiming land rights that dated back to the time of King Ondoher who fell in battle before he could sign the proclamation.  Ambarhil was using this claim as a justification for the outward movement of the boarders of Calembel, but expressed concern over his people’s reluctance to settle land that was perhaps not theirs by right.  Although the petition was worded courteously, there was the hint that were this not granted him, there would be a certain number of political repercussions.
     King Elessar Telcontar seemed as bored with the issue as Faramir was, his eyes rolling skyward as it was the seventh such petition that day.  The King’s regal bearing slipped, finally, and he rose from his seat, throwing up his hands in no small amount of irritation.  He began pacing the room with a hand to his forehead and Faramir stopped reading the parchment.
     “This has become excessive,” the King finally said, “how many more are there?”
     It was not information Faramir wanted to know for himself for there was still considerable heft left to the bag that had been delivered to him.  He tossed the parchment down on the table and leaned back in his chair tiredly.
     “A great many, my king,” Faramir replied, “all of them calling upon orders issuing from the crown since the time of Anarion.  It would seem that some of these have been kept in drawers and archives since the dawn of the Third Age, waiting for someone to take up the crown and scepter again.”
     “Is there no way that we may deal with all of them in one fell swoop?  If we were to address them one by one, I will age and die and have no time to leave an heir, bringing us full circle to the issue of succession.  We will see these resolved and then have a second Castamir of Umbar!”
     Faramir sighed.  “There is no provision for this that I know of,” he said, “no one ever believed there would be no king in Gondor for a thousand years.”
     Elessar returned to his seat across from Faramir and landed in it heavily.  He put one elbow on the table and rested his chin there, gazing at the disarrayed pile of parchments laid out there, his winged crown tipping slightly in a most un-king-like manner.  “Suppose we burned them all and claimed ignorance.  What do you think would happen?”
     Faramir shrugged, sniffing a short laugh into the air and letting a lop-sided smile come to him.  “Underestimate not the annoyance of lords, for they are irritating and quick to stubbornness.  They will send them again.”
     Elessar laughed and leaned back, reaching for his nearby cup of water and taking a drink from it.  “Likely, you are right,” he said, then sighed.  “Faramir, I must apologize to you.  I know that with Eowyn finally returned, this is the last place you wish to be.”
     “I wouldn’t say it is the last place, my king, but I will admit it is very near the bottom.”
     “As it is for me,” the king admitted, “this is not at all what I was raised to do.  Since my lineage was revealed to me by the Lord Elrond, ever I sought only to lead the Dunedain Rangers of the north.  It was a much more lowly role.”
     “If I may, your highness, I have recently learned, as I believe we all have, that even those born to the smallest of stature can achieve things that men of great strength and power may not.  It was two Pheriannath, an orphan and a gardener no less, who brought about the fall of Sauron.”
     “Aye, we all owe much to Frodo and Samwise.  You are correct to point out that it is not just for their quest to the Mountain of Doom.  None the less, it is all in the way of great change.  We live in a wholly different world than we did just half a year ago.  There have been times since when I believe the Elves wise to voyage to a land that remains unchanged.  But you have not told me your thoughts on all of this, Faramir.  What does the Steward of Gondor think of these sweeping changes?”
     The question caught Faramir somewhat off guard.  It had been asked in good spirit, in the midst of a simple conversation.  But he was suddenly faced with the realization that any answer he could give, if it were to be truthful, would reflect an unwelcome dark tone.  He was also faced with the fact that he was not entirely certain just how it was he felt of all this.
     “I suppose I had not thought on it, my lord,” he answered after a not unnoticed hesitation.  He added a half-hearted laugh, trying to make it sound convincing.  “My waking hours have been so consumed by maps and archives.”
     Elessar gave him a queer look and Faramir immediately perceived that the king saw right through the attempted misdirection.  The arched eyebrow was particularly pressing of the inquiry.  Faramir left his seat, attempting to get away from the king’s all-penetrating gaze.  He put a hand to his chin in thought and silently paced toward the one large window in the room, overlooking the white tree in the citadel yard.  Frantically, his mind searched for the right words.
     “Something troubles you?” Elessar asked from somewhere behind him, no small amount of concern evident in his voice.  There was a pause, then footsteps before Faramir felt a hand on his shoulder.  “Faramir, look at me for a moment.”
     The Steward did as instructed, turning to face his lord.  However, he found instead the crownless face of a Ranger from the north, Aragorn, son of Arathorn.  He glanced back toward the table and found that the winged crown had been left there.
     “Look upon me not as the King for but a moment and speak your mind,” said Aragorn, “friend to friend rather than steward to lord.”
     Faramir shifted uncomfortably and looked away again, his gaze turning to the landscape far beyond the window.  “These are indeed great days,” he said after a considerable pause, “and I am glad to be a part of them.  But a darkness dwells upon my mind still and ever my worries bend eastward without cause.  There is naught but a broken land there, now.  Yet something haunts my thoughts, as if some parasite crawls from black and twisted cracks.”  He shook his head and turned back to Aragorn.  “Think not on it.  I have looked upon that land all my life and paranoia, it seems, has taken its toll.”
     “Do not dismiss it, entirely,” Aragorn answered, “you see far, my friend, just as your father did.”
     “I do not wish to see so far in such a manner!”
     Aragorn gave him another strange look and Faramir ground his jaws together as one who was trying to keep from saying more than he should.  There was a flood of words behind his teeth which he swallowed and sought to hide.
     “That is the source of it, then,” Aragorn said in all but a whisper.
     Almost as if in horror, Faramir turned from Aragorn and strode with purpose back toward the center of the room.  There, he stood in silence for a moment, collecting himself.  When he turned back to Aragorn, it was clear that he was once again resolved to look upon his king.
     “They are inner demons, my lord,” he said, “I will vanquish them.  My duty as Steward will not be imperiled.”
     “That is not my concern.”
     “Nay, my lord, it is but mine.  And already I have allowed it to come too far into these halls.”  He began to rearrange the parchments on the table, swiftly resorting them into a system that Aragorn could not entirely discern.  In fact, he was most certain that even Faramir could not discern it.
     “As you wish it then,” said Aragorn with a sigh as he returned to the table and took up his crown once again.  He grasped the nearest document and skimmed it for a moment.  “Then, let us see what Lord Golasgil of Anfalas would have of Isildur’s heir.”
     Faramir suddenly looked up at Elessar and a renewed spark of purpose was in his gaze.  “Isildur’s heir,” he said, as if realizing the king’s lineage for the first time.  Elessar was confused for a moment and stood silently looking at his Steward.  Faramir, for his part, took up a parchment and read it over quickly again.  “That may be the solution,” said the Steward.
     “You speak not plainly, Lord Steward,” said Elessar.
     “Nay, but I cannot as yet,” Faramir answered, “wishful thinking may be clouding clear judgment, my lord.  Might I have leave to go and explore this possible solution to our problem?”
     “By all means,” Elessar said with a slight sigh of relief, “go with all haste you desire and more.”
     “My king,” Faramir acknowledged with a quick bow before beginning his rush from the chamber, “if you have need of me, I shall be in the City Archives.”
     And with that, the Steward departed company of the King.  Elessar looked about in his suddenly empty and quiet chamber, his eyes finally resting of the stack of parchments.  With a long, drawn-out sigh, he sat in his chair once again and began reading the closest one.

     The house of Beregond was once again filled with a company of voices.  Two men sat with the captain in his great circular room.  Both were clad in the uniform and livery of the White Company and although they were younger than Beregond, they both carried a wariness of face that could only be contributed to long stays in a war-torn wilderness.  And such was the case, for Beregond had recruited them from the Rangers of Ithilien following the War of the Ring.  So loved they the Lord Faramir that they agreed to follow him where he would go.  Their attire was identical, white leather covering their chests, emblazoned with the White Tree and Silver Leaf.  Their boots rose high and grey were the garments under all of these.
     One of the two, the fairer of face and lighter of hair, wore on a chain around his neck a silver key that was obviously wrought for no purpose than to be a symbol of rank.  This was Damrod, Master of the Gate of Minas Estel and the Second Commander of the White Company.  The other was shorter by only scant inches with hair of dark raven and a scar on his right cheek.  Aside from the arms of the White Company, he had at his side a dagger of special magnificence to show his rank, wrought with the shape of vines streaming from hilt to blade.  He was Mablung, Master of Arms of Ithilien and First Commander of the White Company.
     Bergil was also close at hand, though not seated at the main table.  Sitting in a seat near the wall by a window that looked out on the sixth circle of the city, he squirmed this way and that, his ears ever open to the conversation and his eyes dancing with excitement.
     The three men, who together made up the currently established command of the White Company, had assembled to address a problem of special import; that of swelling their ranks.  Although they had a respectable number of men, they had not numbers near enough to keep safe a city the size that Minas Estel was to be.  They had recruited from all ranks of the Guard of the White City and had enlisted only a comparable few for with the return of the king, the greater honor was seen to be a guard of Minas Tirith.  Consequently, Beregond, Mablung, and Damrod only commanded half the number they needed.
     “Is there no where else that we may recruit?” Beregond asked with a high tone of irritation in his voice.  “Are you certain we’ve visited requests upon all the companies of the Rangers?”
     “Quite certain, Captain,” Mablung answered, “and while most enlisted out of loyalty to Lord Faramir, a great number perceived their part in war to be over or were simply aging beyond their ability to fight.  Or so they say.”
     “And the Citadel Guard?”
     “Very few came to us from there,” Damrod stated, “they are niggards, all.  One guard even likened joining our company to bedding a comparatively ugly whor-”
     Beregond cleared his throat very loudly, casting an unhappy glare at Damrod.  He jerked his head over his shoulder at his young son.  Damrod reddened slightly and said nothing further.
     “We will get little help from the Citadel Guard, then,” Beregond finished the line of reasoning, “what of Lord Imrahil’s Swan Knights?”
     “We might have had more from them,” said Mablung, “if Damrod hadn’t mentioned how far from open water Ithilien is.”
     “I simply described the land to them as I know it,” Damrod defended himself, “how was I to know most of them grew up as fishermen?”
     “Ever your tongue has proven to be disconnected from your mind, Damrod,” Mablung rejoined, “ever since the days of our childhood.”
     “You’re not still holding that against me, are you?”
     “Gentlemen,” Beregond interrupted, “let us remain on the task at hand.  What of the Green Knights of Pinnath Gelin, the footmen of Ringló Vale, the bowmen of Blackroot Vale?  Have none joined us from them?”
     “All are loathe to leave their lands so far off, captain,” Mablung answered, “there are none left to ask.”
     Beregond gave a heavy sigh as he stood up from his chair.  He began to pace back and forth in thought.  “Surely, our Lord Faramir deserves better than this,” he bit out, “the White Company will be all too sparsely manned if we do not find others to recruit.”
     “Father,” Bergil suddenly piped up from his seat near the window.  He was backward in the chair, one hand on the seat back and his knees bearing his weight.  His other hand pointed out the window.  “What about them?”
     Puzzled, Beregond and his two commanders wandered over to the window and looked out.  There, across the narrow street, some houses had been set aside for the Rohirrim of Lady Eowyn’s escort.  The horse-masters were presently outside, making a merry raucous around two barrels of ale they had brought with them.  One played a shrill fiddle, two danced with frothing mugs in their hands, and the rest all sang and clapped with the tune.
     Beregond considered the group for a moment, his eyes long staring at the blond heads and bearded faces.  “Theirs is a lively bunch, is it not?”
     “Captain Beregond,” Damrod protested, “you can’t seriously be considering-”
     “And why not?” Beregond asked.  “After all the Lady Eowyn is herself Rohirrim.  Those who have joined us already join because of their love for Lord Faramir.  Why should these men be denied the opportunity to continue serving their lady?”
     “But Captain, this is simply not done,” Mablung protested, “this is to be a company of Gondor.  You have not the authority to bring foreigners into it.”
     “But, I do indeed,” Beregond stated as he left the window and began to cross the room toward the doors of the house, his commanders hot on his heels and his son following some steps behind, “the king has given Lord Faramir leave to assemble his company as he will and Lord Faramir has entrusted the task to me.  Recruit from where you see fit, he said and I see fit to recruit these men.”
     The two commanders continued to protest until well after they were within earshot of the company of Rohirrim.  Luckily, the horse-lords’ merry making managed to drown out what Beregond was unable to hush.  The four members of the White Company remained on their side of the street, watching the Rohirrim dance and listening to their joyous music.  To Bergil, who had heard nothing but the music of Gondor all his life, the song seemed lighter than anything he knew.  Absent was the restrained grace of joyful Gondorian lays.  This song seemed to rejoice in the simplicity of singing itself.

Our paths were long
But our horses quick
We’ll sing a song
And we’ll drink a drink
Brothers well-met
Enemies beware
Our swords are blessed
By a lady fair!

Ale flows strong
Down a rider’s throat
And back comes a song
Up a rider’s throat
And no fairer
Is a hall so held
Than the golden halls
Of Meduseld!

     The one playing the fiddle ended his song with a great, resonating chord and the rest of the men each held aloft their steins in a cheer.  A moment later all were drained and there was a shuffle at the barrels for refills.  The fiddle player put aside his instrument and took a pull from his own mug, then cast a glance over at the commanders of the White Company, taking note of them for the first time.
     “Well!” he exclaimed, standing and holding his half-filled stein up.  “Look at this, my friends!  It seems to my eyes that four ghosts have taken it upon themselves to visit our merry-making!”  Here, he threw back the rest of what was in his mug.  “What curse do you bring, ghost men?  Does our song upset you?  Or do you simply long for a decent drink?”
     Beregond took that as an invitation and walked over to the Rohirrim.  Damrod, Mablung and Bergil still following behind.
     “T’would be a curse to be a ghost, I should say,” Beregond answered in a tone to match the Rohirrim’s friendly taunting, “for it is said that once a man passes there is no more ale to be had!”
     “Drink then!” said the Rohirrim, tossing Beregond his stein.  “And prove that you haunt us not!”
     The way to the nearest barrel was cleared and the Captain filled the mug to the brim.  As the Rohirrim, his two commanders, and his son watched with expectation, he lifted it to the sky in toast, then filled his belly with the entire contents.  The Rohirrim gave a mighty cheer to that and Bergil and the two commanders were each handed full mugs.  Beregond snatched Bergil’s from his hand before he could drink, trading it with his empty one.
     “Surely you don’t wish to deny the boy his ale,” said one of the Rohirrim by the barrels.
     “Nay, but I should think he would require less.”
     “Féolaf, a half a pint for the half pint!” exclaimed the fiddle player to which the rest of the company gave a laugh.  “Well met, my brothers in arms of Gondor, well met!  Tell me your names so that I may know with whom I drink this day.”
     “Beregond I am, Captain of the White Company.  And these are Mablung and Damrod, my commanders, and Bergil, my son.”
     “Léowine, am I,” answered the fiddle player, “Captain of the White Lady’s company.  And we drink with merriment for now our lady has come again to the place that has brought her such joy of late.”
     “You would share in her joy, then?”
     “Aye, for shared joy becomes all the greater.  T’was her gift to us, this ale, on the condition that we partake in both.”
     “To the joy of the White Lady, then,” Beregond said, lifting his stein.  Léowine agreed, meeting Beregond’s mug with another of his own that had come from places unknown and they both drank again.  “So, tell me, horse-captain; now that you have discharged this mission, what plans do you make?”
     “We are to remain in Minas Tirith, to prepare for Eomer-king’s coming,” Léowine answered, “and then, after we have given our fair White Maiden to the keeping of your Steward and your Company, we shall ride back to our own lands.  And our hearts will be all the heavier for we will escort none so fair again.”
     “I would offer you another option, if you would hear it; one that would allow you to remain with your Lady.”
     “Then I would hear it.”
     “The White Company is in need of honorable men to offer their strength and skill.  As yet, there is rumor of Orcs in Ithilien and I would not see our ranks too few to deal with them.”
     Léowine threw his head back in a laugh, letting it rumble from the top of his head to his ale-filled belly.  “Men of Rohan in a Gondorian company!  Well, there is a pretty idea!  I like it!  And it would do me great honor to continue to serve my fair Lady Eowyn.  And many more I know would come from Rohan if called to such a duty.”
     “Then, pray, give no oath or bond on it yet,” Beregond said, “for long ago it was learned by Fëanor of the Eldar and his sons the price of an oath taken in haste or broken.  I will hear no promise from you on it until you have entreated with Eomer-king and he has released you from his own service.”
     “Aye, aye, well said, my friend,” Léowine replied, “but I doubt not that the King would agree.  After all, someone has to teach you Gondorian men how to raise a good horse and how to ride!”
     “And someone must teach you men of Rohan to craft a good sword.”
     “Father,” Bergil said, suddenly appearing at Beregond’s side and tugging at his brace-clad arm, “what exactly goes into ale?”
     Beregond looked down at his son, taking note of a positively ill look to his face.  The boy looked nearly green, in fact, and he swayed back and forth slightly as if rocking with the motions of a ship.  “Bergil, did you drink that entire stein already?”
     “Well, I thought you were supposed to drink it fast,” the boy replied, “so, after I finished my first one the same way you did, they gave me another half mug.  But, I don’t feel so well, now.”
     Beregond blinked stupidly, not sure how to handle what could very well be a delicate situation.  An ambassador he was not and he did not wish to offend, but he did not wish his son to be ill, either.  Luckily, Léowine rescued him from having to be unpleasant to either side.
     “Perhaps he should be taken home, Master Beregond,” he said, “Rohirric ale is not for the pure of heart, the first time out, and our young master here seems to have done his share.”
     “I would quite agree,” said Beregond, taking Bergil’s empty mug and handing it and his own back to Léowine.  He crouched down on the ground, his back to Bergil.  “Come on, then.  Up you go.”  Bergil obliged and crawled up onto his father’s back, trying to adjust for nonexistent movements of the earth.  Beregond stood once again, his son’s green face peering over his shoulder.  “I will take my leave of you, Master Léowine.”
     “And I shall send the first of my riders who is once again sober to Edoras tomorrow with word for Eomer-king,” the Rohirrim answered, “until the morrow, then.”

     Faramir spent considerable time in the Minas Tirith archives, sorting old scrolls, sifting through documents, many of which threatened to fall apart at the slightest of wrong motions.  The one he was seeking was buried somewhere among them and it proved to be the most elusive.  So much so, in fact, that Faramir began to wonder if it actually existed at all.  Perhaps it had been some strange illusion, originating in his own mind.
     The narrow shaft of light that poured in from the thin window of the archive reading chamber had lengthened considerably by the time he found what he was looking for.  It harshly fell across his table, illuminating the parchment and tiring his eyes.  After no small amount of time studying it, Faramir put the scroll down and rested his tired face in his hands.  The next he was aware of the time, the room was dark save for a candle by the door and a chime somewhere far off was sounding an hour near midnight.
     Sighing a heavy sigh and cursing himself for falling asleep, Faramir scrawled a quick message on a stray piece of paper, bundled up the scroll, and rose with both in hand.  Blowing the candle out, he left the archives.
     The chill of late October was in the air outside and the courtyard of the Citadel reflected the silver light of the stars and the moon.  As a cool wind blew, Faramir found himself wishing for his cloak, so his steps hastened.  He came to the house of the King a few moments later and entered the great front hall.  Spying a prominent table, he left the scroll where it would be seen with the note attached.

              To my King Elessar,
                  The solution to our problem is found.
                       Ever in your service,
                            The Steward.

     Faramir left the silent and dark hall and went out to the courtyard once again, making his way toward the house of his father.  Briefly, he considered calling on Eowyn before retiring, but saw that the light in her window had long since darkened for the night.  A stray thought of guilt found him and he promised he would find more time to attend her the following day.
     He was about to find his own chamber for the night when some other force stopped him in his tracks.  Faramir’s gaze fell on the door to Rath Dinen, the Silent Street.  A single citadel guard, the door warden who was on duty, stood just to the side keeping vigilant watch.  The Steward found himself moving toward it with some strange sense of purpose in his step.  The door warden came to attention.
     “Open it,” Faramir told him softly, “allow none to pass until I return.”
     The door warden nodded his understanding and unlocked the gate.  Faramir opened it and stepped through.  Slowly, he walked down the street, not even hearing the gate close behind him as he went.  Rath Dinen seemed to have been aptly named that night as his footfalls were swallowed by the stone all around him.  His pace slowed further as he neared the street’s end, the steps becoming harder and harder to take.  Finally, the crumbled and blackened stone of the House of the Stewards came into view and his feet failed him, bringing him to a halt.
     Long Faramir stood there, his eyes fixed on the burned and ruined place of his father’s death.  When the strange trance ended, he fell to his knees and wept in the street where none could see or hear.  The tears fell uncontrolled for what seemed like long hours.
     “You shed tears that should have been shed long ago,” came a voice from behind him, ethereal and otherworldly.
     Startled by the intrusion, Faramir whirled around and came to his feet.  He saw there the fair face of Queen Arwen, the moonlight rivaling and yet lighting her features, dancing in her dark hair.
     “My Queen Undomiel,” he stammered out, dropping into an embarrassed bow, “forgive me; I thought you had retired for the night.”
     “Restless have been my dreams this night,” she stated, paying no heed to Faramir’s need to apologize, “and yours.  You mourn but late and hide your grief.”
     “I would not give it to others,” Faramir said, “it has no place in this joyous time.”
     “Would you say the same to those who lost loved ones on the field of the Pelennor?  Or the Morannon?”
     “Nay, my lady,” he replied, “but neither do they reflect the mood of all Gondor.  It should not be given that the Steward weeps for the return of the King.”
     Somehow, Arwen’s eyes become softer and more determined in the same instant.  After casting a glance at the ruins of the House of the Stewards, she turned back toward the gate at the top end of the Silent Street.  “Come with me,” she said.
     Faramir followed, his boots suddenly seeming to make an incredible racket with each step compared to the silent footfalls of the Queen.  For the first time, Faramir noticed that she as barefoot.  He had a compulsion to say something on it, but it was somehow drowned by a greater need to keep the strange spell that had been cast.
     The Queen led the Steward beyond the door and into the open space of the Citadel once again.  The door warden closed the gate behind them and locked it, giving them both a solemn bow.  Arwen moved onwards, never once turning back to Faramir to see if he was following.  And follow he did, never faltering until the Queen climbed the stair to the entrance of the Tower of Ecthelion.  There, he paused as she opened the door, his right foot upon the ground, his left upon the first stair, the darkness inside the tower yawning at him through the open door.  His voice would no longer be restrained.
     “What purpose have we in the tower, my lady?” he asked.
     Standing upon the top stair, Arwen turned and looked down at him.  “It is not your father’s death that grieves you.  It is the madness that brought him to it and the manner in which he died that you fear.”
     Faramir shifted uncomfortably.  “The King tells my lady much.”
     “But naught of this, for it is plain to those who know you and know where to look,” she replied, “the One Ring did not test you as it did others, Faramir, son of Denethor.  It could not play to your desires as it could for your brother.  You know what it is that you must face.  Gaze into it or remain as you are, cowed by your anxieties.”
     His hand becoming a fist, Faramir steeled himself and slowly climbed the stairs.  Arwen led him on and the entered the tower.  Up the stairs wound and up they took them, their pace never breaking nor their rhythm failing.  They came at last to the secret door that had only recently been revealed to Faramir and opened it.  Behind it were more stairs and the Steward and the Queen climbed those also.
     They came at last to the topmost chamber of the Tower of Ecthelion.  Round it was with a single seat facing east.  In the center was a pillared stand, its top covered by a cloth of black that bulged with something the shape of an orb beneath it.  As Faramir watched, Arwen lifted the cloth from the stand and lo! there revealed one of the Palantiri.  Black it shown with naught but empty space within.  And yet, there faded in and out of existence two hands aflame with a fire that reeked of madness.  The Anor Stone, it had been called in ancient days, for it had been there since the white city had been called Minas Anor.  But now, its glory was dimmed forever by the madness of Denethor II, son of Ecthelion II.
     Faramir became entranced by the flames within the stone.  His eyes saw nothing else in the room.  A whisper came to him, his name spoken by a wind from no where.
     “You would have me look into the Seeing Stone,” Faramir finally said to Arwen, “it was this orb that moved my father to fire and death.”
     “Few have the will to master the Palantiri,” said Arwen, “and fewer still the will to bend this to sights other than the fire to which it now looks.”
     “And still you would have me look?”  The stone called his name again and Faramir moved his hand toward it.
 “You would have yourself look.”
     “I do not deny it,” Faramir said, “if this is to be my test, I would not shrink from it.  I would rise up and meet it.”
     Arwen was silent, then, standing near the single seat and watching.  For Faramir, all else but the Palantir fell away and it became the world.  His name whispered on the wind filled his ears and the dancing flames within the stone brightened, finally flaring when his hands met the smooth surface.
     The hands within the Palantir grasped his with a grip of iron and when he pulled his hands away, the seeing stone came with them.  All the while, it called Faramir’s name, never ceasing, repeating it over and over like some desperate chant.  Something in the whispered voice of the stone compelled Faramir into motion, following its call from far-off places.  It led him from the round chamber as he sought the source of the voice.
    As Arwen watched, not hearing the calling voice as it was not for her ears to hear, the Steward took the stone.  Its flames lit his face, and he began descending the winding column of stairs.  Silently, as always, Arwen followed him, coming to a halt just outside the door of the tower, upon the top stair.  Faramir continued onward, the Palantir flaring in his hands.
     The Palantir now acted as a beacon in the night of the citadel and it alerted the citadel guards to its presence.  Several of them made desperate gasps of surprise and lapsed into confused motion.  Faramir paid them no heed, continuing onward down the stone keel of the mountain, toward the bastion there.
     Someone had alerted Beregond and he and his son were the first of the White Company to come.  Leaving Bergil behind, the captain went to his lord and stood in front of him.
     “My lord, where do you bear the Seeing Stone?” he asked in confusion.
     Faramir paused, turning empty eyes upon Beregond, as if seeing through him.  “He calls” he answered, “I would go to him.  Do not hinder me.”  And Beregond saw that the flames of the Palantir were in Faramir’s eyes and he staggered back.  Faramir’s eyes once again rested on the bastion and he moved on.
     “Devilry!” Beregond cursed.  “What madness would steal my lord’s wit?  Surely, this is the darkness reborn!”
     “Nay,” came a wiser voice from over Beregond’s shoulder.  He turned to it and found there the King Elessar.  “’Tis but a shadow that has remained in some closed off crevice.  But fast!  He makes for the bastion and I perceive he means to travel far beyond it.  We must halt him!”
     “Am I asked again to disobey my lord’s order?” Beregond asked in despair.
     “This is not his order,” said the king, “and I say to you if we do not stop him, he will die.”
     “He didn’t tell me not to do anything,” came the small voice of Bergil.  Before any could stop him, the boy raced forth, grasping Faramir’s elbow as the Steward came to the steps of the bastion.  “My lord, please stop!” he plead.  “Something has taken hold of you!”
     “No!” Faramir replied, never looking to Bergil.  “Do you not hear it?  He calls me to him with love.  Never have I heard it from him.  I would go to him.”  He began to climb the bastion stairs, Bergil still clinging to his arm.
     The King was in motion now, perceiving that the boy had failed and looking to hinder the Steward himself.  But seeing that he would not make it, he called to the bastion guards.  “Halt the Steward!” he cried.  “His vision is not his own!”  The guards closed in around Faramir, locking their arms together and ensnaring him upon the wall.
     The Palantir in the Steward’s hands flared once again, its flames filling the air and pushing Bergil and the guards back, shielding their eyes.  Elessar came to the bastion, but was held back, blinded by the white-hot light.  His obstacles cleared from his path, Faramir climbed upon the narrow edge of the wall and held the Palantir aloft.  He whispered something up at it, the sound lost amid the cacophony of flames.
     “Faramir!” cried a desperate voice from far back.  The Lady Eowyn had come.  She was trying to go to her beloved, but was held fast by Beregond and others of the White Company.  Call to him was all she could do.
     The Steward paused, his head whipping around to her voice, looking beyond the Palantir and seeing her with despair in his eyes.  Taking a backward step off the bastion wall, he looked again to the stone.  “I am called two directions,” he said to it, “I would not leave her yet.”  Faramir stared long at the stone, as if taming some wild beast with his eyes.  Finally, he shook his head in confusion.  “No,” he said, “no.  You are but an echo of thought.  He remains not in this base rock.  Heed me, Seeing Stone of Numenor, for I am Faramir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor, heir to the house of Hurin, and your master!  And I would see other things this night!”
     To all assembled, it seemed as if a great cry of anguish came from the Palantir.  Slowly, the flames faded, yielding to black in the heart of the stone.  Long Faramir stared into it and for but a moment, a glimmer of blue-white shown from the center.  As quickly as it had appeared, it vanished and sweat broke out upon Faramir’s brow.  The Palantir fell black and silent once again and the Steward fell limp to the floor of the bastion wall.  Leaving his hands, the stone rolled down the stairs and halted there.  Elessar quickly threw his cloak over it and gathered it up as Eowyn, Bergil, and Beregond went to their fallen lord.
     “What madness took him?” Eowyn despaired, resting Faramir’s head upon her lap.  “What darkness is upon him?”
     “I know not, my lady,” Beregond answered, “I fear for his awakening.”
     “Fear not for that,” the king said, coming to them and looking upon Faramir, “he but slumbers as is natural.  He has faced a foe that was for him stronger than Isildur’s Bane.  Take comfort that he sleeps so soundly.  Beregond, take him to his chamber.  I will come to attend him shortly.”
     “I shall not leave his side,” Eowyn proclaimed as Beregond lifted Faramir on to his shoulder.  She placed herself beneath the Steward’s other arm and walked with Beregond toward the noble house of Hurin.
     “Neither shall I,” Bergil said, trailing behind them.
     Elessar watched them go as the citadel guards slowly took up their positions once again, confused and murmuring amongst themselves.  He came to the foot of the Tower of Ecthelion and there met his Queen.
     “You had a part in this?” he asked.
     “Only the part of the messenger,” she replied, “I brought to him what was within him but what he perceived was without.”
     Elessar sighed and nodded in agreement.  “I only hope it has not cost Gondor her gentle Steward.”  He continued within and the Palantir was placed back where it belonged in silence.
     And Faramir was laid, sleeping, in his rooms.  There, sitting near him, were Eowyn, Beregond, and Bergil.  They left not his side until the sun was high the next day.

     It was late in the day by the time Elessar finally had to send Faramir’s three loyal attendants away on nothing less than the authority of his order.  “For Gondor is currently without her Steward and no help will you give her if you yourselves are exhausted,” he said to them.  Eowyn was the most loathe to leave and hesitated the longest, but finally left, conceding the King’s point.  In their stead, Elessar sat and waited for Faramir to awaken.  He brought with him the scroll that Faramir had left him and passed the time reading it, but could not understand how it was going to help him due to its highly legal and archaic language.
     Faramir finally awoke not long after sunset.  With a soft voice and kind words, the King welcomed back to the land of the living.  When the Steward’s eyes finally focused and he saw who was sitting near him, he sighed heavily.
     “Ai, Valar,” he exclaimed in a whisper, looking to the heavens, “once again, I lie idle in the presence of the King.”
     “You slept for nearly a day,” Elessar told him, “your company has been quite worried.”
     Faramir blinked, pushing himself up against the headboard.  “Eowyn was there,” he said dreamily, “I remember her voice.  And… Master Beregond?”
     “And Bergil,” the King confirmed with a nod.
     “It would seem,” said Faramir, “that I have made something of a spectacle of myself.  The Palantir?”
     “Back in its place in the Tower.  It is safe.”
     Faramir looked away, his gaze coming to the window beyond Elessar’s shoulder.  Stars were once again in the sky and he looked at them as if studying some far-off ghost.  “My Lord, I have failed you.  The Anor Stone bewitched me.  I had not the will to stop it.”
     “That was not what I perceived, Lord Steward,” Elessar replied, “true, it took you in the beginning, but you mastered it before the end.”
     “T’was not my mastery.  T’was the calling of others.”
     Once again, Elessar dropped his kingly guise and it was once more Aragorn that spoke.  “My friend, I would like to counsel you in this,” he said, “and for that, I would know what you saw in the Anor Stone.”
     Faramir pondered this for a long moment but finally managed to untangle his memory enough to speak.  “It spoke to me,” he said, “in the voice of my father.  The voice was somewhere between the living and the dead, as some cursed soul wandering the land.  It was real and yet a dream, some half-remembered mongrel of sleeping and waking.
     “‘See?’ it said.  ‘He calls for me!  Do not take him from me!’  And I wished to go to him, for the voice was desperate with anguish.  ‘Come to me, my beloved son.  I would right the wrongs I have made against you,’ it said, and hands reached for me, ensconced in flame.  I could do naught but go.”
     “You saw once again your father’s death?”  Aragorn asked.
     “Yes,” Faramir answered, “but more, I saw his love.  I was but a young boy when I saw it last.”
     “My father died when I was a boy,” said Aragorn, “I know well the absence of a father’s love.  I understand how it can call.  But, pray, what called you back?”
     “Eowyn,” Faramir sighed, “she called with a love that equaled my father’s.  And I recalled her golden hair.  Her light cut through the darkness and flame and led me back.  I remembered what it was that I gazed into and resolved to turn its gaze.
     “‘Send me not away!’ it cried.  ‘I will hinder your gaze!  It will be a battle!’  I told it that I would fight back and fight I did, finally turning its gaze.
     “Eastward I turned to look, and there saw a sight most strange.  Hands built a structure, crude and monstrous.  It rose from rubble most foul.  Figures passed my gaze.  Orcs they were, horrifying fast and efficient as if pushed by some force that frightened even them.  And then it entered my mind from places unknown that it was through the eye of the Ithil Stone I saw.”
     “Mordor,” Aragorn breathed, “something moves?”
     “I know not with certainty,” said Faramir, “it is not known where Sauron kept the Ithil Stone.  Perhaps it is some unknown nest of foul beings that remains.  But more, there was someone else watching.  Angered he was to be seen and surprised by it.  As soon as we noticed each other in the stones, he shrouded his face and masked himself with a strange cloud of mist.  I tried to push through it to see him, but I was met with an attack
     “‘Who dares to look upon me?’ he cried.  I did not answer and he struck again.  I could not see and so could not defend myself.  It was not long ere I was forced to flee, beaten and defeated.  I returned to myself and the darkness took me.  My lord, someone else masters the Seeing Stones.”
     “This is most curious and alarming,” said Aragorn, “who would have such an ability?”
     “I know not,” said Faramir, “and more curious, who in Mordor would have such a will?  I know in my heart that the Enemy no longer lives.  But certainly, no mere Orc could master the Ithil Stone.”
     “This troubles me,” said Aragorn, “a will moves to match that of one who could move the Anor Stone to see other things.  He uses trickery and hides to attack his foe rather than face him openly.”
     “I could not see him,” said Faramir, sadly, frustrated, “I could not force him to show himself.  I failed in this.”
     Aragorn saw that Faramir’s mood was downcast.  In a show of both friendship and confidence, he put a hand on the Steward’s shoulder.  “You bring us more information than we had,” he said, “we know now that something moves yet in the east, even if we know not what it is.  But, beyond that, you proved your will; you turned the Anor Stone eastward.”
     “It means nothing.  My father did the same.”
     “And you bested your father’s will.”
     “What spoke to me from the stone was not my father.”
     Aragorn shook his head, agreeing with Faramir’s assertion.  “No, t’was not.  But I have since looked into the Palantir as well and parleyed with what is there, locked inside.  And I say to you that it was that part of your father’s will that remained after Sauron stole it from him, twisted by the Stone.  It calls for you still.  And you resisted it in order to remain.  You have proven that the blood of Numenor does indeed run clear in you.”
     “Perhaps,” said Faramir with a sigh, “but I say that that grief is too raw, too course to face again.  Never will I look into the Anor Stone again and I pray you do not ask me to.”
     Aragorn nodded in understanding.  “It shall be so.  But know that I have the utmost confidence in you.”
     “That brings me comfort, my king.”
     “Then I am glad.  Now, on to other things less sensitive, but perhaps just as daunting.”  He held up the scroll that Faramir had left him.  “Please explain this.  How does it pertain to the problem of overzealous petitioning?  I have read it several times and it seems to me to be an historical record of a legal ruling, but by my eyes, I cannot understand it past the words themselves.  Westron it may be, but more legal than I can decipher.”
     Faramir smiled, a bit of a glint in his eye, now.  “It speaks to precedence, my lord,” he said, “when Mardil Voronwë, my ancestor and the first Ruling Steward, took office, he found himself similarly inundated by frivolous requests.  The times were chaotic and the sudden absence of a king made it necessary to enact a great amount of restructuring.  Steward Mardil had not the time to deal with all the requests made to the House of Anarion, so he went to the Council of Lords for a ruling.  It was then decided that one house was not responsible for the contracts of another, even if it was the house in power at the time.”
     “So Mardil was absolved of responsibility to the king’s contracts,” mused Aragorn, “that I understand.  But the requests coming to me now are those from the time of the kings.  How does this ruling free me of them?”
     “Of old, the kings of Gondor were of the line of Anarion.  You are descended from Isildur.  Though they were brothers, they eventually established two separate lines, separate houses, in Gondor and Arnor.  Further, you have established your own house, Telcontar, a new house.”
     Faramir finished his explanation and Aragorn looked at him with no small amount of skepticism, cocking an eyebrow.  The Steward responded by raising both of his own, grin widening.  It was infectious and soon Aragorn was grinning as well, allowing a chuckle to come.
     “Ai, Faramir!” he exclaimed.  “This is simplicity!  Never would I have thought of such a solution.”
     “Indeed, for you did not know of it, my lord.  The scroll was buried in the Archives with nearly two fingers of dust upon it.”
     “However did you know of it?”
     “Mithrandir was ever a source of magnificent history.  He was there when the ruling was made.”
     Their conversation continued amicably for some time and Aragorn saw that some great weight had seemingly been lifted from Faramir’s shoulders.  The talk turned to any number of things, most of them of an unofficial nature, and for the first time they spoke purely as friends.  From then on, there was a new understanding between the Steward and the King.  The hour grew quite late as they spoke and soon Faramir’s concentration began to slip.  The younger man clearly required more sleep.
     “I should leave you to rest,” Aragorn finally said, rising from his seat, “I may be the King, but I fear the stubborn authority of your betrothed should I exhaust you further.”
     “As I do,” Faramir agreed, “I, for one, would not dare to tangle with such a maiden.”
     “It may be unavoidable for you, in the end,” said Aragorn, “you are marrying her in two weeks’ time.”
     “I really must speak with the healers about this terrible burning upon the skin of my ears,” a voice came to them from the door.  There stood the lady Eowyn, clad in a dress of blue and whimsical of face.  “My King Elessar, do you seek to bother my beloved and disallow him his needed rest?”
     “Nay, Lady Eowyn,” Aragorn said, “I was only just now bidding Lord Faramir dreams more pleasant than those of yesternight.”
     “You have made your bidding known, then,” she said, “my lord needs rest.  And clearly, he needs it now.”
     Aragorn smiled kindly.  “You two are well-matched,” he said, then turned back to Faramir.  “Good night, Lord Steward.  I am glad you are well.  Do not think I underestimate when I say that I would be lost without your guidance, adrift in matters of this fair country that I could not comprehend.”
     “Ever in your service, my king,” Faramir answered.
     “Good night, Lady Eowyn,” Aragorn said on his way out.
     “Good night, my lord,” she answered.  Once the king was gone, she went over to Faramir.  The Steward shuffled aside a small ways and she sat next to him on his bed, unwinding her hair.  “Whether from Rohan or Gondor or the scattered chiefdoms of the North, men all have one common trait; they will not properly rest when rest is needed most.”
     “Eowyn, you should not speak so to the King,” said Faramir, “it is highly improper.  And though he may mind it not, there are others who would find great offense.”
     She reached over and put a hand to his cheek, silencing him gently.  He melted into her touch, shoulders sagging as he relaxed.  “A wise point, beloved, but there are no others present.  And if it caused you to rest, I would speak thus to Eru himself.”
     “Then I feel pity for Illuvatar,” he said, putting his hand over hers, “for though He most certainly has foreseen your stubbornness, I doubt that even He has the will to face it.”
     Eowyn leaned over and hushed him with a kiss.  The Steward sighed in joy afterward and sat looking upon her.
     “The Palantir led me last night,” he said after a moment, “and it was naught but you for which I returned.  The Warden of the Houses of Healing may say that I finally healed you.  But I say to you, t’was you that finally healed me.”

     King Elessar permitted Faramir to rise the next day seeing that he was once again sound of mind and had never been fully unsound of body.  Beregond brought to both his lord and his lady his plan to include Léowine’s men in the White Company and Eowyn was well pleased and Faramir agreed to it.  They needed only Eomer-king’s leave and the Rohirrim Féolaf was riding to see to it.
     Early in the afternoon, Faramir and Eowyn were once again called to different tasks.  The Steward was called to council with Beregond, Léowine, and the King in preparation for the arrival of Eowyn’s brother from Edoras.  The Lady, meanwhile, went to the Houses of Healing searching for the Madame Ioreth.
     The houses were quiet this day and the healers had but a few charges.  Yet still, somehow, Ioreth proved to be quite elusive.  Eowyn wandered the houses for a time and it seemed to her reminiscent of days past when she had been disallowed to leave; they had been maddening, but not entirely without joy, she recalled.  She had just finished wandering the gardens, the very spot where she had first met Faramir, when she heard from within a loud crash followed hard upon by a yelp and a curse.  A strange fog billowed from the hallway and it was quickly followed by Ioreth, fanning the air with a kerchief as she came.  She looked to be quite harried and the bottom edges of her dress let loose traces of the same billowing fog from the hallway.
     “Ai, Elbereth!” she exclaimed, a sour look upon her face, “how many times must those children be told not to play marbles in the halls?  They’re going to be the death of me yet, I daresay.”
     “Madame Ioreth,” Eowyn greeted, “westu hal.”
     Ioreth spun around to face Eowyn with a gasp, one hand upon her breast in surprise.  Quickly, she dropped into a courtesy.  “My lady!” she exclaimed.  “Forgive me.  I was startled.  And more than a little preoccupied, right enough.”
     “So I see,” said Eowyn, casting a gaze past Ioreth and toward the rapidly dissipating fog still coming from the hall.  “But the Warden told me that it was a quiet day in these halls.”
     “Oh, it may seem quiet today, my lady, but t’is period of cleaning, everything being moved back and forth and so on.  So, I says to the Warden, ‘we should organize our supplies whiles we’re at it.’  And he tells me to see to it.  But I only have a day for it, so here I am running hither and yon with all manner of things in tow, and now here they are all over the floor and mixed and, by my eyes, smoke comes from the mess!  I almost fear to try to clean it!  Bless me!  Oh, but here I am blathering on when I have heard naught of the Lord Steward since yesterday.  How fares Lord Faramir?”
     “He is well, Madame,” Eowyn answered, “he meets with the King even now.  T’was naught but exhaustion that took him.”
     “Oh, thank the Valar!  I said just yesterday it’d be more than passing tragic if he were to fall ill now, so close to your wedding, my lady.  If he shows up in my care now because he works too hard, Lord or no, I shall give him an earful, I will.  And you can tell him so.”
     Eowyn laughed and took Ioreth by the arm.  Together, they walked the garden.  “I shall, Madame.  And it will be enough to send him to bed ere the sun sets, lest you talk his ears into a box.  But pray, stay your tongue a moment for I have a matter official to speak with you about.”
     “Aye, my lady?  Pray, speak.”
     “The organization of Minas Estel and Ithilien is taking shape.  Beregond, my betrothed’s captain, is pulling together the White Company and to me Faramir has left matters more domestic in nature.  The Houses of Healing in Minas Estel will need to be staffed and I would like you to be its Matron.”
     “Me, my lady?  But, I am but a nurse.”
     “But well-gifted with caring and wisdom.  A healer needs equal parts skill and maternal instinct and I can think of none better for the position.  And I would have you choose your own staff.”
     “Well, I don’t know how I can turn down an offer such as that.  When the Houses of Healing are built in Minas Estel, I shall come.”
     “That brings me happiness.  Now come.  Tell me of these halls while I have been away.  After all, we must somehow pass the time while that strange fog clears.”

     It was nearly a week later that the city was once again gripped in the throes of excitement.  The day was clear, the sun bright in the east, and dew still rested upon the grasses of the Pelennor when a voice rang out from the bastion in the Citadel.
     “Eomer-king approaches!” it proclaimed.  “Comes the King of Rohan!”
     Before long, the great gate of the city was surrounded by the denizens of Minas Tirith, voices raised in celebration and welcome.  As Steward of the city, it was Faramir’s task to make the official welcome at the gate.  With the white rod of the Stewardship in his hand and Eowyn at his side, he went on foot from citadel to gate.  And with them went Beregond and Bergil, bearing the colors of the Steward and the King.
     However, this was not a greeting that Faramir looked forward to.  A great demon of the nerve had seized him.  As Eowyn’s only remaining blood kin, Eomer was perhaps overly protective of his sister and Faramir was well aware of the lengths to which the elder Eomunding would go to defend her.  Indeed, the two men’s first meeting had not gone well as Eomer had found Eowyn and Faramir in the citadel courtyard engaged in a rather passionate kiss.  Eowyn did her best to calm her betrothed as they walked.
     “You worry needlessly,” she said to him.
     “He does not approve of me,” said Faramir in reply.
     “That is untrue.  I have set my brother straight in the matter.  He will not react so again, with tongue so sharp.”
     “Sharp?  I believe his exact turn of phrase was unhand my sister, you fork-tongued Gondorian letch.  Aside from that, it is not his tongue, but his fist that worries me.”
     “T’was hardly a tap.”
     “My nose bled daily for a week.”
     Eowyn paused long, considering.  “The point is conceded.  But,” she hastened to add before Faramir could make reply, “as I said, I have settled the matter with him.  And as you’ll recall, he was naught but apologetic once he understood the situation, once he found that it was I who began the kiss.  And I who continued it.”  When Faramir gave her a lop-sided smile, she added still more.  “And continued it.”
     “And once he remembered that he was King and that it could have made for a rather nasty diplomatic incident,” Faramir appended.
     “That too,” Eowyn answered.
     “Why do I feel as though I have been saved from the fire only to find myself amongst the Balrogs?”
     “Because you worry needlessly.”
     They came now to the great gate of Minas Tirith and Faramir ordered it opened.  The company of Rohirrim waited beyond with Eomer-king and his standard-bearer in the lead.  All were arrayed in the ceremonial riding armor of Edoras, horses upon helm and breast and hauberk.  The standard-bearer raised to his lips a horn and from it issued forth a blasting note, long sustained.  The crowd at the gate gave a cheer as the Rohirrim entered into the city at last.  The company went up the road and Eomer brought his horse to a halt before Faramir and Eowyn.  The crowd hushed to hear their words.
     “By the Rod of the Steward in my hand, and by the White Tree, the Seven Stars, and the Crown and the Scepter in the name of King Elessar, Minas Tirith welcomes the King of Rohan.”  Here, he gave a brief bow.
     In turn, Eomer and his standard-bearer dismounted and stood on equal footing with the Steward.  “By horse and horn and the great sun above,” proclaimed Eomer with a slight flourish to his voice, “the King of Rohan accepts the welcome of our brothers in arms.”
     Another cheer went up from the crowd and Eomer and Faramir took that moment to grasp each others’ arms in friendship.  In the din of cries of greeting, Eomer leaned in close to Faramir.  “Westu hal, brother,” he said.
     The knot that had tied itself into Faramir’s stomach suddenly unraveled and the Steward found himself marveling at the young king’s ability to ease tensions.  He smiled back and put a hand on Eomer’s shoulder.
     “Mae govannen, brother.”

     In that, the first year of the King, the shadow was finally removed from the hearts of all the people in Minas Tirith.  In the days that followed, Faramir and Eowyn were wed to much fanfare and joy.  From Dol Amroth came the family of Prince Imrahil and from Mirkwood and Erebor came Legolas and Gimli.  To the Elven Prince of Mirkwood, Faramir gifted a tract of land north of Cormallen and south of Wetwang marsh.  There, a colony was settled by the Elfkind as a place of welcome to those who would not yet sail the Sundering Seas.  In return, they pledged their support to Ithilien and Gondor.  It seemed to all that the shadows had finally left Middle Earth and that peace was finally come.
     But in the heart of the Steward of Gondor, doubt remained.  Faramir could not help but believe there was still something remaining to be done.  Something moved yet in the east, beyond the walls of Ephel Dúath.

*********
    As always, none of this is mine, just borrowing it.  It all belongs to the estate of JRR Tolkien, the master and professor.

    Will there be more chapters of this?  Oh yeah!  You better believe it!

    For those of you who decide to review (please?  Pretty please?), one thing I'd like to know is any loose ends that seem to be dangling and that you'd like to see tied up by future chapters.  I mean, aside from the obvious "hey!  What's up in Mordor!?!" question.

    This is actually my second go at the chapter.  A preen, if you will.  Special thanks go out to the Stargazer_Nataku for her wonderful and constant upliftingness and obsession with the family of the Stewards, SomeJediGirl for her wonderful feedback, and Seigrun for her amazing and engaging conversations with me on all of this.  You guys RULE!!!  ^_^

    I know there's a school of thought out there that Faramir wouldn't have been able to use the Palantir, that he didn't have the will.  Obviously, I don't ascribe to that and here's why; it's pretty much directly debunked by Tolkien canon.  In the essay in Unfinished Tales on the Palantiri, Tolkien states that the Palantiri essentially belong to no one individual or group.  Rather, they "belong" to any who can use them.  This has long included the Stewards of Gondor, but Denethor was simply the first to try in such a long time.  It wasn't the Palantir that drove Denethor mad, but Sauron, and only after repeated courses.  Had there not been that influence, Denethor would have been just fine and he would have had quite the edge during the War of the Ring, being one of the people who could effectively use the Palantiri.  I reason that Faramir, being "of like mind" to Denethor and now the rightful Steward of Gondor would also be able to use them

    And, for a little teaser for next chapter... just a name... Elboron.  ^_^

    Hope you enjoyed!

    Berz.

The Chronicles of Ithilien
By Berzerker_prime

Chapter Two: Awakening of Fell Things

     Darkness was yet in the east.  The fell plains beyond the Ephel Dúath screamed in horror and war.  The Sun was blotted from the sky and shadows moved in its stead.
     Light did not begin until Ithilien.  From there, it spread westward all the way to the western shores of Middle-earth and on into the uttermost west beyond the Sundering Seas.  But it was in Ithilien  that it met the darkness of the east.  There, the two butted up against each other and did battle, mixing and mingling until the land was one of utter chaos.
     He stood at the Window on the West, watching this great battle.  Turning, he found himself alone in the refuge.  Battle still raged outside the window and he looked to it again.
     Now, he stood by the Forbidden Pool.  His captain was there, standing in the water, ripples licking at his knees hungrily.  The light and the darkness still raged in battle above them, reflecting in the water of the pool and exciting new waves which threatened to swallow the captain whole.
     A new light descended from the sky above, issuing forth from the encroaching darkness, blue against the monochrome of the refuge.  A second light, burning just as blue but of a different quality, sprang from the reflected light in the water.  The two met in the air and swirled around his captain, bringing the light and the darkness with them.  Sound assaulted him, none the least of which were the cry of pain from his captain and the horrifying scream of a sundered peace.  He had to look away from the melee.  The sound then ceased and he looked back to the pool.  All he found was his captain’s sword rising from the pool, hilt upturned toward the sky...

     Faramir was released from the dream and he came awake with a gasp.  Sitting up, he slowly forced his mind to focus and his breathing to slow.  Next to him, he felt Éowyn stir, her arm reaching out for him.  Not wishing to wake her, Faramir rose and found his cloak in the darkness.  Feeling the cool night air on his skin, he left their bedchamber and walked out onto the balcony that overlooked the city.
     He half expected to come to the scene familiar to his childhood; the citadel of Minas Tirith by night that he had so often gazed upon after his troubled dreams.  But rather, it was his new citadel that he found himself gazing upon.
     Minas Estel, the Hill of Hope, situated on a cone of mountain at the northern tip of Emyn Arnen, was to be the new beacon of the Fourth Age, the symbol of renewed light and prosperity in Gondor.  The first wall of a planned seven was already complete, encompassing the citadel proper.  Three grand porches of stone broke the perfect circle, extending north, east, and west.  To the south, where the cone joined to the mountain range, the base of a massive tower was being built, what was to be the great master tower of the citadel.  Three towers at the tips of the stone porches were already completed and atop them the un-blazoned white colors of the Steward flew in the breeze.  A great road wound up the cone, beginning at the bottom of the northern and greatest of the three stone keels.  Back and forth it ran, turning back on itself after emerging from the tunnels under the west and east porches.  The bastions of the outermost and greatest wall of the new city were nearly complete, as was the great north-facing gate.  The second wall from the top was already being built as were two towers at the place where the road met the mountain, just outside the great gate.  Where the road came into the citadel, at the opening to the tunnel, two statues stood to either side; one each for Eärnur, the last King of Gondor before Elessar, and Mardil Voronwë, the first Ruling Steward.  They faced westward, looking across a fountain in the center of the citadel toward the River Anduin, Osgiliath, and Minas Tirith beyond.
     The House of the Prince was directly in front of the base of the great tower, adjoining to it to the north.  Two small towers rose from it and the quarters of Faramir and his kin were in the western one.  The balcony he was standing upon was in this tower and three stories below, Faramir could see the sapling trees of his fledgling gardens.
     The city was quiet, for now, and Faramir took the moment to breathe in its peace.  From the faint glimmer of dawn now striking the tip of Mindolluin afar, he knew the peace would not last long and that soon the city would awaken and the sounds of construction begin anew.  The wind blew chill as if to remind him of what had brought him to the balcony and he shivered, drawing his cloak in tighter.
     Footsteps reached his ears after several moments.  Although they were soft and padded the floor lightly, Faramir’s hearing, long trained to be alert to subtle sounds in the woods, heard them easily.  He turned and found Éowyn leaning against the stone door frame, her blue and silver cloak upon her shoulders and her hair loose and waving slightly in the breeze.  A hand rested on her overly-swollen belly and she looked at him with kind eyes.
     “Is our bed so crowded these days?” she said to him, jest in her voice.
     “I am sorry, I did not mean to wake you,” Faramir replied, “the air called to me.  That is all.”
     Éowyn discarded the semi-flirtatious nature that she had come to the door with.  She went to him as he turned back to look over the citadel and put her arm around his.
     “The dream again?” she asked.
     Faramir nodded with a sigh.  “It is foreboding and yet I cannot tell why.  The details slip from memory upon my waking.”
     “It has come to you over and over again since you looked into the Anor Stone a year and a half ago.  Have you still said naught of it to Beregond?”
     The Steward shook his head.  “Not until I understand the dream’s meaning.  Telling Beregond would mean telling his son, as well.  And they are very close.  If I were to tell them of the dream, the boy would fear to lose his father.  Preoccupation is a dangerous thing when learning to fire a bow.  It may be that the dream means nothing, but Bergil will fear the worst of it.”
     “You say it is for the boy’s sake, but I perceive these words are spoken for your benefit.  I can read the crease of your brow too well, husband-mine; you fear the dream’s meaning.”  When Faramir said nothing in reply, she pressed further.  “After all, the last time you had a dream such as this, you knew in your heart of the death of your brother.”
     Faramir disentangled his arm from hers and turned to face her, shaking his head with equal parts confusion and dismay.  “Nay, that was a dream with my waking eyes,” he said, “this is not of that sort.  It is different.  That one gave me knowledge.  In this, knowledge hides in the shadows.”
     “Faramir, your words frighten me,” said Éowyn, “when you speak thus, you drift from me, you move beyond my grasp.  Do you not value my thoughts?  My counsel?”
     “Nay!” Faramir answered, moving to her and embracing her.  “Nay, do not think that.  And Valar curse me if ever I should allow you to believe such.  Nay, my beloved, you are the steady rock beneath my feet; ever my healer.”
     “The child kicks.”
     “Yes, I feel.”

     “I told you right enough, I did, Master Beregond.  I daresay I told you.”
     “Madame Ioreth-”
     “I told you, I did, and you went and did it anyway and look here, things have turned out just as I said.”
     If it weren’t for the fierce throb in his head, Bergil would have laughed aloud.  There were few men in Minas Estel who could bring his father to silence, and indeed there were only two women.  The first, the Lady Éowyn, had rank on her side.  The other had naught but her mouth.
     “As I said,” Beregond continued as Ioreth quieted somewhat to concentrate on dabbing at the small, red spot on Bergil’s forehead, “he is a lad of twelve and it’s high time he learned to use-”
     “Swords and daggers!”  Ioreth spat the words out as if they were a curse.  “Bow and arrow!  Shield and mace!  He’s still too small, he is!  Hasn’t hit his growth spurt just yet, like the rest of the boys his age.  They forget they have the further reach and look!  See what happens!”  Ioreth ceased her ministrations for a moment and waved a scolding finger in Beregond’s face, either entirely disregarding or completely forgetting that he was Captain of the White Company or indeed that they were even in the Ithilien Houses of Healing at all.  “His time would be better spent with books, I’d say.  A sword isn’t the only thing that makes a warrior great, especially of the Ranger kind.”
     “Madame, I will bow to your knowledge of healing, but I will not be told of fighting and rangering by an herb mistress.”
     “Ha!  It’s your mistakes that end up in my care!  I daresay, you would do well to curb your arrogance!”
     And that was the straw that broke the horse’s back.  Bergil could no longer contain the building flood of laughter that was afflicting him and he let loose a snicker.  Beregond and Ioreth halted their debate and looked at him sharply.  Bergil clamped his mouth shut and struggled to regain a measure of composure and the two debating adults turned back to their conversation.
     “Will you please just take care of this so that we may all three return to our duties?” Beregond plead.  “Bergil has lessons and I have considerable tasks of my own.”
     “Oh, I’ll patch him up, right enough,” Ioreth replied, “but you’ll have to return to your duties without him.  I take no chances with bumps to the head.  Why, I knew a man once who got hit in the head and slept for three days.  When he woke, it was as if another man woke in his body; ill-tempered, thirsting for battle, as if the Dark Lord himself had bewitched him.  No, Bergil shall remain here for the rest of the day.  You may fetch him on your way home this night after your duties.”
     “An amusing story, but Bergil sleeps not.  Truly, Ioreth, you overreact!”
     “I’m afraid it’s no use, Master Beregond,” came a new voice from the door.  Éowyn was standing there, holding a large crate of vials above her pregnant belly.  “The Matron will not budge on matters of her work.  You will lose this debate, I am afraid.”
     Ioreth was instantly in motion once again.  “By the Valar, are you all mad in this city?” she exclaimed as she went to Éowyn and took from her the crate.  “I told you not to exert yourself so, my lady.  No heavy lifting, for the child’s sake!”
     “The crate is hardly bigger than my head, Ioreth.  I would not call it heavy.”  She went over to Bergil and took a closer look at the wound on his head.  “Besides, it would appear that you are busy and that you needed these herbs.  How fares our captain’s fearless son?”
     “I’m all right, my lady,” Bergil said, rapping his head with his knuckles.  “Head hard as a stone.”  Yet even as he said this, he winced, slightly.
     Near the cupboard in the room, as she was putting away the vials that Éowyn had brought, Ioreth could barely be heard muttering something about the inheritance of blood that Bergil had received from his father.  Bergil couldn’t quite make it out and decided not to press the issue when he saw his father fuming with a rather sour look upon his face.
     “Well,” Éowyn went on, reaching for a bandage and wrapping it about Bergil’s head to cover the wound, “it would seem that you are stuck here for the day.  And, as I’ve been banished to the work of the frail, how would you like to keep me company?  I shall tell you the story of Helm Hammerhand.”
     Bergil’s eyes brightened at the prospect of another of Éowyn’s stories.  He had heard many of the heroic tales of Gondor and most of them no longer held any suspense or surprise.  But the stories that Éowyn brought with her from Rohan twisted and turned in ways he had never heard before and the lady told them not as epic lays seemingly too big for one person to hear but rather as though she had been privy to the thoughts of the old heroes themselves.
     “Can I father?” he asked eagerly.  “Matron?”
     Breathing a deep, begrudged sigh, Beregond waved off his authority to Ioreth.
     “Well, I don’t see how much trouble you can get into helping to prepare broths and soak bandages,” said Ioreth, “but I’m quite certain the two of you together will find the method.  Go on, then.”
     Bergil hopped off the cot he had been sitting upon with a bright smile and together with Éowyn he departed the room for other quarters in the Houses of Healing.  Beregond and Ioreth watched them go, the former with a small chuckle.
     “The Lady will make an excellent mother,” he said.
     “Aye, that she will,” Ioreth agreed, “and that boy could use the attentions of his own, to be sure.  All too tragic she died all those years ago.”
     Beregond’s face turned to fond and bitter memory at that sentiment.  “Aye, that it is and that he could.  But, it would seem that Bergil has been somewhat adopted by the ladies of this new citadel.  I have little doubt that he will turn out all right.”
     Ioreth looked across the room at Beregond, her hands upon her hips and a pondersome look upon her face.  “Yes, well, let us hope that it was his mother’s wit and not his father’s that he inherited.”
     The captain was about to respond, but clamped his mouth shut once again, suddenly recognizing the matron’s tone.  They had bandied much the same back and forth for some time and Beregond was beginning to be able to read Ioreth’s voice.  At the moment, it carried no small amount of humor.  And so, Beregond responded with a hearty laugh.
     “I’ll take my leave of you,” he said, “do try not to be overly hennish toward my son.”  He gave a short, sharp bow of the head toward her, then exited the room.
     “Well, certainly, someone must!” Ioreth called after him.

     The White Company was made up of three smaller battalions, each with a certain task to see to.  The men under Léowine’s command were known as the Ithilrochonath, the Moon Riders.  For the most part, they were comprised of the fair-haired and experienced riders that had been released from the service of Éomer-king in Rohan.  They dwelt now in Ithilien in service to the lady Éowyn and her lord.  The Rohirrim of the company had adapted well to their new positions and now wore the colors of Ithilien.  They had been allowed to keep the horse-crowned helms and arms of their homeland in reverence of their migration.  But each now wore a surcoat of white leather and carried a small dagger with the white tree emblazoned upon the hilt.
     However, among the heads of blond and auburn could be found a few men of tougher complexion and darker hair.  Gondorians had come amongst these transplanted Riders of Rohan and were now wholly a part of the battalion.  The greatest of rank of these was Iorlas, Beregond’s brother, who now rode aside of Léowine as lieutenant of the battalion.  Unlike his brother, he had not inherited their father’s rather rare trait of tallness, tending instead toward the stature of their mother.  In fact, he was nearly a full head shorter than Beregond.  From their mother, also, he had taken a head of black hair which he stubbornly refused to cut.  It was lashed to the back of his head in a tail that fell to the middle of his back.  The brothers’ difference in age was a rarity as well, as Iorlas had been a babe when Beregond was a full sixteen years of age.  Neither had ever heard an explanation of this that was to their satisfaction, but Iorlas suspected in later years that he had been the accident of timing and a night of passion before his father had had to ride to a battle in Harondor to the south.
     The thirty or so Ithilrechyn riding that day traveled to the north of the Crossroads on a regular patrol of the area.  Word of roving bands of Orcs had trickled down to them from the Ephel Dúath and they were taking no chances, the safety of their fledgling city paramount to them.
     Although the day was fair and the sun bright in the sky, a strange restlessness had come over the horses.  The usually devoted mounts pricked their ears at the slightest of strange sounds and stamped their hooves while the company halted.  Some seemed to be spoiling for a battle and others simply seemed to desire the homeward path toward safety.  The strange murmur of darkness had then transferred to the riders.  Where normally one might have found good cheer amongst the battalion, this day they were strangely silent.
     “This is more than passing odd,” Léowine mused aloud to Iorlas.
     “Indeed,” the Gondorian agreed, “the sun shines and yet darkness presses.  I have not felt of this since the War.  It is not so dark as that, but it is the same foul stench, none the less.”
     The route of their patrol now turned the battalion east and they began to ride roughly in the direction of the abandoned Minas Morgul.  After only a few minutes of riding, Léowine’s horse, the black stallion known to the Rohirrim as Windmane, brought his hooves to a stubborn halt.  Although Léowine did his best to coax the horse into motion, the willful stallion would have none of it.  Windmane would go west, south, or north, but the eastward direction he refused.  And so, the battalion came to a halt amongst the grasses as Léowine leaned forward, rubbing his horse’s neck and speaking soft words in Rohirric.  From atop his own painted mare, Menelovrel, Iorlas looked back at the rest of the Moon Riders and found several of them doing the same with their own mounts.
     Iorlas had spent his share of time as a Gondorian Ranger before he had joined his brother as a guard of the Citadel in Minas Tirith.  He found the old skills he had acquired strangely active again, his senses open, his eyes scanning the area.  The place the Ithilrechyn had come to was mostly open grass but for a patch of rock to their east and a stand of trees, that had been deadened by chocking vines, to their south.
     Something among the stones caught his attention, although he could not say what.  Iorlas left his saddle and loosened the peace bonds on his sword.  The stomping and snuffling of the horses dulled his hearing, so he stepped away from them by several paces, his eyes ever fixed upon the rocks.
     A quick movement came to his eye, the whip of a blackened helmet peering over the stone.  An instant later, a whistle assaulted his ears and there was an impact in the ground near his feet.  His legs faltered backward and he saw there an orcish dart, ragged fletching upturned and waving at the sky.
     Shouting a warning, Iorlas drew his sword, his feet carrying him back to the battalion.  In front of him he saw the flashes of his company’s swords as they were drawn.  Behind, he heard the horrific war cry of evil voices as they issued forth from the rocks.
     “Form a line!” Léowine called to the Ithilrechyn as Iorlas found Menelovrel and leapt into his saddle.  Once mounted, he set eyes upon their foes.  They were Uruk-hai bearing terrible swords with roughly serrated edges and helms to shield their eyes from the sun.  Iorlas guessed they numbered no more than twenty, but he had not the time to count as Léowine was calling for a counter-charge.
     The two companies met upon the field in a resounding clash that belonged to combatant armies much greater in size.  As other battles raged about him, Iorlas came to his first foe in the middle of the fray.  The Uruk-hai braced his feet wide and hewed at Iorlas’ sword with two hands as the Gondorian’s horse rode past.  Their blades clashed together and the impact knocked Iorlas from his saddle.  Menelovrel continued onward only to have her shoulder slashed by one of the Uruk-hai’s compatriots.  The orcish soldier was felled by a Rohirric spear only a moment later.
     Iorlas rolled, dodging his opponent’s sword as it buried itself in the ground where his head had been.  As the Uruk-hai pulled his blade from the dirt, Iorlas thrust his own weapon into the space between the Uruk-hai’s helmet and breastplate.  The Uruk-hai fell to the ground lifeless with Iorlas’ sword caught in its flesh.  He was wrenching it free as another of the fell beings bore down upon him, sword raised high.
     The Uruk-hai’s head jumped from his shoulders an instant later and Iorlas found Léowine behind it as the body dropped.  This victory was short-lived, however, as an orcish dart found its way to the commander’s shoulder.  Léowine spun, a hand to his wound and his legs giving way.  Iorlas grabbed the spear that had so narrowly saved his horse a moment before and threw it at the Uruk-hai archer, slaying it.
     The rest of the battle moved off and the other Ithilrechyn soon made short work of their remaining foes.  Iorlas went to Léowine who was slowly sitting up, his face twisted in pain and blood oozing through his fingers.  Iorlas had spent a year in Léowine’s company and as such had begun to learn part of the language of the Rohirrim.  The words now issuing from the commander’s mouth, however, he was quite certain he had not been taught.
     “Slow, my friend, slow,” the Gondorian said, coming to the Rohirrim’s side and bracing him by his good shoulder, “worry not, they are routed.”
     “Their purpose was not to fight or hinder us,” Léowine gasped out as Iorlas inspected his wound, “they patrolled as we do.”
     “I agree,” said Iorlas, “their numbers were too few for a sortie out of Mordor.  By the Valar, you bleed!  And the tip of the dart is all the way through!  This is beyond the skill of any of us here.”
     “Is anyone else wounded?”
     Around them, the rest of the Moon Riders were wandering the field, checking for Uruk-hai survivors.  One was gently tending to the wound in Menelovrel’s shoulder.
     “Only you and my horse bleed,” Iorlas answered.
     Léowine struggled to his feet, even as Iorlas objected.  “Then we ride for Minas Estel with all haste.  Something is afoot here and we must warn Prince Faramir.”  Even as he said this, color drained from the rider’s face and he swayed.  Iorlas caught him just as his legs gave way again.
     “We shall ride with haste,” said Iorlas, “but it shall be you and I together atop Windmane.  Menelovrel is not fit to be ridden and you are not fit to ride alone.”

     As he had a number of times in the past year and a half in the accounting of men, Legolas found himself in the gardens of Minas Estel.  Spring was come to the budding city and the infant gardens were populated by any number of green things, each of them now in bloom and splashing the scenery with blossoms of red and white and yellow.
     This day, Legolas had come from his own new city to the north, Galenost, bearing a sapling tree as a gift to be placed in the Steward’s gardens.  A pale silver was its skin and the drooping leaves upon its young branches would drop every so often, finally letting go of their tired grasp of the limbs.  It had been growing under his care for some time, waiting for the day when it would be transplanted to its place of honor in the Ithilien citadel.
     Faramir had not known that the sapling was being brought; it was to be a surprise to celebrate the birth of his first child with Éowyn.  Legolas wanted the surprise to be perfect and so came with the gardeners in his company to the citadel gardens before greeting the Prince.  The Elves worked quickly to place the sapling, hoping to have it planted before Faramir came to find them.
     “Are you certain it will grow outside of Lothlorien, my lord?” a voice said at his shoulder.  Upon turning, Legolas found it to be a female Elf of rather short stature, hair pulled into three tight braids and eyes set upon the sapling in wonder.  She was clothed in armor of leather, a bandolier of throwing knives resting atop her green jerkin.  In her hand she held a spear of unusual craft in her hand.  It had two blades about a third of the way from the point which pointed backward along the haft.  She had told him what the weapon was called, once, and Legolas thought he remembered the name “duom.”
     “I believe it will, Hadoriel,” Legolas responded, “Aragorn has received word from Master Samwise in the Shire that one of the trees grows there.  Certainly, one may grow here, indeed.  Where is Valithar?”
     “I have set him to waylaying the Prince Faramir and his captain.  He has produced a temporary crisis in housing for our company and I do believe Captain Beregond is going to great lengths to prevent his own company from being displaced from their quarters.”
     “A clerical error, I trust?”
     “Perhaps it is better that you do not know, my lord.”
     “That is what I dread.”
     With a laugh, Hadoriel went over to the two gardeners who were finishing the landscaping around the sapling.  She directed and conversed with them, much to the chagrin of the gardeners, and was largely ignored.  Once again, Legolas was reminded why she was one of his Rangers and not a simple maid; she was far too opinionated and her spirit simply refused to be swayed from its chosen course.
     The gardeners had just finished the planting and were giving the plants a last, healthy dose of water when voices sounded from the garden path.  Legolas’ sharp ears discerned the voice of Faramir’s captain, his tone rather irate.  He heard also the voice of his own Captain of the Bowmen, Aradól called Valithar in his own Nandorin tongue as he preferred, responding to Beregond in his own minimalist and short-clipped way of words.  A few moments later and they both rounded the corner of the garden path, trailing behind a rapidly striding Faramir.  As soon as the Prince caught sight of the new sapling, he stopped dead in his tracks, a look of wonder lighting his eyes.  Beregond and Valithar all but ran into him and they instantly ceased their bickering.
     “Na vedui, Faramir,” Legolas said, inclining his head in a bow, “I bring a present for your little one,” he added, gesturing to the tree.
     “Mae govannen,” Faramir replied⁽¹⁾, managing to say something into the middle of the peculiar silence that had followed and blinking rapidly as he took a few steps forward.  In silence and with a growing smile upon his face, the Steward felt of the sagging leaves.  “Oh, Master Legolas,” he breathed, “this is the most beautiful yet.  But it is spring and already its leaves drop.  Was the journey here hard for it?”
     “Nay,” said Legolas, “for its leaves are not already dropping.  Rather, they are finally dropping.  It retains its leaves during the winter.”
     “But I have never seen a deciduous tree that does this,” said Faramir with awe, “true, legends speak of a tree in Elven realms that... Legolas, surely this is not a mallorn?”
     “Indeed it is.  It was sent to me by the Lord Celeborn of Lothlorien.”
     “Then, this is truly a great gift.  It shall be treasured, Master Elf.  I thank you greatly.”
     “The joy upon your face is thanks enough,” said Legolas with a half-conspiratorial smile directed at Valithar, “and the surprise.”
     Faramir looked from one Elf to the other.  Valithar made no visible reaction save for a barely perceptible twinkle deep in his eyes.  Legolas and Hadoriel’s smiles, meanwhile, broadened.
     “Ha!”  Faramir laughed, catching on.  “T’was a manufactured crisis, then!  You did well to have Master Valithar bring it to me.  I did not think him capable of such a ruse!”
     “I believe you’ll find, Lord Steward,” said Hadoriel, “that there are very few things of which Valithar is not capable, for all his antisocial habits.  Why, once at Dol Guldor, I saw him shoot an arrow right into an Orc’s-”
     “Thank you, Madame Hadoriel,” Beregond interrupted, “but, as amusing as I’m sure the tale... story is, I do not believe I need the image in my mind’s eye.”
     Hadoriel looked to Valithar.  “My friend, I do believe I have found your equivalent among mortal Men,” she said, “except, of course, that he talks much more than you ever-”
     She stopped mid sentence.  The heads of all three Elves suddenly turned northward and sobered.  Puzzled, Faramir and Beregond looked northward, but seeing nothing turned back to the Elves.
     “What is it?” Beregond asked.
     “Horns,” Legolas replied.
     As if heeding a command from the Elf Prince, a note sounded from the great north gate of Minas Estel far in the lowest level.  It sounded three times, then was silent, echoing off the stone of Emyn Arnen.  A moment later and the three-fold peal was repeated.
     “Damrod has sounded the gate alarm,” Beregond observed.
     “To the seventh circle,” Faramir said, and he and his captain fled the gardens.  Legolas followed a moment later, leaving Hadoriel and Valithar to finish his business in the gardens.
     The three of them were met half way to the gate by Aldegil, a member of Damrod’s company, the Gate Guards.  He fell into step a stride behind Faramir.
     “The Moon Riders return, my lord,” he reported, “they sound the alarm as they come.”
     “Are they pursued?” Faramir asked.
     “Not that we can see, my lord,” Aldegil answered, “but we have seen from the gate at least one riderless horse.”
     “The color of the horse?” Beregond asked.
     “Captain, it seemed to my eyes to be a paint.”
     “Iorlas!”  Beregond exclaimed, barely stifling it to a gasp.  He nearly forgot himself and let his feet carry him forward all the faster, but managed to catch himself and cast a glance to Faramir in askance, first.
     “Go!” Faramir ordered his captain.  Beregond obeyed readily and took off at a run toward the gate as Faramir brought Aldegil and Legolas to a halt in the street.  “They may have wounded,” he said to Aldegil, “go inform the healers.  Legolas, we do not know what is amiss.  It may be wise to bring your camp within the outer wall.”  With nods, both Aldegil and Legolas went on their fleetest feet to their tasks.  Faramir, meanwhile, hastened to the outer gate.
     The Ithilrechyn were just coming through the gate when Faramir arrived.  Iorlas was riding Windmane and he carried Léowine in front of him.  The Rohirrim commander was unconscious, his head lolling forward over his chest and bobbing with the movement of the horse.  Blood flowed from his left shoulder and covered his entire side.  Wearily, Iorlas handed Léowine down to a pair of waiting gate guards, then dismounted and greeted the worried face of Beregond.
     “Fear not, brother,” he said, “or rather, fear not for me but for Master Léowine.  This blood is all his; I am unhurt.”
     “Are there any other wounded?” Beregond asked.
     “Only my horse,” Iorlas replied.  He then looked to Faramir with a short bow of his head.  “My lord, we were attacked by Uruk-hai.  They were few, but ambushed us with dart and blade.”
     “Where?” Faramir asked.
     “Four leagues north of here.  A league north of the Crossroads.  I believe they may have been scouting westward from the Ephel Dúath and the road from the Morgul Vale.”
     “Can you take me there?”
     “If I take another horse.”
     “You will have it.  We will leave within the hour, once I have seen to Master Léowine.”
     “I shall assemble a battalion of the White Company, my lord,” said Beregond, “if we move quickly-”
     “Mablung and his men shall accompany me this time, Beregond.”
     “But, my lord-”
     “I need you in Minas Estel to lead the rest of the company in my absence.  The city must be well-guarded and Damrod will be busy at the gate watch.  With Léowine wounded, the job is left to you or Mablung.  You have the greater rank and authority, there will be no question who leads the men here if Mablung goes with me.  I need you to stay in the city.”
     Beregond opened and closed his mouth several times, quite obviously searching for a suitable argument in reply.  There was none to be found, however, and he saw that Faramir was resolved in his decision.  There would be no swaying the Steward.  Finally, Beregond swallowed his objection and bowed his head in acknowledgement.
     “Good, then,” said Faramir, “if you both would find Master Mablung and inform him, then?  I shall be in the Houses of Healing.”
     “Aye, my lord,” the two brothers replied.  Faramir then retreated into the growing throng of the guard on his way to the upper levels of the citadel.  Beregond sighed heavily as they watched him go.
     “I do not like this, brother,” he said, “there is something more than passing strange about all of this.”
     “It is nothing more than Orcs,” said Iorlas, “we already routed a group of them easily.”
     “Too easily, perhaps."
     “You worry overmuch, brother,” said Iorlas, shaking his head.
     “And why should I not?” Beregond said.  “I am to see my little brother and my lord ride to battle without me.”
     “It is only to a possible battle.  Besides, do you doubt the skill of either of us?  Of the men riding with us?”
     “Nay, but-”
     “Then, act not as though you do.”  Iorlas’ tone had suddenly turned strangely sharp and Beregond nearly took an uncertain step back from his brother upon hearing it.  So rarely did Iorlas speak thus that Beregond was wholly unprepared for it.  Iorlas, too, seemed surprised by it.  He shook his head and sighed before speaking again with a softer note.  “I may be sixteen seasons your junior, brother, but I am no longer a babe to be coddled.  Nor have I been for some time.”
     “Aye, you never let me forget it.  But that is beside the point in any case.”
     “Then, what is the point, Beregond?”
     “I know not, Iorlas.  It is simply an old warrior’s instinct.  There is something about all this that is troubling beyond a mere incursion of Orcs.  My thought is pulled north and east these days.  Minas Morgul still stands; the King’s order concerning it has not yet been carried out.”
     “Aye, for a lack of man power.  Gondor cannot both raise a city and... raze one at the same time.  The founding of Minas Estel was higher priority than the final scouring of Minas Morgul.”
     “Yes, yes, this I know.  But mark me, brother; evil abides there still.  But, whether it takes hard form or remains yet a miasma, I cannot say.”

     The room Léowine had been placed in was like any other in the Ithilien Houses of Healing; small and utilitarian.  The Rohirrim had been laid on a small cot and covered with a wool blanket.  Nearby was a small table with a wash basin and a tray of supplies the healers had used to wash and bandage his wound.  The water in the basin was clear, but red of no pale hue.  Léowine himself slumbered in fever, his face still as stone and nearly as grey.
     A small chair with the Matron of the Houses upon it was the only other thing in the room when Faramir came.  He entered as silently as he could in his armor, somewhat helped by the white leather tunic embroidered with the Tree and Seven Stars of Gondor in silver.  As he set his helm upon the table and leaned his sword against the wall, he was brought up short by the smell of blood that hung in the air.  Although he had smelled his share of it during the War of the Ring, it still made the Prince’s stomach turn slightly.  He did not flinch, however, and joined Ioreth’s side, looking upon the stricken rider with concern.
     “How fares he?” he asked the Matron.
     “Fevered, my lord,” Ioreth replied solemnly, “and he has lost no small amount of blood.  But, his men brought him to me care swiftly.  Master Léowine shall be bedridden for a few days, but he shall recover.”
     Faramir nodded his understanding.  “He shall dislike that news.  I trust you will keep him here with your usual zeal?”
     “No less, of course.  He shall remain in this room if even I must fetch Elven hithlain from Lothlorien itself.”
     Faramir nodded and came closer to Léowine’s side.  He put a hand to the rider’s fevered brow.  “Garo post, herdir roch,” he said, “ú-gosto úanath vi hin raim.”⁽²⁾  After a moment of contemplative silence, he turned back to Ioreth, prepared to give her instructions to be ready for other wounded who may return from their ride.  However, he was halted by the sound of hurried footsteps in the hall.
     “Matron Ioreth!” Bergil’s voice floated into the room.  He repeated the exclamation and a moment later came skidding around the corner and into the doorway.  He was out of breath and gasped for a moment before saying anything.  “It’s Lady Éowyn!  She says the baby is coming!”
     Ioreth shot to her feet and set aside the book she had been reading.  “By the Valar!” she cried.  “The child comes two weeks early, by my reckoning!”
     Faramir was out the door nearly before Ioreth had come to her feet, hastening in the direction that Bergil had come before he remembered that he hadn’t asked where Éowyn was.  He forced himself calm long enough to realize he could follow the growing flurry of activity and in that way he found Éowyn already in one of the rooms in the Houses of Healing, being attended by several of Ioreth’s nurses.  As Faramir entered, they paused and offered him abbreviated bows.  The Prince paid them no heed and went immediately to Éowyn’s side.
     “You come late,” she said to him as he took her hand and sat in the chair near her bed.  She breathed deeply and sweat had already started on her brow.  “I always imagined the child would decide to come when we were already together.”
     “Nay,” Faramir said around a gentle kiss to her hand, “Madame Ioreth says the child comes early.”
     “You will have to forgive the babe,” said Éowyn, “ for it knows naught of time as yet.”  She then allowed her face to fall serious.  In Faramir’s eyes, she could see the spark of fear that had suddenly come to him.  She reached out and put a comforting hand on his cheek.  “Fear not, husband-mine; children come into this world every day.”
     “And the fathers fear for the mothers every day.”  He gave a heavy sigh, sadness deepening in his eyes.  “Would that this had had better timing.  Éowyn...”
     “You dress for battle,” she said.
     “There are Orcs near Minas Morgul.  They must be routed if-”  He was silenced by Éowyn’s hand covering his mouth.
     “Speak not of it,” she said, “do what you must.”
     “I should be here with you.”
     “Ioreth would send you from the room anyway.  This is one thing that men cannot typically stand.  Go.  Attend to our people.  I shall attend to our child.”
     “Ai, Éowyn,” Faramir breathed, “my beloved White Lady.  Please remain strong.”
     “Ever, my love,” she replied, “and you.  Return in triumph and good health.  But, the latter is the more important to me.  The child will need his father.”
     “His?  You speak as if you know it will be a boy.”
     “It is finally dawning on me, beloved; a mother knows these things.”
     “Now, now, who ever let the Lord into this room?” Ioreth groused as she entered.  “I’ll not have him losing his head over all of this, like all men do.  Out with you, Faramir.”
     Both Faramir and Éowyn looked at Ioreth with a measure of incredulity, but the Matron was unswayed.
     “Yes, yes, you heard me, right enough.”  She waved a finger at Faramir, then took hold of his arm and led him toward the door.  “I remember when you had your own mother in this state and if you have any of the disposition of your father in the matter, I’ll not have you in here while it happens.  This is no place for a man.  Commoner I may be, but I have the authority in this as one who’s handled it more times than I can remember.  So, out with you.”
     At the last moment, Faramir took hold of the doorframe and stopped Ioreth’s forced escort from the room.  “Éowyn,” he said, “may our child have half of your bravery for with that alone, he will be the strongest man in Gondor.”
     “And the other half he will gain from you.”
     The two locked eyes for a moment and Ioreth paused, letting their gazes speak to each other for a time.  Finally, she decided that it was time to go back to work and she pushed Faramir through the door with one final push.  “Enough of that.  Out with you, already.”  And she closed the door an instant later.
     Faramir stood in the hallway, staring at the closed door stupidly for nearly a minute.  He did not even react when he heard Beregond’s footsteps approaching.
     “She threw me out,” Faramir stated in amazement.
     “That woman has no scruples,” said the captain, “she did the same to me when Bergil was born.  I believe she would throw Manwë himself from the room if she were the midwife to Varda.”
     “I am going to be a father.”
     “Oh, is that all?”  Beregond put a hand on Faramir’s shoulder and turned him from the door.  “Come along, my lord.  She may lack subtlety, but Ioreth is right.  You do not want to be within earshot of the birthing.”
     The Prince sighed as they walked down the hall, away from Éowyn’s room.  “And yet, I must ride with the company, even with this.”
     “My lord, you still plan to ride with Iorlas?” Beregond asked in confusion.
     “There is naught for me to do here and much to be done elsewhere.”
     “But with the Lady... My lord, I rather assumed you would send me in your stead.  I can ride with Iorlas just as well and the men here will follow your order even better than mine.”
     “I must see to this myself, Beregond.  If Ithilien is under siege, I must know.”
     “I can recognize preparations of a siege as well as any man.”
     “None the less, I wish to see for myself.  I will ride with the men.”
     “Faramir, there is no need for you to put yourself in such danger!”
     The Steward stopped dead in the halls and whirled on Beregond, his eyes hard and his voice slightly louder and fathoms sterner.  “You will mind yourself, Captain!  It is not for you to question my command or my order.  My decision stands.  I will lead the sortie and you will lead the men in Minas Estel.  Am I clear, Captain?”
     Once again, Beregond found himself flabbergasted.  He wavered for a moment between acknowledgement and an apology before dropping into a bow.  “Yes, my lord.  I understand and I obey.”
     Faramir seemed satisfied by this and turned to continue down the hall without Beregond.  However, after only a few steps, he turned back and found that the captain had not moved.  Beregond’s face was one of utter confusion and more than a little hurt.  With that, the sudden spark of anger that had lit itself in Faramir’s heart was extinguished and the normal gentleness that resided within him returned.  He sighed heavily.
     “Beregond,” he said.  Slowly, the captain looked up again.  “I do count you my friend.”  The captain gave no response other than a tight, uncomfortable nod, so Faramir pushed onward.  “I hold your loyalty more valuable than the White Rod or the Winged Crown itself.  But there are things that... I cannot forget what... neither of us can ever forget what has been placed before us.”  Beregond nodded tightly again, but still seemed not to trust himself to say anything.  In the next few silent moments, a debate both began and ended in Faramir’s mind and he came to another decision.  “When this task is done,” he said, “when... there is more time, there is something I wish to discuss with you... as a friend?”
     Finally, Beregond met Faramir’s gaze.  He gave a grim smile and nodded.  “As you wish it, my lord.”  The two of them clasped arms, then, and both knew the damage had been repaired.  “Lacho galad, drego dú.”
     “Aurë entuluva!” Said Faramir.⁽³⁾

     The host of the White Company rode forth from Minas Estel in the afternoon sun.  The Lord Faramir was at the head of the riders with Iorlas to his right and the Prince Legolas on his left.  With them also rode Mablung, Hadoriel, and Valithar.  The company shone white in the sun, at one-hundred strong, and the unadorned flag of the Steward went with them.
     From the tower on the end of the north keel of the citadel, Beregond watched them ride with his son at his side.  His face was proud, but not undisturbed and it seemed for all the world as though he was determined to keep his gaze north until the company returned to the safety of the city gates.
     Faramir was arrayed in armor of gleaming silver.  The high crown of his helm was set with vines of gold and over his lamellar was a tunic of white leather with the Tree and Seven Stars in silver.  He disliked the clunky armor as it conflicted with his instinct as a Ranger.  It was heavy and made a great deal of noise when he moved.  But he recognized the need for it in this case.
     Iorlas led them to the place where the Ithilrechyn had been attacked that morning and by the time they arrived, the Sun was beginning to sink in the west.  The horses were once again beginning to grow skittish and it was made all the worse by the lengthening of the shadows around them.  The light seemed deadened somehow as if it shown through some veil that hung heavy in the air.
     It was no help that the remains of the morning’s slain Orcs were still rotting on the plains when they arrived.  The sight was made all the worse by the fact that some creature seemed to have been at the corpses, tearing open their ragged armor and feeding on their decaying flesh.
     “What creature could have done this?” Hadoriel asked of Legolas as they and Valithar tried to guess the signs.  “To rend metal in favor of dead flesh.”
     “Some claw did this,” Valithar said simply, running a hand along one of the rent edges of the Orc’s armor.
     “Yes, but the tearing of the flesh was done with teeth,” said Legolas, “some creature opened the armor as a child might tear paper from a sweet and then feasted.”
     “Certainly, it was no Orc that did this, then,” said Hadoriel, “but what creature would have the cunning for this?  It is a puzzle indeed.”
     “The Orcs came at us from the east,” Iorlas told Faramir, gesturing to the stones that had been the Orcs’ hiding place.  “Likely, we surprised them as much as they surprised us.”
     “Yes, but what sent them out of Mordor in the first place?” Faramir mused, his eyes skimming over the morning’s battlefield.  “We must track their movement backward.  See that the area east of the stones remains undisturbed by the men for now, Iorlas.  Mablung, come with me.  This will take a Ranger’s touch.”
     “I shall come as well,” said Legolas, “and Hadoriel.  Perhaps four pairs of eyes will see the signs better than two.”
     “And you, Master Valithar?” Iorlas asked.
     “If Valithar comes but three strides beyond the stones, we shall be journeying in circles for hours,” said Hadoriel.
     “And if Hadoriel were left to the actual shooting of the prey we used to hunt, we two, she and I, would have starved some time before the fall of Númenor,” Valithar rejoined.  “Nay, I shall remain with the soldiers.  My skill is in the fighting.”
     Faramir then led the way to the space beyond the stones.  The four rangers, both Man and Elf, left their horses behind them in the care of the other soldiers.  They searched the area east of the stones for some time and it was Mablung who found the first sign; a myriad of tracks that led from a high knoll that the road went over.
     “The Orcs must have espied the Moon Riders from there,” said Mablung.
    Legolas nodded his assent.  “And came here to set the ambush before they lost the advantageous ground.”
     “But there can be no more than twenty dead upon the field,” said Hadoriel, “and I see no sign of other Orcs.  What madness would make them attack a force three times larger than their own?”
     Faramir pondered the tracks for a moment, running a hand along the heel of one of the muddy footprints.  It was cut deep into the moist spring grasses and Faramir surmised that it mast have been from a stride taken in haste.  “Desperation,” he said at last, rising and pausing to gaze down the nearby path that led eastward.  After some time, he turned back toward the rest of the company and began rapidly striding back.  “How right Iorlas was.”
     “My lord?” Mablung asked as he and the two Elves followed.
     “The Orcs patrolled,” Faramir stated, “and even they would only make such an attack as this out of desperation.  And yet, what would they be so desperate to keep watch over as all this?”
     “A camp?” Hadoriel offered.
     “Nay, a camp could be moved if its location were found,” said Legolas, “a fortification.”
     “But there is only one place east of here and yet still within Ithilien where Orcs could effectively entrench themselves,” said Mablung.
     “They wished to keep their presence secret for now and so the Orcs tried to chase the Ithilrechyn away and distract us,” said Faramir, “the Orcs rode from Minas Morgul.”

     The White Company took to the east road and journeyed toward Minas Morgul for some hours.  Their horses grew ever more wary as they went and a few riders were forced to dismount and travel by foot, leading their despondent destriers along the road.
     Twilight began to set in as they crested the last hill before the City of Sorcery.  Minas Morgul stood nestled amongst the roots of the Ephel Dúath, the muted last rays of the sun silently kissing the very tip of its tallest tower.  The rest of the city was doused in dismal greys, seeming to retreat into itself to avoid even the faintest of light.  The very walls of the city themselves seemed to crowd one another, competing for the numerous corners of darkness.  Still present was the city’s ancient heritage as the dwelling place of Isildur.  But that had long-since been snuffed out by evil carapaces and fortifications rising from the towers in dark, ragged, terrible spikes.  A chill wound its way up Faramir’s spine as he looked upon it.
     Standing between the White Company and Minas Morgul, in the plains just outside the city’s walls and before the dark bridge that led over the river from the Morgul Vale, a tattered camp had formed.  It was chaotic and disorganized and yet it stopped a decided distance from the city, as though a second wall had been placed there.  And yet for all the movement in that camp, there seemed to be none within the city itself.
     “Well, it would seem you were correct, Hadoriel,” Faramir heard Legolas say from somewhere behind him, “the Orcs have a camp after all.”
     “But why are they not within the city?” she asked in reply.
     The activity in the camp suddenly increased.  From their vantage point, Faramir could see several Orcs and Uruk-hai that had been on guard about the perimeter now rushing about.  A moment later, a foul note issued from a horn and the whole camp was roused in alarm.
     “We have not the time to guess this puzzle, now,” said Faramir, turning back to the rest of the company, “we must attack before they can organize.  Mablung, take your men down the left.  Iorlas, take the Ithilrechyn on an attack from the right.  The rest shall follow the Steward’s Banner down the center.  Draw swords, men!  And ride now for Ithilien and Gondor!”  The Steward drew his sword and took up position at the front of the company.  He thrust it into the air, shouting “flame light!”
     “Flee night!” came the response from the White Company.  Twice more Faramir shouted the call and twice more he was answered.
     Horns blew behind him as Faramir called the charge and the White Company rode down the hill, bursting upon the still-forming Orckish line.  Uruk-hai were at the fore and slashed at the riders as they came, but were hewed down by the thundering hooves of the White Company’s horses.
    Well behind the first line, Faramir spied a rough catapult being hastily readied by panicked Orcs.  He made for it, sword raised high and his brothers in arms with him.  The fight for the weapon was brief and soon fire had been produced by one of Faramir’s riders.  The old, dry timbers of the siege machine took to flame readily, all its stones still in a pile next to it.
But the Orcs and Uruk-hai were not to be so easily dismayed by the battle.  One of the Uruk-hai called a rally to him with a foul cry.  Near fifty Orcs gathered to him, some of them chased toward the center of the battle by Mablung’s Rangers and Iorlas’s Moon Riders.  Legolas and Valithar, too, rained arrows down upon them as they retreated into a small knot.  A hundred or so of the White Company surrounded the Orcs, the rest still engaged in small peripheral battles.  It looked as though the job was nearly finished when Faramir heard the Uruk-hai leader raise his voice above the din of hooves and clashing swords.
    “Parley!” the beast called.  “Parley!”
    With uncertainty, both sides ceased their battle.  The Orcs retreated impossibly further into their knot and the White Company backed off a few paces until there was a decided moat of brown grass between the two sides.  For several moments, Man and Orc stared each other down as if daring the other to make the first move.
    “Speak quickly, Orc, if you must,” Faramir insisted at last, “we would know why you have entered Ithilien and attacked us.”
    “Ithilien no longer exists!” said the Uruk-hai.  “These lands were conquered for Mordor in the war!  They are ours!”  He came now to the fore of the group, standing toe to toe with Faramir.  He was small for an Uruk-hai and had three angry slashes across his face.
    “Your master was defeated,” said Faramir, “and these lands returned to Gondor.  Surely you called parley for some other reason than this.”
    The Uruk-hai flicked his eyes to the flag-bearer on Faramir’s right, then leveled his gaze back at the Prince with a disturbingly keen eye.  “You are the Steward of Gondor.”
    “I am Faramir Denethorion,” he answered, “and I would know your name, Uruk.”
    “Luglash,” the Uruk-hai bit out, flicking his eyes strangely over Faramir’s shoulder, to the western horizon.  He said no more and stood in silence.
    “Tell me, then,” said Faramir, “why have you called parley?”
    Luglash gave no answer, giving a low growl instead.  His gaze flicked again to the western horizon.
    Faramir’s unease began to grow.  Luglash was obviously not the parleying type.  This was a move that he had not planned to make.  Again, Faramir got an impression of desperation.  The signs were in front of him.  He simply could not read them.  He and Luglash stared each other down across the gulf of grass that separated the two armies in silence.  They studied everything about each other for several long moments.
    And suddenly, Faramir realized with strange clarity that the slashes across the Uruk-hai’s face could not have been more than a week old.  He had seen its like only hours before.
    A moment later, there came a great howl from within the walls of Minas Morgul, reaching deep into the hearts of the White Company.  The men around Faramir faltered and the horses stamped their feet and whinnied in barely suppressed panic.  All else was silent until the howl came again.
    “What trickery is this?” Faramir mused aloud, reigning his horse to calm.
    Luglash began a low, guttural laugh and directed a twisted smile at Faramir.  “Fool of a man!” he shouted.  “Parley!  Ha!  You should not have given us this time!”  He raised his jagged sword above his head and cried aloud in a voice somewhere between a howl and a scream.  With that signal, the rest of the Orcs abandoned their watch on the perimeter of their knot and made a charge for the White Company surrounding them.
    As the battle began anew, the Men saw rising from Minas Morgul two great shapes, black against the grey of the twilight sky; winged creatures with eyes of cold steel and teeth long as knives.  Upon their backs an Orc sat, pulling on ragged reigns as the creatures thrashed back and forth in disobedience.
    The call of an Orc horn rose from the battle and one of the two mounted Orcs answered.  With cracks of whips, the creatures rose from their terrible perches on the walls of the city and flew toward the battle, a foul stench riding the wind from their wings.  The creatures howled once again and wheeled overhead, dipping with their great claws extended.
    With the new threat, it did not take long for the battle to lose its organization.  Men and Orc alike scattered to avoid the flying menaces.  Faramir found himself battling against a small group of Orcs along side Mablung and Iorlas.  He parried a charge from one Orc, sidestepping and lifting his own weapon so that it found the Orc’s chest.  He wrenched it free and spun, striking at another, nearly losing his fingers as the Orc parried.
    Legolas, meanwhile, led an assault upon the flying creatures.  Hadoriel and two of Mablung’s rangers covered Legolas and Valithar against the onslaught of the Orcs as they released arrow after arrow at one of the beasts.  Finally, the creature had had enough.  Unheeding of the commands of its rider, it descended and grasped the two Men in its outstretched claws.  The three Elves narrowly escaped its grasp and were knocked to the ground.  Behind, they could hear the agony of the creature’s two captives, silenced only the sounds of crunching bone but a few moments later.  As they came to their feet and turned, they found the creature crouching upon the grass, the twisted remains of its victims still beneath its feet.  It had tossed its rider and now howled at the Elves in anger.
    “Fell worm!”  Legolas shouted, drawing back an arrow.  “Go back to the dark pit from whence you slithered!”  He let his arrow fly and it found flesh along the beast’s wing.  It wailed again, this time in pain as well as in anger.  It struck out in response, thrashing its head forward toward the Elves and snapping its jaws.
    Hadoriel’s spear flashed and she rent a wound in the flesh of its neck.  With a flick of its tail, the beast sent her reeling aside.  Valithar let loose an arrow, then, and it found the beast’s hind leg.  The beast stumbled, sprawling on the ground and both archers put another arrow into it.  Hadoriel had gotten to her feet then and avoiding the thrashes of the beast, came to its neck.  She halted it by stabbing her spear into its jaw.  As the beast began to shake loose, Hadoriel pulled her spear back and ran its side blade across the worm’s throat.
    The monster wailed and fell to the ground, still thrashing, but weakly.  Legolas and Valithar both took aim and their arrows each found the tender spots of the beast’s eyes.  Soon, the worm was still and silent.
    Seeing the demise of his mount, the Orc that had been riding the beast put a horn to his mouth and sounded a call.
    Although he was still locked in a bitter contest with Faramir, Luglash heard the horn call.  The swords of the Steward and the Uruk-hai locked in a test of strength and Luglash took the moment it afforded him to scream a terrible call to the sky where the other fell worm flew.  Abandoning the chivalry of the sword, for it had no place in a battle with Orcs, Faramir launched a kick at Luglash’s feet.  The Uruk-hai stumbled backward, leering at Faramir and still brandishing his sword.  A moment later, Faramir found that Mablung and Iorlas had rejoined his side, guarding his back from two Orcs.
    Suddenly the worm descended from the sky and Faramir found Mablung atop him, pushing him to the ground.  In horror, Faramir watched the beast pluck Iorlas from the ground, piercing the Moon Rider’s body with its claws.  Iorlas barely had time to cry out before the sickening snap of bone heralded the crushing of his ribs.  The worm dropped Iorlas a moment later and the Ithilrochon rolled to a stop along the ground and came to a halt in a bloody and unceremonious heap.  The beast lighted on the ground a moment later, unheeding of the commands of its rider, and moved to rend Iorlas’ still form with its salivating jaws.
    “Mardil!” Faramir cried and, brandishing his sword, he charged the beast.
    “Gondor!” Mablung bellowed, hot on his heels.
    The Steward all but skidded to a halt on the grass, his sword finding the flesh of the worm’s flank.  It reared and with a mighty beat of its wings took to the sky, crying out.  It circled around, first west, then east, then it made for lands to the north and east.  As it flew over him, Luglash brandished a whip and lashed it around the worm’s leg.  As he was pulled into the sky, he yelled in his own foul tongue, then changed to Westron.
    “This is but the beginning, Steward!” he shouted.  “Let it be known in the kingdoms of Men; these lands belong to King Urlak and the Uruk-hai of Mordor!”
    As Luglash retreated, so did the rest of his army.  The Orcs who were not routed utterly by sword and arrow ran across the darkening grasslands, following the flying form of their captain and his beast.
    For his part, Faramir went immediately to the fallen Iorlas.  But he was grieved when he found no sign of life left in the Rider’s eyes.  “Be at peace, son of Gondor,” he said, “fly beyond the circles of the world and battle no more.”  With a heavy sigh and a heavy heart, he stood again and once more found Mablung at his side.  “By the Valar, Mablung,” he said sadly, “whatever shall I say to Beregond?”
    Mablung shook his head in silence.  “I never did envy you such duty, my lord,” he said with quavering voice.  After a moment, the Ranger tore his eyes away from his fallen friend and straightened to attention.  “Your orders, Captain?”
    Faramir, too, collected himself.  Sheathing his sword, he turned to Mablung.  “Give aid to the wounded,” he ordered, “and gather the dead.  Our own we shall bring home to Minas Estel.  The Orcs will receive no honor for this atrocious attack.  Pile them and burn them.  As soon as all are ready, we will ride for home.”
    As all this was done, Faramir wandered about his company, pausing only when he heard a brief lament near a small fire.
         We came as the Sun was setting
         From Minas Estel we rode
         Six and one-hundred we numbered
         And less than eighty ride home.
         The Sun shall rise red in the morning
         And this night the stars shall weep
         For mournful is sword in the breaking
         But its shards we always shall keep.
         Our brothers lie dead on the grassland
         Lives given for Ithilien fair
         And grieving we sit by this fire
         Alone singing songs to the air.
         The shadow seems not yet ended
         Yet our lands shall be defended.

     Their ride home was slow, but unhindered by any enemy.  Some were the walking wounded, others rode their horses as they were led, still more were carried in the saddle by others.  The heaviest burdens were the fallen, each placed upon a horse and wrapped in swaddles of coarse burlap, their broken swords and splintered shields tied with them.  They were the first to die in the service of the White Company.
     Faramir himself led the horse that carried the corpse of Iorlas.  In the first hours of the journey, his heart nearly failed him and he all but wept as he went.  He contented himself with a mournful silence instead, using voice only when his role as captain called for it.  The company came to Minas Estel as the first rays of the next morning’s sun were graying the skies above.  The Steward’s heart nearly failed him again when he saw Beregond from afar, watching at the gate of the outermost wall.
     By the time the White Company passed through the gates, Beregond was already waiting.  He approached Faramir quickly, urgency in his gait.
     “The company was slow to return, my lord,” he said, “what news?”  It was then the captain saw the hilt-shard of his brother’s sword tied to the wrapped body upon Faramir’s horse.  Somehow, the captain seemed to grow small and the silence from his lord swelled to a crushing monolith.
     “There was battle,” Faramir said simply and at last.  And he placed the reins in Beregond’s hand.
     “Please say not that my brother has fallen,” said Beregond.
     To this Faramir had no answer and so he moved on, leaving Beregond to his grief and recommencing the administration of the battered White Company.

     The honored dead of Ithilien, from that day on, were buried in the ruins of the old city to the south of Minas Estel upon Emyn Arnen.  Caras Faerath it was called, the City of Spirits, and no living man dwelt within its bounds and it was made a monument.  Iorlas was the first to be laid there and Beregond chose as his grave a space beneath a tree flowering with buds of white.
     As soon as the urgent matters of his company had been resolved and Faramir was certain all else could wait some hours, he made his way to the Houses of Healing and there found Éowyn.  She was still abed at the bidding of Ioreth and the healers, but she was hale and well.  In her arms was a small bundle of white linen.  When the Steward entered, Éowyn looked up at him and smiled.  Faramir crossed the room almost shyly and his lady suppressed a giggle.
     “Come, Faramir,” she said to him gently, “come and meet your son.”
     As he sat upon the edge of the bed, Éowyn handed the babe to him.  The child took after his father in almost all aspects of face, but he had his mother’s eyes.  Soft curls of dark hair ringed his head.  He shifted slightly and a small hand worked its way out of the linen and grasped at the air.  Faramir stared at the child so long and with such silence that he almost didn’t notice that Éowyn had placed her hand upon his shoulder.
     “Will you say nothing and stare at him until he grows to manhood?” she asked.
     “Would that I could!” Faramir replied.  “For he is as much a wonder as to me as the enduring stars!  In him, I see how I will continue, and the house of Húrin.”  He handed the babe back to Éowyn, then leaned over and kissed her upon the brow.  “You have given me a great gift, my lady.  I have had reason to despair of the darkness this day and now I have reason to be joyful as well.”
     “He is a gift to us both,” said Éowyn, “but beyond all that he is your heir, the heir to the Stewardship of Gondor.  He is for you to name.”
     Faramir thought for a long moment, then with a smile reached over to lay his hand upon his son’s hair, gently feeling it with his fingertips for a moment.
     “I greet you my son, my enduring star,” he said, “my Elboron.”

*********
    As always, none of this is mine, just borrowing it.  It all belongs to the estate of JRR Tolkien, the master and professor.

    Reviews appreciated.  Always nice to hear peoples' viewpoints.  Makes my writing better.  While we're on that note, thanks to Stargazer_Nataku for letting me bounce ideas off her from time to time.  ^_^

    A moment to rant...  I really dislike a new FFN policy of not recognizing indentations on paragraphs.  Forcing people to have extra lines of space between paragraphs forces writers to make their stories look horrendously unprofessional and limits the author's ability to express themselves through format.  To the FFN managers; shame on you for the lazy policy.

    Since last chapter, I've discovered a new obsession with Tolkien's Elvish languages, most especially Sindarin.  The phrases I included in this chapter are my newbie attempts at the real thing (none of this Grelvish stuff).  If anyone knows the mechanics and grammar of Sindarin better than I do, I invite correction.  In the meantime, here's some translations, some of which I've lifted from the books and others I've rendered myself:

(1) Sindarin: "It is at last."  Legolas makes a greeting.  Followed by Faramir's line also in Sindarin: "Well met."  Also a greeting.
(2) Sindarin: "Have rest, horse master.  Fear not monsters within these walls."
(3) Beregond's line in Sindarin: "Flame light, flee night."  Followed by Faramir's line in Quenya: "Day shall come again."

    And here's a few notes on names:

Menelovrel: Iorlas' horse, Sindarin meaning "abundant sky."
Hadoriel: one of Legolas' captains, Sindarin meaning "garlanded maiden who throws spears and knives."
Aradól: the Sindarin name of one of Legolas' captains, meaning "high hill."  Since Valithar is not a name that would be possible in Sindarin, I decided to call this his ancient Nandorin name and give him a separate name in Sindarin.
Aldegil: a soldier of the gate guard, Sindarin meaning "slays not the star."
Ithilrochon: Sindarin meaning "moon rider."  Plural is Ithilirechyn or Ithilrochonath depending on case and context.
Denethorion: Sindarin naming convention meaning "son of Denethor."  A title for Faramir, not a last name.
Caras Faerath: Sindarin meaning "city of the spirits."
Elboron: research on this name has turned up the Sindarin verb "brona" meaning "to last, to survive."  Closest meaning seems to be "enduring star."

    As a last note to those violently opposed to Mary-Sues, I'd like to make a preemptive apology if either of the two new Elf characters came off as self-insert-ish.  Valithar and Hadoriel were characters adapted from characters in a D&D gaming group I participate in; in fact, Hadoriel is my character in that group so I'm particularly concerned about her seeming like a Mary-Sue.  I gave them a moment of niftiness with Legolas in this chapter, but rest assured it is not my intent to have them start saving the day all the time.  They are background characters only and as of now it's not my intent to have them show up in more than a few instances.

    And, let's see, teaser for next chapter... well, we'll get to see a little more of what's happening in Mordor.  ^_~

    Hope you enjoyed!

    Bado na sídh!  ^_^

    Berz.

The Chronicles of Ithilien
By Berzerker_prime

Chapter Three: The Battle of Minas Morgul

    There was a tradition in Gondor that dated back to the times of the Third Age before the War of the Ring; before the wilder places of the land had grown too dangerous and overrun with the minions of the Enemy.  At its heart were all the young men who were aspiring to be Rangers and who would be turning eighteen within the next year.  Each of them was awoken early one morning, before the sun, and told by their teachers that they had an hour to prepare.  After that, they were gathered in an open area where they could see the sun rise.
    The very oldest of old soldiers, those who had been but fledgling lads at the same time as Denethor, remembered it.  The original gathering place was in the old city upon Emyn Arnen.  Now, the gathering took place in the Citadel of Minas Estel for the first time in nearly two generations; a full seven years following the crowning of King Elessar.  Some dozen or so youths had gathered on the morning of the mid year, all dressed in the greens and browns of the Ithilien Rangers under Mablung’s command and all blearily rubbing their eyes in confusion.
    Strangely enough, it had not been Mablung who had greeted them.  Rather, it was Captain Beregond who addressed the assembly, a silent Prince Faramir looking on in the space behind him.  It was then that they were told that their task was but a simple one; prove they had learned their skill.
    The Ranger-cadets had one day, from one sunrise to the next, to find Mablung somewhere in the woods of Ithilien, take from him a message, and deliver it to the hands of either Beregond or Faramir in Minas Estel.
    And with that explanation and the rising of the sun, Beregond had bid them begin.  The boys were momentarily confused and cast about, speaking quickly to each other in an effort to organize.  But it soon became clear to all of them that it was a race.
    And thus it was that Bergil, son of Beregond, now found himself alone in the woods of Ithilien sometime after moonrise on mid-year’s night, a small, battered scroll tucked inside his gambeson and a green strip of cloth tied around his upper arm.  When he had found Mablung, the commander had informed him that he would be penalized time for each instance he was spotted by other Rangers in the area on his way back.  Evidently, his mission was to return to the Citadel by way of both stealth and speed.
    Bergil had sprouted in recent years and now stood only a head shorter than his father.  His hair had darkened somewhat and he chose to wear it long, pulled back into a tail with a leather thong.  His training as a Ranger had begun to take root and he had the thin, fit build of a woodland athlete, archer’s muscles beginning to form in his shoulders.  At the age of fourteen, he had traded in his white tabard for a gambeson of brown leather and his ankle slippers for a pair of high boots.  He carried a small bow and a modest quiver of arrows on his back, poking through a half cloak of a dull green hue.  Still at his side was the short sword he had had as a White Company squire, a token of his intent to one day earn a rank in the Guard of the Lord Faramir.
    At the moment, he was perched upon a tree branch in an effort to see farther into the woods and check that his way was clear.  He was just about to climb down and push onward when he heard a peculiar snap of a twig not far off.  Adjusting his stance so that he was more covered by the leaves of the tree, he looked to it.  Not far away, climbing another tree, was one of his fellow-cadets.  They were in a dead heat for the return to Minas Estel.  Bergil stood as still as he could and waited until the other cadet climbed down and started off again.  He passed almost directly under Bergil as he went and Bergil jumped down from his branch directly into his path.
    “Well met, Galborn,” he greeted in a hushed tone.
    “Bergil!” the other exclaimed.  “By the Valar, don’t do that!  You startled me half out of Eä!”
    Bergil gave Galborn a poke in the chest.  “You should have seen me.  Master Mablung would be quite disappointed, I’d say.”
    “What about you?” Galborn shot back.  “You help an adversary.”
    “Who said anything about helping you?”
    “Ah, so now t’is out!  You succumb to bravado, then?”
    “What say we make a proper race of it, eh?  Loser buys the winner a pint?”
    Galborn pondered for a moment.  “It is agreed,” he said, toeing a line in the dirt next to them.  Wordlessly, the two youths put their right foots upon the line and stood at the ready.
    “By the way,” said Bergil absently, “we wait to determine a winner until the time penalties have been added in.”
    “What?” Galborn asked in alarm.
    “Go!” Bergil said at the same moment.  An instant later and Galborn was left to stare at Bergil’s back.  He followed quickly, though, and gave Bergil no quarter.
    The tree line just north of Emyn Arnen was not far off and for a time, the two boys both ran straight toward it.  However, just short of it, Bergil dropped back and allowed Galborn to pass.  Thus it was Galborn who came out of the woods first and began his sprint across the grasslands north of Minas Estel.
    Bergil, meanwhile, remained in the trees.  Rather than approaching the city head-on, he came at it from the east and was unhindered by nearly so many prying eyes as his compatriot.  Slowly, he crept along the wall, remaining in the dark shadows of the grey morning twilight.
    Galborn had been halted at the gate and was being questioned, nearly interrogated, by several of Damrod’s gate guards.  Silently, Bergil slipped past them as a shadow over water.  But then, as he emerged from the portcullis, he ran out of darkness in which to hide.
    “Hey!  You there lad!” called the watch commander.  “Halt and declare yourself!”
    Bergil took off at a run and began the sprint up the main road of Minas Estel to the citadel.  He allowed himself but a moment to glance back over his shoulder and saw there two of the gate guard in pursuit and Galborn a step behind them.  He came to the first tunnel at the west of the first circle.  The road continued through it, but he took the tunnel that came off it and went left, taking the stairs within two at a time, never breaking stride.  When he emerged into the waxing daylight, he went eastward along the road of the second circle.  Similar tunnels and similar stairs he took, east, west, east, west, and east again until he emerged from the Tunnel of the Stewards in the citadel.  He sensed his pursuers still behind him, feet hitting the ground in a pattering flurry.
    Beregond was there, waiting near the grand entryway to the Prince’s House.  As Bergil came to him, he wore an expression on his face that held no small amount of perturbation but also no trace of surprise.
    Bergil fumbled with the pocket in his gambeson and pulled from it his rolled and crumpled parchment.  He laid it in Beregond’s hand just as the gate guards caught up to him.  Galborn was only seconds behind.
    “Peace, peace,” Beregond said, waving off the two gate guards, “they are two of Mablung’s students.  Return to your posts.”  As Damrod’s men left, the captain returned his gaze to the two Ranger-cadets.  “Bergil, you return seventh.  Galborn, you are eighth.  And so far none have entered the citadel with so much activity following behind.  You shirked the gate guard, I take it?”
    Bergil and Galborn did not immediately respond, both near doubled over and gasping for breath.  Beregond waited patiently, but with a look of disapproval directed at the youths.  Finally, it was Bergil who spoke up.
    “Apologies, father,” he said, “I’m afraid my plan to return to the citadel in secrecy went awry.”
    “Your plan?” Galborn asked, venom in his voice.  “You used me as your tool to get past the gate guard?”
    “It almost worked,” said Bergil, “Galborn, you make an excellent decoy!”
    “Decoy!” Galborn roared.  “What base trickery!”  And despite his weariness, Galborn moved to strike at Bergil with a fist.  He was halted by Beregond’s stronger arms.  The captain placed himself between both youths.
    “Enough!” he rumbled.  “Galborn, you will strike not at your ally.  And you, Bergil, shall treat an ally as such in the future.  And you shall remember that you need not enter a friendly citadel in secrecy.”
    “Aye sir,” Galborn said in dejection.
    “Yes father,” Bergil agreed in kind.
    “Cadet, you are on duty and you shall address me as captain!”
    “Aye captain!” Bergil replied, straightening to attention.
    “Your mission is complete,” Beregond stated, “go and take some rest.  You will be assembled with the others, later.”

    Elboron could not fathom why his father was pacing.  To and fro the Steward walked, always with looks of varying degrees of worry on his face.  At times it seemed to the five-year-old as though Faramir longed for a larger room in which to move about as he seemed hindered by the walls.
    “Ada,” Elboron finally said, “how come you’re worried?  I thought you said the Eagles brought new babies to people.”
    Faramir stopped pacing and looked at his eldest son sitting on a long couch, his younger brother of two years curled up into a small ball next to him.  In truth, Elboron and Eldamir had been so silent that Faramir had nearly forgotten they were there.
    “Didn’t the Eagles bring Eldamir to live with us?” Elboron pressed.  “From the Valar?”
    “Yes, yes of course they did,” said Faramir, suddenly remembering the conversation he had had with the boy two years prior when Eldamir had been born.  “And they brought you, too.”
    “But how come you can’t be there?” Elboron asked.  “Ioreth said you can’t be there.”
    “Ioreth?” Faramir asked of him, raising a prompting eyebrow.
    “I mean, Madame Ioreth,” Elboron corrected.
    “Very good.”
    “But why did she send you away?”
    “Because… it… is the custom,” said Faramir, “only women may greet the Eagles when they bring a child.”
    “How come you aren’t going to hug nana any more?” Elboron asked next.  “Don’t you like each other any more?”
    “’Not going to…’ Elboron, what in Eä gave you that idea?”
    “When nana started yelling before.  I heard her say that you weren’t going to touch her again.  Is she mad at you?  You should say your sorry if she’s mad.”
    And with that, Faramir was completely and utterly flabbergasted.  He could face whole councils of lords and speak to the King without a thought, but more and more often, he was done in by the keen observations of his own son.  He had but one way out of this crucible.
    “You are correct, of course,” said the Steward to his son, “I’m certain your naneth was simply anxious over the Eagles’ visit, but I shall apologize when I am allowed to see her.  Worry not.”  He sat down on the couch and the boy crept in closer to lean on his shoulder.
    “That’s good, ada,” Elboron said, “I don’t want nana to be mad.”
    “Nor do I.  Your naneth was quite the warrior years ago when the Shadow came out of Mordor.”
    “She killed a Nazgúl, didn’t she!”
    “Most certainly.  But harder still, she stole the heart of a young lord who had suffered a great loss and did it before anyone could notice.  It was so fast that the young lord had no hope of preventing it from happening.”
    “Is that you, ada?”
    “Yes.  And I do not think she would so lightly throw away such a prize, do you?”
    Elboron shook his head, unsuccessfully stifling a yawn.  He leaned his head into the crook of Faramir’s arm, rubbing his eyes.  Within a few silent moments, Elboron drifted off to sleep.  Carefully, Faramir extricated himself from the boy’s grasp and covered him with a nearby blanket of blue.  For a long moment, Faramir looked at his two boys as they slept side by side, remembering the days when each of them had been born.
    In Elboron, Faramir could see a growing glimmer of understanding.  He was beginning to come to know his future role in life as the heir of the Stewardship.  Although he was yet a child, Faramir sensed that Elboron would grow in his consciousness before other boys his age.  Already, Faramir heard whispered that the boy was clearly his father’s son.
    Eldamir, meanwhile, took after Éowyn’s people in face and temperament alike.  He had his mother’s golden hair and delighted in the sun and the wind when he was taken outside.  The stamping hooves of horses made him squeal with joy.  There was no mistaking who his mother was.
    All of this Faramir took in for but a few moments before there was a gentle rapping at the room’s door.  Silently, Faramir crossed the room and answered it.  Beregond was on the other side and Faramir slipped out into the hall where they could speak without waking the two boys.  Gently, he closed the door behind him.
    “My lord,” Beregond greeted, “is there any word on the lady?”
    “Not as yet,” Faramir answered, “not since sundown.  I do not understand; Eldamir did not take so long as this.”
    Beregond laughed.  “Even in this, all children are different,” he said, “or so I have been told by others.  I have only the one instance to draw upon.”
    “The sun is up,” Faramir observed, “did Bergil return in the allotted time?”
    “With fanfare,” Beregond answered, sourly, “he was chased through all seven circles of the city by two of Damrod’s men and a classmate.  Truly, I know not what is to be done about him!  All things are contests to him; games!  He takes nothing seriously and Mablung tells me that Bergil delights in frivolous pranks played upon his fellow cadets.  I am at wit’s end!”
    Faramir thought again of his two young sons, sleeping in the room behind him.  He was suddenly afflicted by visions of Elboron and Eldamir running rampant through the citadel with no adequate check.  And then, he found himself hoping that his third child would turn out to be a girl; one, in fact, who took after her Gondorian blood rather than that of the Rohirrim.
    “Well, at any rate,” Beregond continued, “I’m sure he will come around in time.  Or perhaps face a sound beating in a match with Mablung.”  The captain now produced several small scrolls that Faramir had not even noticed he had been carrying.  He handed them to the Steward.  “A messenger arrived from Minas Tirith.  The usual reports of the King’s council and whatnot, but I believe that one,” he indicated the smallest, “is personal correspondence from Master Peregrin in the Shire.”
    As they were mainly informative, Faramir set the other scrolls aside and took up the letter from Pippin.  It was closed with a blue string and sealed with green wax.  Pressed into the seal was a leaf of five points.  Faramir broke the seal and unrolled the parchment with a smile, glad to have received the letter.  He took a few silent moments to read over the scrawling Westron.  But as he did, his face fell and Beregond could see that he finished it somewhat haltingly.  When he was done, he set it aside and went to the window at the end of the hall, facing west.
    “My lord?” Beregond asked.  “Ill news?”
    “Perhaps,” Faramir answered, “but, perhaps not.  At any rate, it marks an end.”  He turned back to Beregond with a sigh.  “Frodo sailed for the Undying Lands.  He could not find healing in the Shire.  Only now has Master Peregrin been able to bring himself to write of it.”
    Beregond’s face twisted into a mixture of confusion and concern and he joined Faramir at the window.  “The Periannath are mortal, are they not?”
    “So I have been told,” Faramir replied.
    “Will he be allowed to pass into the West?”
    “He sailed with Mithrandir, Master Elrond, and the Lady Galadriel.  If any can obtain this grace for him, it is the bearers of the Three.  His time will be short there, as a flickering candle burning at both ends.  But what time remains to Frodo will be spent in the bliss of Valinor, I am certain.  Alas!  Alas for Frodo of the Nine Fingers!  So grievous were his hurts.”
    They stood in silence for some time after that, watching the light spreading in the west and shining in the tones of dawn.
    “Then, the power of the Rings is undone at last,” Beregond said at length, “and the Istari have left us to our own devices.  It seems to me as if some magic has left Middle-earth.”

    Faramir’s vision shifted.  The blue sky above the distant White Mountains darkened.  Lightning flashed from above, striking the green fields between Minas Estel and the Andúin.  Figures moved below, dark and sharp against what little light there was.
    Beregond was there, as well.  He stood alone to hinder the dark shapes, sword shining.  Two spears of lightning struck at him, blue against the sky.  Beregond was gone and the darkness advanced unhindered.
    A voice seemed to speak in Faramir’s ear and if he could have moved he would have turned to see the speaker.
    Beware the two who are sundered…

    And then, someone was shaking his shoulders.
    “My lord!” Beregond cried.  “My lord!”
    Startled, Faramir grabbed Beregond’s hands with a gasp.  His vision cleared and he could see the captain’s concerned face staring back at him.  Faramir blinked several times and glanced about.
    “My lord, are you well?” Beregond asked.
    “Yes, yes,” Faramir said, leaning against the window sill, half in a swoon.  “I am fine, worry not.”
    “You did not say anything for some time.  When I asked your thoughts, you did not respond.”
    Faramir drew himself up once again, yet still he felt somehow small.  Evenly, he met Beregond’s gaze.  “It came again,” he said, “this time in the waking.”
    “It has never done so?” Beregond asked.
    “Nay.  It has strengthened now.  Beregond, my friend, you must have caution.”
    “Always, my friend.  Yet, as we have agreed, I will look not for such disaster to befall.  I will live as I always have; as a man doing his duty and fulfilling his honor.”
    “I would have it no other way,” said Faramir, “but, perhaps, we should not discount magic in Middle-earth as yet.”

    Some hours after dawn, Faramir was called by the healer Ioreth to Éowyn’s side.  The Princess of Ithilien was exhausted, but the labor had gone exactly as had been expected.  When Faramir arrived, it was to greet her and their youngest child.  The babe, a girl of dark hair and the eyes of her kind great-uncle of Dol Amroth, was larger than her brothers had been, being a full week past the time the healers had expected her.  The Steward spent as much time as he could spare in the company of both ladies that day, holding his beloved third child.  Much of the basic administration of the city he left to Beregond in the meantime.
    The building of Minas Estel was nearing its completion.  The city was quickly becoming Ithilien’s biggest center for trade, with nearly all of the outermost two circles given over to commerce and craftsmanship.  The great master tower was all but complete, still awaiting the metal-shod capstone that was to be the gift of the Dwarves of the Glittering Caves.  The Lord Gimli, himself, was to accompany its coming.  Its setting upon the spire was to be the crowning ceremony of the city’s establishment, the symbolic completion of building.  As such, a week of celebration was being planned.
    It was noon time but three days after the birth of the youngest member of the Prince’s family – Fréodgyth she was called, named after the manner of her mother’s people – when the watch of Minas Estel saw approaching from the north a small band of Dwarves marching under the banner of the House of Glóin; a field of black with anvil and hammer and a seven-pointed star of gold.  Two traveled upon ponies at the lead and amid the rest was carried a heavy-leaden cart packed carefully with cloth and rope.
    It did not go unnoticed that they traveled quickly but tiredly and that their numbers were too few for the expected party.  And so, Damrod sent men out to meet them.  Beregond met them when they entered the gates.  Eight were their numbers and they were led by Gimli Mellonedhel.  At his elbow was a Dwarf of black hair and beard carrying a great battle ax and a shield nearly equal his height.
    It was then that Beregond learned that trouble had befallen the Dwarves on their journey.  Eight were all that remained of the initial fifteen travelers and the Dwarves told of a menace from the skies falling upon them between Cair Andros and the Crossroads.  Leaving business at the gate to Damrod, Beregond took Gimli and his black-haired companion to the citadel, sending a runner ahead.  The Steward met them as they emerged from the tunnel
    “Master Gimli,” he greeted, “glad I am to see you well.  I am told danger welcomed you to Ithilien.”
    “Aye, that it did,” said Gimli, “as we traveled from our crossing at Cair Andros.  Alas for the seven we have lost!  Bravely they fought!”
    “I have met no Dwarf that fights otherwise,” said Faramir, “it must have been a horrific enemy to have felled so many of your company!  Please, you must tell me everything.”
    They went together within the House of the Prince and sat around a great circular table in a room of many windows and white stone.  Inlays of black lined the arches of the small basilica and the pillars that lined the side walls were topped with carvings in the shapes of leaves.  All the seats at the table were set so that no one sat higher than the others, but the one nearest the wall had a high back and was inlaid with the star-leaf of Ithilien in Mithril.  Just behind it and to the right was a stand of wrought iron holding the White Rod of the Steward.  This seat Faramir took and Beregond sat to his right.  Gimli and his companion took the two seats to the left, putting their arms aside near the door as they entered.
    “My lord Gimli,” said Beregond, “you’ll have to forgive me, but I do not believe I have made the acquaintance of your companion.”
    Gimli gave a laugh, rumbling it out of his toes, it seemed.  “Your captain worries about offending us!” he said to Faramir.  “Do not be so cautious, Master Beregond.  We Dwarves are not so easily put out as all that!  Indeed, I would think that you have not met Ghan unless you have made a visit to Erebor or the Glittering Caves.  Captain of the Hammer Dwarves is he and never have you met another so adept at defeating Orcs and others of the evil nature.”
    “You can call it a personal quest,” said Ghan, “but, Gimli, forget not that I am also your third cousin.  Never sundered in spirit are those of the line of Dúrin!”
    “Alas, but it is of those of the evil nature that we must speak,” said Faramir, “please, tell us of your journey.”
    “Of course,” said Gimli, “this will concern us all in the end, I fear.  We journeyed over the plains of Anórien and crossed the Andúin at your city of Cair Andros.”
    “I must say, it is much improved since the war,” said Ghan, “we left in good spirits after a day of pleasantries.”
    “By which he means to say that the men of Cair Andros brew pleasant spirits,” Gimli amended, “but it was a day south of the city that trouble befell us.  A band of Uruk-hai fell upon us, numbering perhaps twenty.  But we had the high ground and fought the downhill battle.  We were making short work of them.”
    “By which he means to say that we worked them until they were short!” Ghan exclaimed, making a chopping motion horizontally through the air with one hand.
    “Indeed!” Gimli agreed.  “And then, the Uruk-hai did something most strange; I have never seen its like in the Orkish races.  They actually sounded a retreat.  One blew a foul horn and they all made eastward at a run.  We thought it strange, but we celebrated victory as we watched them run.  Fifteen Dwarves against twenty Uruk-hai!  A glorious victory!”
    “But, alas, we were premature,” said Ghan.
    “As he says,” Gimli continued, “watching the Uruk-hai, none of us ever thought to look to the skies, so we did not see the black shapes wheeling overhead.”
    “Aye,” Ghan agreed, “if I did not know better, I would have called them Dragons.  But they were smaller and darker and there was no thought in their eyes but for destruction.”
    “They reminded me of the flying mounts of the Nazgúl that I saw at the Battle of the Black Gate during the war,” said Gimli, “they swooped down upon us and snatched up four of the company.  I swear by Aulë, I felt the claws of their foul wings brush against me!  We lost three more of the company before we reached the river valley where they could not swoop down to reach us.”
    “I have seen these fell worms,” said Faramir, “this is not the first time they have flown over Ithilien.  They first came five years ago.  We have not seen them since, save for a few sightings over Ephel Dúath.”
    “My lord, that brings us to other news,” said Beregond, “one of the Ranger-cadets sighted a band of Orcs to the north east during the exercise a few days hence.”
    “Why did he not report this three days ago?” Faramir asked.
    “He was convinced for a time that his imagination had run rampant on him,” said Beregond, “for he said he saw a great dark shape, winged, with gleaming claws aside a dim fire.  It was night and he was tired and thought he was seeing things.”
    “The Orcs and the fell worms came from that direction,” said Gimli, “it would seem that Ithilien has been invaded.”
    Faramir was clearly troubled by this.  He rose from his seat and began to slowly circle the table as the rest of the conversation continued, a hand to his chin in thought.
    “What puzzles me most is how they are choosing to move,” said Beregond, “Orcs have never bothered to act covertly before.  If they are making a move, why not simply attack, as is their way?”
    “Much as I am loathe to say anything in their praise,” said Ghan, “the Uruk-hai have shown the ability to adapt to new situations.  Perhaps the defeat of the Enemy has forced them to find new ways of waging war.”
    “Or perhaps they receive aid and direction for someone else,” said Gimli.
    “Uruk-hai are too treacherous to be ruled or controlled by anything less than a wizard,” said Faramir, “Mithrandir has sailed for the west and Curunír is dead.  I have from time to time heard of a third wizard in the north, Radagast the Brown.  But it is said that he cares more for the beasts of the world than for Men or Orcs.”
    “Perhaps he has gained new interest,” said Beregond.
    “I do not think so,” said Gimli, shaking his head, “Gandalf and Aragorn spoke of him from time to time in the days of the Fellowship.  I don’t think Radagast has the wit or the inclination to lead the Orcs against Men.”
    “Then we are left with self-ruling Uruk-hai,” said Faramir.  He stopped pacing then and, clasping his hands behind his back, he faced the table again.  “At any rate, this does not address the problem of the Orkish incursion.  Beregond, assemble a company to rout them.  Take the Ranger-cadet as a guide, if he is able.”
    “Aye, my lord,” said Beregond, “with your permission, I shall lead the company.”
    After a momentary pause, Faramir nodded his assent.  “Have caution, my friend.”
    “Aye, my lord,” said Beregond, rising.  He gave a short bow, then departed.
    “If ye don’t mind my saying, Lord Steward,” said Gimli, “you seem more than passing troubled by all this.”
    “It is for a simple reason, Master Gimli,” said Faramir, “it is because I am troubled.”

    Beregond took the next hours to prepare for the sortie.  To his aid, he called Léowine and the Ithilrochonath as well as Mablung and the Rangers.  With them also went Ranger-cadet Glorlas, who had seen the Orkish company in the woods.  A measure of the Moon Riders remained behind to augment the Minas Estel citadel guard and were placed temporarily under the command of Damrod.
    For the first time since the siege of Minas Tirith during the War of the Ring, Beregond donned his full armor.  Ithilien had enjoyed five years of relative peace, bothered only by the occasional raid by Orcs upon patrols.  As the captain’s main duty was in Minas Estel, he had not had reason to ride to battle.  And so, as he put it on, the armor felt coarse and restricting.  But, with Bergil’s help, it was adjusted back to a comfortable state.  All throughout the process, Bergil looked at his father with trepidation.  Finally, Beregond could stand the worried looks no longer.
    “All right then, Bergil,” he said as he fastened the last strap on his bracer, “what is on your mind?”
    “Nothing,” Bergil replied, “everything is fine.”
    “Bergil, I am your father.  Think you that I do not recognize when you are in a foul mood?”
    “Of course not, father.”
    “Out with it, then.”
    The youth said nothing, instead handing Beregond his sword and watching him buckle it to his side.  Finally, Bergil found enough conviction to speak his peace.
    “Father, I wish to ride with you.”
    “Absolutely not.”
    “But, father, Glorlas is going!”
    “Glorlas is needed to show us where he saw the Orcs,” Beregond stated, “and aside from that, he has shown that he is ready for this.”
    “And I have not?”
    “No, Bergil, you have not!”
    Beregond’s admission seemed to hit Bergil as forcefully as a strike across the face.  Shrinking somewhat, he took a step back, seemingly in a desire to melt into the wall.  His eyes were cast down in a mixture of hurt and confusion.  “But, I don’t understand,” he all but whispered, “am I not one of the best fighters among the cadets?  Can I not hold my own?  Father, I will not be hurt!  No mere Orc will lay hand on me ere I strike him down!”
    “And that is why you are not ready,” said Beregond, “no soldier rides to battle assuming that his enemy is weaker than he!  To do so is folly!”
    “I came through the Dawnless Day!”
    “You did not see any real battle in the Dawnless Day!”
    The argument had grown in volume.  Both father and son were shouting now, standing toe-to-toe.  Unwaveringly, Beregond met Bergil’s gaze.
    “Battle is not your drills.  Battle is not your practice matches!  Could you abandon a comrade to complete your task?  To follow orders?  Could you leave him to your enemy knowing that he will die?”
    Bergil shrank back again and it was clear that it was Beregond who had the upper hand in the argument, now.  Although Bergil looked every bit the grown youth of seventeen, Beregond could see only the boy he had been in his eyes.  Bergil searched and searched his mind for a suitable response, but he had been struck witless by the thoughts his father had conjured up for him.  Beregond set aside his sword and gathered his son to him, feeling the youth tremble slightly.
    “That is battle, Bergil,” he said, “that is war.  Never have I faced a day more terrible than when I had to choose between the lives of Lord Faramir and my brothers in arms of the Citadel.  You are not ready to make such a choice.  You are not ready to take such an action.”
    “How could any man be ready for such horror?” Bergil asked.
    “No man can be ready unless he is soulless and black of heart.  Men can only hope to survive it.”

    That part of the White Company that Beregond led departed not long later.  Bergil was at the gate and watched his father leave, riding at the head of the column.  After the captain was through the gate, Bergil went back to the Citadel and looked northward.  The company showed bright against the grasslands, a short stream of white flowing along the south road.
    Bergil watched them travel for as long as his eyes could make them out.  At last, they faded into the distance.  His heart heavy with concern, he made his way to his father’s house in the citadel, looking to find the peace of solitude.
    However, as he went, he passed a door to one of the watch towers and it opened suddenly.  The Lord Faramir stepped out and Bergil saw for but a moment a mirror of his own concern upon the Steward’s face.  It was quickly covered by a look of confusion.  Bergil inclined his head in a bow and stepped aside so Faramir could pass, but the Prince paused.
    “Young Master Bergil, haven’t you lessons?” he asked.
    “Nay, my lord,” said Bergil, “Commander Mablung rides with my father.”
    “I see,” said Faramir in thought, “then the Ranger-cadets have been left idle while their fathers ride without them.  Nay, I shall not have lessons suffer for lack of an instructor.  Gather your fellows.  I shall instruct you today.”
    “Aye, my lord,” said Bergil, “it will be a great honor.”  He bowed again and hastened on his way.
    Not long after, the Ranger-cadets were assembled on the practice grounds in the sixth circle within sight of the Houses of Healing.  For long hours, Faramir instructed them in the art of sword and bow until at last the Sun went down in the west and the stars began to shine.  It was then that Faramir instructed the cadets in a skill of a different sort; reading the stars.  Though most seemed tried by the academic lesson, Bergil and a few others listened with rapt attention as Faramir explained how to use the stars to tell direction, time, even how far north they were.  At last, the hour grew late and the cadets were dismissed.

    No word came from Beregond all that night, nor did any come in the morning.  Indeed, it was nearly mid-day before a single horse rode the path to Minas Estel, its rider dressed in the browns and greens of the Rangers.
    It was the cadet Glorlas who passed through the gate.  He had been wounded, scratched by great claws that had raked his back, and had only barely made it to the city.  Exhausted and unwell, he had to be carried from the gate to the Houses of Healing.  Worried that he would fall into deep sleep, he told his tale to the healer Ioreth.  Faramir came to the houses only minutes after Glorlas fell into unconsciousness, and so it was left to Ioreth to tell the tale.
    “My lord, the company has been attacked!” she said to him.
    “Such a thing is hardly surprising, Madame,” said Faramir, “they rode to war.”
    “Nay, nay, but forgive me; I was not clear,” she said, “or rather I was not complete in my telling.  It’s as my father always said to me.  One must say what one means or one can never mean what one says.  He was a wise man, my father.  Knew the lore of the kings of old, he did.”
    “Ioreth, our lives will pass into the lore of old if you do not tell me what you have learned from Glorlas.”
    “Oh, of course.  Please forgive an old woman.  Well, as I said, my lord, the White Company has been attacked.  But not just by the Orkish types they went to hunt.  Glorlas spoke of winged creatures issuing from Minas Morgul; a whole swarm of them, fifteen or maybe more!”
    “Fifteen!” Faramir exclaimed.  “Were they the fell worms?”
    “Well, I… I don’t rightly know, I’m afraid.  But, they began to get the better of Captain Beregond’s men, that much is certain.  Glorlas was sent to call for aid and he fears the White Company may be trapped near Minas Morgul by now.”
    “This is ill news indeed,” said Faramir, “I must go and see what strength we here in Minas Estel can send to Beregond.”  Faramir turned to leave in haste, but was halted by Ioreth’s voice.
    “There was one other thing the boy mentioned, my lord,” she said, “it would seem that one of the flying creatures pursued Glorlas for a time.  He lost it in the woods, but… well, he is convinced its eyes are still upon him.”
    Faramir nodded his understanding.  “Tend your patient, Madame Ioreth,” he told her, “I shall see to this.”
    The Prince departed and went to see what could be done.  So in haste was he that he failed to notice Bergil standing just out of sight around a corner, wearing a look of distress.

    “Just who would ye send, Lord Steward?”  This was the question of Gimli the Dwarf when once again the concerned parties were assembled in the council chamber of the House of the Prince.  “You’ve naught but a skeleton guard here in Minas Estel already.”
    “I must agree with Master Gimli,” said Damrod, sitting for the moment in Beregond’s chair.  “To send any more of the White Company away… we would not hold the city if it was attacked.”
    Shaking his head and pacing up and down the length of the chamber with his hands clasped behind his back, Faramir turned back to them.  “We would not hold it now,” he said, “not against a full attack out of Mordor.”
    “Begging pardon, Lord Steward,” said Ghan, “but I don’t think the Orkish King has the resources to reach this far south with a full attack.”
    “That is no reason to send away more of the Company,” said Damrod, “my lord, my men are not trained for warfare away from battlements.  Most of them have only seen war from the walls of fortresses.  They excel at that, but they would falter quickly in battle upon the plains before Minas Morgul.  To send them out is madness!”
    “To leave Beregond’s company to die is madness!” Faramir rejoined.  “We cannot afford to decimate the White Company in that way!  And you, Commander, should mind how you bandy about such words as ‘madness!’”
    “Aye, my lord,” Damrod said, crestfallen, “my apologies.”
    “Whatever you decide to do, best decide quickly,” said Ghan from his place at Gimli’s elbow, “Captain Beregond and his company can’t have much time left to them.”
    “We could send to Minas Tirith for aid,” Damrod suggested, “surely the King could send help.”
    “It is dangerous,” said Faramir, “the worm that pursued Glorlas may be watching for others.  And, as you said, Damrod, none of the Gate Guard are trained in the Ranger arts and could evade it.”
    “I will go, my lord,” came a voice from the doorway of the chamber, small but certain.  All turned to it and saw there Bergil, a mixture of worry and determination on his face.  “If this task is best left to a Ranger, and if no other can be spared, send me.”
    “Why you skulking rascal!” Gimli exclaimed.  “Eavesdropping on the conversations and councils of warriors like a specter!”
    “I am no specter, Master Gimli,” said Bergil, “indeed, I am myself a warrior.”
    “This is no task for a cadet!” Damrod snapped at him.  “And no council for one, either!  Depart this hall at once and I shall deal with you later!”
    But Faramir had paused in thought and stood watching Bergil as the others protested his presence.  The youth stood tall and determined and did not waver.  The Prince finally spoke just as Damrod was rising to usher Bergil from the room.
    “Wait,” he said.  He approached Bergil and Damrod stood aside.  For a long moment, he looked down at the youth, considering the look in his eyes.  “This task requires both stealth and speed,” he said at last, “you have shown a propensity to forgo one for the other.”
    “Mere war games, my lord,” Bergil stated, a note of desperation now coming to his voice, “in this, lives are at stake.  My father’s life is at stake!  If I cannot ride with him, at least let me ride for him!”
    With a sigh, Faramir turned away from Bergil in thought.  He paced to the nearest window and stood there, looking out, his hands once again clasped behind his back.  Damrod, Gimli, and Ghan all stood in silence, watching him and waiting for a reply, but none of them watched more closely than Bergil.  So quiet was the hall that Faramir could make out the sob deep in Bergil’s throat, held back desperately.  Finally, his decision made, he turned back to the youth.
    “This task needs doing and there is no one else to do it,” he said, “I have my doubts about this.  But, I see in you a determination that will not be denied.  You would go against my word for what you perceive to be the greater good, if it came to it.  You are like your father in that respect, yes?”
    Bergil made no reply, but he colored a rather deep shade of red and shifted uncomfortably under Faramir’s scrutiny.
    “I am willing to put my faith in you, Bergil.  Nay!  Smile not!  This is a grave thing.  If you fail in this, it will mean the death of many, including your father.  It may also mean the ruin of Ithilien.”
    “I swear to you, I will not fail.”
    Faramir nodded.  “Then your honor is tied to this task as of this moment.  Go to Minas Tirith and tell King Elessar of all that we have here heard.  Stay in the wood until you come to Osgiliath and cross the Andúin in the ruins’ shadow.  From there, make for the City of Kings.”
    “Yes, my lord.  As you say.”
    “Then go and fear no darkness, son of Beregond.”
    With a short, quick bow, Bergil departed in haste.  The others in the room stood in silence a long while, pondering what had happened.
    “This is a thing unheard of,” Gimli said at last, “leaving the fate of Ithilien in the hands of a mere boy!”
    “Take heart, Master Gimli,” said Faramir, “Bergil may be young, but he is well-trained and he has heart in his favor.  I said I put my faith in him and to that I will hold.”

    Thus it was that Bergil was sent from Minas Estel.  He had now the full authority of a Ranger, though that privilege was to lapse upon his arrival in Minas Tirith.  He traveled light, taking only his sword and bow, a few arrows, provision for one day, and the Steward’s message.  He took no horse, preferring the subtle fall of his own feet and the ability to disappear into the brush at need.  One of the fell worms had been spotted from Minas Estel’s greatest tower and Bergil had been told that the worm’s eyes had seemed keen enough to see through the thinner trees that overhung the paths.
    Swift as a shadow, he passed over the narrow grassland that surrounded the city and entered the woods.  He took care to leave little sign of his passing, but did not take overmuch time in the hiding.  For some hours, his journey was unhindered and he moved swiftly.
    However, Bergil was brought to a halt with a chill when he heard a soulless wail and the beating of strong wings.  A dark shape passed overhead and Bergil took to the brush, pulling in his green cloak, hoping it would hide him.  The black figure passed onward and he heard the beating wings fade into the distance.  All was silence until Bergil heard the rustling of leaves and branches nearby.  It came from the north and was heading straight for him.  It spread and manifested itself into at least three distinct patches, arrayed about him in a rough semi-circle.  As silently as he could, Bergil drew his sword.
    Suddenly, from above, there came a terrible squeal and a round shape dropped down upon Bergil, wrapping eight barbed legs around his shoulders.  Forgoing his hiding place, Bergil jumped up and slashed at it with his sword, sending it flying into a nearby tree.  Almost immediately, the three patches of disturbed brush exploded forth with similar creatures, spiders large enough to grasp his chest.  Bergil felled one with a great slash of his sword and stepped aside of the other two.  As the spiders regrouped, he took off at a run, heading straight westward.  Bergil heard the spiders behind him, moving terrible fast.
    “T’was a trap,” Bergil realized, “something moves these creatures.”  He had no time to ponder this, though.  The dark figure of the fell worm wheeled overhead again, now blocking his light, now circling back around.
    The edge of the wood was now not far off.  Bergil knew he would soon lose what little cover he had as he would have to cross the grasses to Osgiliath; both the spiders and the worm would be upon him.  His secrecy was lost and all hope now lay in his swiftness, unless he was fortunate enough to have some luck.
    Short of the tree line, Bergil turned.  Knocking an arrow in his bow, he took aim at one spider and let loose, slaying it.  The other two came at him at once.  One met the point of his sword and was run through.  But Bergil’s sword became entrapped in the spider corpse and the last of the creatures landed on his back and wrapped its legs around his chest.  His sword left his hand and he thrashed about wildly, trying to dislodge the spider.  Finally, feeling the beginning prick of a sting making its way through the leather armor on his side, Bergil stumbled backward into a great stone, crushing the spider.  As it fell, dead and bloodied, Bergil felt the prick in his side begin to itch.  He put it out of his mind and retrieved his sword.  He hastened southward, away from the site of the battle, taking to stealth once again.
    Overhead, the fell worm wound back and forth along the tree line, now farther north, now south, now looping over the river.  Bergil watched it, still as a stone, for nearly an hour until it was clear that the worm and its Uruk-hai rider could not see him and knew not where he was.
    The worm turned its back to him and flew north.  As soon as he felt the time right, Bergil left his hiding place and went out from the woods, sprinting for the ruin of Osgiliath.  Halfway across the grass, Bergil heard the worm wail again.  He did not break stride, but looked to it and saw it swooping southward toward him.  Renewing his sprint, Bergil made for the wooden bridge over the river.  The worm was upon him as he crossed and he fell to the rough boards to avoid its claws.  As the worm circled around for a second strafe, Bergil recovered and stumbled the rest of the way across the bridge.  He dove into the crumbled husk of an ancient building and the worm’s claws met naught but stone.  Bergil sheltered in the ruin, but the worm circled overhead as if daring him to leave his newfound safety.
    And so, halfway to Minas Tirith, the only hope of the White Company, Bergil was trapped.

    The book that Faramir would write in, as a great many articles of his office were, was white.  Upon the cover was gilt in silver the symbol of the White Tree in splendor.  It was one of the things he had learned from his father; that a record of the day to day happenings of Gondor needed keeping.  Boromir had always rolled his eyes each time Denethor had stressed its importance, but it was one of the things that made Faramir’s eyes light with admiration.
    This day, there had been much for the Steward to write.  He tried to keep it to the impersonal account of fact he knew it was his duty to write, but always it seemed to drift back to the respective plights of the Captain of the White Company and his young son.  Faramir was greatly worried for both Beregond and Bergil and it showed in the writing.
    Nearly mournfully, he set his quill aside, leaving the account unfinished as the events were the same.  He let the ink dry as he read over the page once more.  Finally, he closed the book and looked at its cover for some time, pondering his various duties and their implications and consequences.
    Éowyn entered then, quietly, and seeing that Faramir was teetering on the edge of despair went to embrace him from behind.
    “It is too early to despair,” she told him, “the White Company is strong.  They will hold until the King’s aid arrives.”
    “Fréodgyth is asleep?” Faramir asked.
    “At last,” Éowyn replied, “I have not slept a night through in years, it seems to me at times.”
    Faramir took her hand in his.  “Our children are the most cherished gift you have given me.  Éowyn, if this battle should go ill...”
    “I will not remove to Minas Tirith without you.”
    Faramir stood and turned to face Éowyn, her hands still grasped in his.  “Not with me, but with our children.”
    “I will send them with their governess, but I will not go.  Not while there is need of healing hands in Minas Estel and Ithilien.”
    “They will need a parent.”
    “A parent?” Éowyn questioned.  “Surely, they will have both, will they not?”
    “As I said,” Faramir stated, “if the battle should go ill-”
    With a scowl, Éowyn cast Faramir’s hands away from her.  “You mean to ride with whatever aid the King sends.”
    “They will have need of leadership and of someone who knows the lay of the land.”
    “If I understand Aragorn’s motivations, I am given to believe that he will lead them himself.”
    “Then I must go as the King’s man.”
    “Faramir, there is no need for you to ride!  If the battle should go ill, as you say, will Gondor not have need of her Steward?”
    “Eldarion shall be king after Elessar,” said Faramir, “the rule of Gondor need not return to the Stewards, nor should it.”
    “Eldarion is four years old!  He cannot possibly-”
    “What would you have me do, Éowyn?  Call the king to my service?  I am Arandur, king’s servant!  It is I who draws my sword for him, not the other way ‘round!”
    As soon as it had tumbled from his mouth, Faramir regretted the half-truth and wondered at how easily he had uttered it.  And yet, though he tasted bitterness in his mouth at it, he knew this was how it had to be.  His responsibilities would let him do no less.  He had very little time to ponder all of this further, though, for Éowyn no longer stood before him in distress.  Rather her eyes grew hard and her hands, hidden in her long sleeves, became fists in defiance.
    They were in that moment strangers to each other and it angered them both.  Understanding did not bind them together and yet they were both desperate to grasp its tattered shreds.  Finally, it was Éowyn who broke the silence.
    “I would not have you forget your duties to the king, my lord,” she said, spitting out the last two words as a curse, “but nor would I have you forget your duties to your family of which I am a part.”  She stared at him long and hard and there was a certain amount of venom in the gaze.  But there was sadness also and this it was that finally pierced through to Faramir’s heart and he could stand it no longer.
    “Éowyn,” he began softly.
    But she whirled away from him and departed the room, quickly, leaving Faramir alone and despondent.
    Faramir finally collapsed back into the seat before his desk.  Once again, he was met with the sight of the white book.  He contemplated it a long time before opening it to the page where he left off.  Taking up his pen, he wrote one more line:

                I begin to understand the words of my father; pride and despair.

    Some time later, Faramir went to the great tower of the citadel.  He climbed the winding stairs and emerged in the circular overlook just below the topmost chamber.  Damrod was there, his eye pressed to the eyepiece of a mounted spyglass, pointing westward into the setting sunlight.
    “Any news?” Faramir asked the commander.
    Damrod jumped, surprised to hear a voice behind him, and knocked into the spyglass.  His quick reflexes managed to save it from toppling over the side of the wall and down the tower.
    “My lord!” he exclaimed, righting the spyglass.  “No, no movement from Minas Tirith, yet.  But...”  Damrod cast his gaze to the west, a wrinkle in his brow.
    “But?” Faramir questioned.  “Do not keep me in suspense, Damrod.”
    “I’ve spotted the fell worm.  It circles over Osgiliath, near the bridge.  I think it hunts Bergil.”
    Faramir pushed Damrod aside and took up the spyglass.  Squinting through the orange light of the Sun, he trained it on Osgiliath and saw there a dark, winged form perched upon the broken dome of the city ruin.  It was hunched over like a vulture in a tree awaiting the chance to move in on left over carrion.
    “Our messenger has failed,” Damrod said, despair in his voice, “the White Company will fall.”
    “Nay, hope is not lost,” said Faramir, “the creature still hunts him.  That means it has not yet found him.  Bergil may be young and unprepared for full war, but he is not incapable as a Ranger.”
    “Forgive me, my lord, for I wish to speak no ill of Captain Beregond or his kin, but the lad is impulsive and undisciplined.  I fear he will deliver himself into the creature’s claws yet.”
    “Perhaps,” said Faramir, “but I doubt he will fail us.  Bergil is still a lad of ten years in his eyes.  His heroes cannot be defeated and most especially his father can do no wrong.  That is what he aspires to; that grand, idyllic myth that you and I have lost.  Scoff not at the power of such a vision.”
    “Aye, my lord,” said Damrod, “but can such a vision really deliver one from the claws of a beast?”
    “Probably not,” said Faramir, “but in this case, salvation is the domain of help unlooked for.”
    As he spoke, Faramir saw the gate of Minas Tirith open.  A legion of silver-clad horsemen poured forth, glinting in the orange light, and raced across the Pelennor.
    “Where your aspirations fail,” said Faramir, “your luck and your faith in your heroes may prevail.”

    Through a small crack in the wall, barely larger than his hand, Bergil could see the fell worm perched upon the broken dome.  It had been there for some time, its rider and master patiently waiting for the moment Bergil dared to crawl outside again.
    At more than one point, the youth met the creature’s gaze and stared it down.  In those moments he was frozen with the icy chill of terror, unable even to breathe.  He was trapped in one of those moments now, the creature’s steely eye boring into his will, attempting to undermine it.  Give up, it seemed to say, your struggle is futile.
    Their silent discourse was interrupted when it seeped into the back of Bergil’s mind that he heard the call of a horn and the shouting of men.  The beast broke contact first as its rider jerked the reins aside.  It spread its wings and with a great wind lifted off from the dome.  Bergil scrambled to the other side of his refuge and looked out another hole to the west.  He there saw, riding over the Pelennor, no less than twenty mounted knights of Gondor, some with short bows, the rest with swords raised high.  The dark shape of the fell worm passed over them.  The strings of the bowmen twanged.  The worm shrieked and circled around.
    Bergil scrambled out of his hiding place and pulled a white kerchief, the lone symbol of the White Company that he carried, from a pouch on his belt with his left hand.  With his right, he drew his sword.  He took off at his fastest run and sprinted from the ruin of Osgiliath, waving the kerchief above his head.  Even so, he was near halfway to Rammas Echor before the Captain of the Knights saw him and rallied his men to Bergil’s aid.
    Too late, Bergil noticed that he had lost track of the worm.  For one insane moment, he could have sworn the bowmen were taking aim at him.  But an instant later, sharp claws pierced through his upraised arm and Bergil was lifted off the ground.  The worm wailed again and the wind around him was so foul he would have retched if his throat had not been constricted in terror.  Wildly, and without thinking, Bergil lashed out with his sword, slashing upward.  The fell worm shrieked and Bergil’s arm was released.  He found himself falling and he hit the ground hard, feeling a sharp pain in his leg, then tumbling to a halt.  Somehow, he climbed to his feet and found that the Knights had surrounded him.  The Captain called an attack on the worm and the rest of the Knights went forth again.
    “You seem to be in no small amount of danger, lad,” said the Captain, dismounting and moving to steady Bergil.
    “I am Bergil, son of Beregond,” he said in reply, “I bear an urgent message for the King from Prince Faramir.”
    “I am needed here,” said the Captain, “and you are not fit to run any longer.  Take my horse and ride.  We of the Grey Company shall deal with the flying menace.”  Bergil was about to protest but before he could say anything, the Captain had hoisted him into the saddle.  “Go now,” he said, “deliver your message.”
    “Wait!” said Bergil, unhitching his bow and quiver from his gear.  “You cannot wound that beast with sword alone.  Take these.”
    The Captain took the arms without hesitation.  “Enough talk, lad!  Ride!”  He gave the horse a sturdy nudge and the mount whinnied and took off at a gallop.
    By the time Bergil had passed through Rammas Echor, his arm and leg had begun to scream in agony and he wished to call the horse to a halt and collapse to the ground.  Yet when he caught sight of Minas Tirith, a strange terror seized him again.  Suddenly, all Bergil wished to do was flee the worm and harbor within the walls of the White City.  In the face of this fear, his pain fled.  Bergil spurred the horse on and it was all too glad to comply.  It was only a few minutes before Bergil came to the gate of the city.
    “In the name of the White Company!” he called.  “Let me pass!”
    There were shouts on the wall above and the gate opened a horse’s breadth a moment later.  As he entered, Bergil again announced that he carried a message for the King.  The guards let him pass, but not without giving Bergil rather strange looks somewhere between amazement and pity.  Bergil could not think why they would be looking at him in that way, but he cared not.
    Bergil galloped his horse up the winding road to the Citadel, shouting for people to make way.  For a moment, he thought that perhaps he was riding all the way to the sky.  But it was just then that he came to the tunnel that entered the Citadel.  He was allowed to pass and he reined his horse to a halt beneath the Tower of Ecthelion.  He dismounted and stumbled up the stairs into the antechamber.
    He could not remember later whether or not he had followed protocol, nor could he remember if he had cared at that moment.  Bergil remembered standing in the middle of the throne hall, the tight scroll from Prince Faramir clutched in his hand and several people all staring at him aghast.  King Elessar descended the stairs of his throne quickly and looked at him with worry.
    “Ithilien is attacked,” said Bergil, desperately, “the White Company is besieged.  Prince Faramir calls for aid.”
    Gently, Elessar took the scroll from Bergil’s hand.  “The message is delivered,” he said softly, “the White Company will have its aid.”  He passed the scroll aside to another set of hands and for the first time, Bergil noticed that Queen Arwen was near as well, her gentle face creased with concern.  Elessar then took Bergil’s face in both hands and leaned in closely.  “Leithio goe lín,” he said, “garo post a nesto.”
    Though Bergil could not understand the words, he found at once that the terror that had beset him lifted.  As if exploding inward to fill some vacuum, the pain of his previous hurts slammed into him.  His arm screamed in agony, his side started afire, he was beset by an uncontrollable shiver, the room began to spin, and his leg gave way beneath him.  All these would have deposited him on the floor if hands had not been there to catch him.
    The face of the Queen was above him a moment later.  “Fetch a litter, quickly!”  She exclaimed.  “Bring him to the Houses of Healing!”
    He was aware of footfalls somewhere not far off.  But Bergil’s vision began to blur.  He closed his eyes to it.  Then he heard the voice of the King.
    “Muster the Grey Company!” he commanded.  “We ride for Ithilien!”
    As his waking mind began to spin off into darkness, all Bergil could think of was that his father was saved.

    By the time the Grey Company had been mustered and rank-and-file soldiers of the White City were added to their number, the company that rode out of Minas Tirith numbered somewhere around three-hundred.  Elessar rode at the head of the column beneath the banner of the king, his silver armor covered by a surcoat of black and Andúril at his side.
    As they passed beyond Rammas Echor, they came to the downed carcass of the fell worm.  Flies had already begun to swarm around it and the summer heat made it reek so badly the company could almost see the fumes rising from it.  Silence settled upon them as they passed and no single soldier could keep himself from looking upon it.
    Elessar led his company through most of the night, cross the Andúin at Osgiliath and coming within sight of Minas Estel but two hours before dawn.  There, four riders approached them under the banner of the Steward.  It was Faramir and one of his knights, arrayed in the colors of the White Company, and Gimli and Ghan.  The were welcomed into the King’s company and so set forth with them.  On the Steward’s counsel, they rode north from there, making for the battlefield beneath Minas Morgul.
    As they went, Elessar spent time conversing with Gimli for he had not seen his friend for some time.  They spoke of days past and better nights spent sitting around fires and sharing stories.  At length, their talk turned to the Fellowship of the Ring and when it turned also to Boromir, Faramir distanced himself from them and concerned himself with the company.  Eventually, he saw Gimli and Ghan drop back to tend to other things and the King beckoned Faramir over.
    “Faramir, why have you ridden with the Grey Company?” Aragorn asked as they rode.  “I would think that your skill would be needed in your city.”
    “I am confident in the safety of Minas Estel,” Faramir replied, “and I would know first hand what threat there is against my lands and my people.”
    “Faramir,” said Aragorn with skepticism, “I asked not for an excuse.”
    The Steward gave a short, humorless laugh.  “Apologies.  An old habit.”
    “I read you correctly, then.  You worry for Beregond and the White Company.”
    “It would seem I’ve made a complete blunder of the situation.  If I read this correctly, this was from the beginning a trap.  The Orkish king may seek to wipe out the Gondorian soldiery east of the Andúin.  That is how I would begin a war in all earnest in this land, if I were he.”
    “But you are most decidedly not he,” said Aragorn, “and no Orc bothers with such tactics.  Their strength lies in their numbers.”
    “It is pure speculation, my lord.  And in any case, it comes too late.”
    “And so you seek to clean up the mess personally.  That is admirable.  But you cannot always ride to the captain’s rescue.”
    “Why not?” Faramir asked, rather more sharply than he had intended at first.  “He is the captain of my company and therefore my responsibility.  But more than that and more importantly, he is my friend.  He stood for me in the dark days with Mithrandir and Peregrin.  And yet of all three of them, he is the one who has remained at my side without condition and without regret.  How could I do any less than to... nay, Aragorn, I will ride to his aid as long as it is within my power to do so.”
    There was a very long silence between them after that.  The sound of their horses’ feet hung in the air.  Finally, Aragorn shook his head with a smile.
    “By the Valar!” he said.  “You have been carrying that around for some time!  Have you not even spoken to Éowyn of this?”
    “Well,” Faramir said at length around a bitter laugh, “there is another matter entirely.”
    Aragorn was about to ask him to elaborate, but a voice called from the ridge ahead of them.  It was the vanguard rider they had sent to scout the way ahead.
    “A rider approaches!” he called.  “He wears the colors of the White Company!”
    Elessar and Faramir spurred their horses onward and rode to the top of the ridge.  There they saw approaching them Léowine, riding hard and fast.  As he came close, he appeared to them over-weary and much in need of relief.
    “King Elessar, my lord Faramir,” he greeted, bringing his horse along side and inclining his head respectfully, “glad I am to see the banners of the King and the Grey Company.  We were beginning to think word had not reached you.”
    “Come, Commander, and ride with us,” said Elessar, “what news of the White Company?”
    “They hold their position on the plains before Minas Morgul,” Léowine answered, “but we have lost near a third of those who set out with us from Minas Estel.”
    “A third?” Faramir exclaimed.  “Léowine, we must know everything.  Begin at the beginning.”
    “Yes, my lord,” said Léowine, “as you know, we began at Minas Estel.  Glorlas led us to the place he had seen the Orcs and the fell worm.  Mablung found the signs and once again they pointed to Minas Morgul.  And so we followed them, expecting only a small party.  In point of fact, we did observe a party of twenty or so Uruk-hai making their way across the plain when we arrived.  We thought we had perhaps mustered the whole of the White Company without reason.  Beregond sent fifty of my riders in pursuit of them.
    “T’was then a thing most strange happened.  The Orkish party made across the bridge before the Dead City and entered within.  The gate closed after them and we thought they had decided to harbor within.  The captain, Mablung, and I gave thought to perhaps leaving them be; they seemed harmless enough and cowed.  But, our orders were to rout them utterly, so we turned our thought to dragging them from the city.  We set a camp upon the plain and debated how to go about it as we would have to get into the city first.
    “But that, it turned out, was our mistake.  It was just after sunset when our folly was revealed.  Horns sounded from the city and the cries of the worms answered; first one, then a few more, then a din that would have drowned the fair music of Lúthien Tinúviel even in its brightest hour.  The gates of Minas Morgul opened and no less than a dozen of the worms took to the sky.  Orcs poured forth from the city just after them and made to attack the camp, hundreds of them!  T’was then we realized that the Uruk-hai had already taken the city and fortified it.”
    “By the Valar,” Faramir said, grinding his teeth together, “when could they have slipped past our patrols?  And on such a scale!”
    “The White Company has done an excellent job guarding these lands,” said Elessar, “but they cannot be everywhere at once.  Minas Estel and Cair Andros were properly your first priorities.  Perhaps this was inevitable.  Pray, Master Léowine, continue.”
    The Ithilrochon nodded.  “We were forced to fight a holding action throughout the night,” he said, “and as we did, the Orcs set their own garrisons, leaving the company with but one path of retreat.  We tried to take it, but the fell worms beset us and we found we could not retreat.”
    “Then, Faramir, you guess right!” Elessar exclaimed in near horror.  “A trap it was, indeed!  But that cannot be.  That is not the Orkish way of waging war.”
    “The Uruk-hai have been using many such tactics of late,” said Faramir, “it disturbs me greatly.”
    “We managed to hold our chosen ground until dawn,” Léowine continued, “and we sent Glorlas to call for aid.  At sunrise, the worms became curiously less fierce.  They did not circle above us except at need to keep us hemmed in.  It was by that grace alone that we were able to hold throughout the day.  And, I suspect, the reason Glorlas was able to get through to you.”
    “And what of this night?” Faramir asked.
    “Both sides weary of the battle, my lord, but our company’s strength is failing faster.  The Uruk-hai are tightening their noose.  I left but a few hours ago to see what help had been sent, although I will admit that we had begun to despair of any coming.”
    “Despair no longer,” said Elessar, “we here shall break the Orkish lines, if only to allow the White Company to escape.”
    “Then, you do not mean to besiege Minas Morgul?” Léowine asked.
    “Nay,” said the king, “we have not the manpower.  It would take both the White Company and the Grey for such a task, and the former is far too exhausted.”
    “I am loathe simply to leave Minas Ithil to the Orcs,” said Faramir, bitterly, “they will have a line available to them out of the Morannon.”
    “True,” said Elessar, “but the Orcs have won this battle already.  Best to rescue the company and fight another day.”
    “I agree, my king,” said Faramir, “but still, I dislike the thought of an Orkish supply route through my fair Ithilien.”
    They continued riding for a few hours more.  Elessar and Faramir questioned Léowine further concerning the strength and positions of the Orcs and they took counsel with Gimli and Ghan.
    At last, the company came to a high hill overlooking the plain before Minas Morgul.  Smoke rose from the ground and hung in the air in stagnant patches.  The Orcs had set fires along the perimeter of the battle field to guard the places where they could not hinder the White Company’s escape.  The ground was blackened where such fires had already gone out and battle had begun anew atop them.  There were great gashes in the plain, the tell tale sign of boulders flying from the catapults upon the city battlements.  The din that arose held screams of war and agony alike in a cacophonous mixture of terror.
    The White Company stood as a knot of white encircled on all sides but one by the foul and dirty black-clad Orcs.  Valiantly, they pushed outward upon the lines, but it did little save to prevent the inward push of the Orkish forces.  High upon the crags of Ephel Dúath, the forms of the fell worms hunched over and watched, eyes keen to the battle.
    Elessar absorbed the scene for but a moment, then turned his horse aside to speak, riding up and down along the line of the Grey Company.  Faramir’s own horse stamped the ground in agitation.
    “Hold, friends!” shouted the king.  “Hold firm!  Captain Inglor, lead your men on an assault upon the northern line!  Bowmen, ride the center and clear the air of the worms!  Third and fourth battalions, follow the Steward’s banner!  The rest of you, ride with me!  Now we ride to the aid of our comrades!  Knights of Gondor, to the White Company!”  And saying this, he drew forth Andúril, shining in the first rays of the morning sunrise, and held it aloft.  The ringing of other swords drawn from their scabbards answered it and horns sounded.  Elessar began the charge and the Grey Company followed as one.
    Faramir led his men around toward the south and broke upon the back edge of the Orkish line there.  They hewed down the first ranks before slowing from the onslaught.  The battle was joined and Faramir found himself leading his horse in deadly circles, his sword singing as it whirled through the air.  He saw not far ahead the banner of the White Company.  Knowing Beregond would be near, he determined to fight through the growing melee to it.  By then, though the Uruk-hai stood their ground, the Orcs had scattered somewhat, shielding their eyes from the rising sun.  The few still left were quickly trampled under the hooves of the Grey Company horses.
    Faramir quickly broke through and he set his eyes upon his beleaguered White Company.  Beregond was in the thick of the fighting, desperately rallying those men near to him to a new attack.  Several Uruk-hai were closing in on him, bearing terrible swords, their faces hidden under dark helms of crude steel.  The Steward and the soldiers with him charged in at the Uruk-hai from behind and pushed them aside.  With a great cheer, the White Company sprang ahead and joined them.
    “To the south, to the south!” they shouted.  “A path is opened!”
    As soon as he was able, Faramir came along side Beregond.
    “Can the company fight its way through?” he asked over the din.
    “We can now,” the captain answered, “the aid you brought is beyond my imagination.  Where did you find so many more soldiers in Ithilien?”
    “Not Ithilien,” said Faramir, “these are knights who ride under the banner of the King.”
    “The king!” Beregond exclaimed.  “Then we may yet retake Minas Morgul.”
    “Nay, we have not the forces.  The Grey Company was not prepared to make siege.”
    “But, my lord-”
    “Nay, Beregond.  It shall avail us not.  We shall have to reclaim it another time.”  Saying this, he turned to address the rest of the White Company.  “Make for the king’s banner!” he shouted.  The White Company gave a cheer in response and brandished their swords high.
    The battle also continued elsewhere.  From the north, Captain Inglor of the Grey Company led his men on a furious charge, forcing the lines of the Uruk-hai to swing eastward, nearly back to the bridge before Minas Morgul.  The king’s banner and the men who rode with it made its way up the center, west to east.  The fell worms, prodded by their masters from their cliffside roosts, swooped over them.  Now and then, a terrible cry would issue from the Grey Company as a rider was lifted from the field.  Most often, he would rain back down to the ground in splattering red pieces so mangled it was hard to distinguish horse from rider.
    Elessar continued his charge through all of this.  Andúril glinted in the dawn light and some Orcs were heard to cry out that the king wielded fire in his hand.  At his side rode Gimli and Ghan upon their war ponies, axes raised high and falling in deadly blows.
    An Orkish horn sounded from the cliffs and echoed off of the nearby stone.  It was heard even over the sounds of battle, resonating its low note.  The last of the fell worms took to they sky, then, and went directly toward the king’s banner.  But, it did not swoop to attack.  Rather, it wheeled overhead, its rider still sounding its horn.  The Uruk-hai and what few Orcs there were rallied under it.
    At nearly the same time, the gates of Minas Morgul opened, scraping metal upon stone.  A torn and tattered black flag was revealed, a crude pattern of fire in its center in a dirty red.  In front of it, a massive Uruk-hai came riding atop a warg, black spikes upon his helm and a jagged halberd in his hand.  Behind him marched a legion of Orcs and Uruk-hai as though they had been all but forced from the city.  The Uruk-hai held up his halberd and horns sounded again.  He legion charged forward behind him and made for the Tree and Stars.
    The Orkish rally cleared the field for a moment, just long enough for the White Company to join the Grey under the king’s banner.  The worms circled overhead.  By now, the entire Gondorian army stood together, Elessar and Faramir at its head, their captains at their sides and no Orc or Uruk-hai stood west of them.
    The Orkish line continued to advance, marching forward with pounding, unrelenting footsteps.  They came behind their warg-riding leader and their voices cried out a single, undulating chant.
    “Urlak bhosh zurlug!  Urlak bhosh zurlug!”
    This was Urlak, greatest of the Uruk-hai.  This was the Orkish king, reared for battle in the days of the creeping fear and hardened by the War of the Ring.  In him was a combination most rare in an Orc; ambition and the strength to back it up.
    “My lord,” said Faramir to Elessar, “the White Company is too exhausted to fight such an army.  Most of them will not survive.”
    “The Grey Company cannot fight them alone,” Inglor protested.
    “No, the Orcs have already won this day,” said Elessar, “Faramir, have the White Company retreat to Cair Andros.  We will cover you for a time.”
    “Aye, my lord,” said Faramir.  He turned to Beregond to beckon him along, then rode to pass the word among his soldiers.
    “Well now,” said Gimli, having appeared at the king’s side where Faramir had been.  Ghan was close at hand as well.  “We’ve faced bigger armies than this rabble!”
    “True, Gimli,” Elessar said evenly, “but we have also had larger armies than the one we have now standing at our backs.”
    “Fool ranger,” Gimli muttered with a smirk showing even under his beard, “ever ready to dwell on the down side.  Still, never let it be said that Dwarves ever backed away from a fight such as this.  Ghan and I shall stand with you, Aragorn, though we rode here with Lord Faramir.”
    As the Orkish line approached, the Grey Company stood its ground.  The White Company filtered back through the ranks of the Gondorians and stood at the Grey Company’s back.  For moments interminable, the adversaries stood gazing at each other across the torn battlefield.  Sound seemed to have been sucked from the air.  Then, from the back of the army of the Orcs, an undulating rumble began.  It moved forward through their ranks until it finally came to the first line, just behind Urlak.  The Uruk-hai stamped their feet in a fearsome march, beating the ground with their weapons.
    “Who now is the ruler of Gondor?” Urlak shouted over the din.  “Lesser men call the King of the Reunited Kingdom to battle!”
    “The Orcs may have thrown off their Dark Lord master,” Elessar called back, “but their base minds remain.  I see no lesser men here!  Only lesser races!”
    To this, the lines of men standing behind the king shouted their agreement, utterly drowning the threatening pound of the Orcs.  Elessar raised Andúril and a horn sounded over all.  In one movement, the Grey Company surged forward to begin the battle.
    Faramir watched this new motion for but a moment, only long enough to see it erupt into the utter chaos of battle.  As the Grey Company advanced, Faramir signaled the White Company to turn west.  Swift as their horses would carry them, they surged down the path opened to them by their rescuers, toward the river Andúin.  The Steward came last of them, shouting over the rumble of the horses’ hooves.
    “Ride!  To the river!  Ride now!”
    Above them, the dark shape of a fell worm circled, barely heeding the command of its master.  It turned to make for its cliff-side refuge once, but the crack of a cruel whip brought it about.  The rider mastered it and it swooped down low over the retreating White Company.  Faramir tied his horses reins to his saddle quickly and made to ready his bow.  But, the worm was over him too quickly and he could not hold his horse steady enough without the use of his hands.
    Then, quick as lightning, Léowine spurred back toward Faramir upon Windmane, an arrow already upon the string of his small bow.  Using the skill taught to him since childhood, he mastered his horse with legs alone.  Looping around behind Faramir, between him and the wheeling worm, he let his arrow fly.  It caught flesh, where the worm’s serpentine neck joined to its body.  The worm thrashed, but did not cry out.  It struggled onward for a moment more, then fell rolling from the sky.  When it landed upon the ground, its rider was caught beneath.
    As Léowine caught up to Faramir and the two of them came riding after the rest of the White Company, the Steward cast an ear back toward the fading sound of battle behind them.  For a moment, he was torn in two, desiring both to lead his own company to safety and to stay and aid his king.  But Elessar’s order had been clear; he was to make for Cair Andros.  And so, he went.
    And thus was the rescue of the White Company achieved.

    Some hours after their retreat, the White Company approached the fleet waters of the Andúin and the island in their midst known as Cair Andros.  Trees stood out upon its shore and in between them high walls of brown stone could be glimpsed, capped every so often with short, round turrets where archers stood on watch.  The shore lines were broken only by two grand, wooden bridges which reached from the island to the east shore of Ithilien and the west shore of Anórien.  Buildings rose from the center of the island, clustered together as if huddling from some menace, clinging to the tall tower in their center, the tallest structure by far.  The space between this small city and the island walls was covered in a ring of woodland.  Paths had been cut through it at need and a wide one went from the gates at the bridges to the city.  As the White Company approached the east bridge, the figures atop the walls moved about with activity.
    Faramir rode at the head of the company, careful to keep an eye upon Beregond.  Though for some time the captain had been as sharp as ever, as they journeyed he grew ever more silent and wan.  At one point, he had all but fallen out of his saddle, asleep.  Thus, Faramir silently took on more and more of Beregond’s duties as they went.
    Now they crossed the east bridge and the gate into the fortress walls opened.  The company entered the forests within and when they had come to a large enough clearing Faramir ordered a camp set.  The captain of the east gate came down and met the Steward amidst the activity.
    “Prince Faramir,” he said, “we had heard of trouble east of here, but we did not know the White Company rode.”
    “We ride from battle at Minas Morgul,” said Faramir, “the king and the Grey Company will follow us shortly.”
    “I shall inform the lord of the city.  Have you wounded?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then I shall send for healers as well,” said the soldier.  He gave a short bow.  “Welcome to Cair Andros, Lord Arandur.”
    After the soldier departed, Faramir realized he had lost track of Beregond.  Never one to shirk his duty, the captain had busied himself with setting the camp.  Faramir searched for him and found him not long later, speaking to Léowine.  Mid-way through their conversation, Beregond started and the Ithilrochon reached a calming hand out to his shoulder.  Beregond shook it off and stalked away with new purpose.  Faramir went after him, but lost him amid the shuffle of the company and the sunset-dappled shadows of the trees.
    “My lord,” Mablung called a moment later.  The Ranger appeared out of the crowd and came to Faramir.  “My lord, the men are near out of their food.  We cannot feed everyone this night at full ration.”
    “I’ll not have my company march home hungry,” said Faramir, shaking his head, “send five men into the city to obtain what provisions we need.  Have them tell the merchants that I shall reimburse them personally if need be.”
    “Aye, my lord,” said Mablung.  He was about to leave when Faramir halted him.
    “I seek Beregond.  Have you seen him?”
    “Not since we crossed the east bridge.”
    “Do you know what rest he has taken?”
    Mablung paused, a peculiar look of thought upon his face.  Slowly, he shook his head.  “I had not noticed until now, but I cannot recall if he has had any since we left Minas Estel, though he insisted the rest of us take rest in turns.”
    Faramir nodded his thanks and, as Mablung left to tend to his duties, recommenced his search for his captain.  It was near an hour later and the sun was almost set in the west when he found him.  Beregond was tiredly issuing orders to the city healers who had come and seemed to have determined to stay near the wounded.
    “Beregond, you should take some rest,” said Faramir as he finally caught up with him.
    The captain, however, took the conversation in another direction entirely, as if he had not heard the Steward at all.  “My lord!  I am told that Bergil rode to Minas Tirith to summon the Grey Company!”
    “He did,” Faramir answered, evenly.
    “Léowine tells me he was attacked and wounded by one of the fell worms!”
    “He was, but-”
    “By your leave, my lord, I would ride to Minas Tirith at once.”
    “Nay,” Faramir answered quickly, “at least not at once.  You must take some rest before that.”
    “But, my lord-”
    “I will hear no argument from you on this, Beregond; you have not slept in nearly three days, I am told.  Bergil rode to save you.  It would do him no good if you were to fall from your horse and be lost in the wood.”
    There was silence between the two men for a long moment as Faramir’s words moved through Beregond’s exhausted mind.  The captain’s eyes seemed to scream out the frustration he was no doubt feeling, then gave way to utter helplessness.  Desperately, Beregond held back tears and he leaned against the nearest tree in weariness.  Faramir put a steadying hand on his shoulder.
    “He is my son,” said Beregond, “I should be with him.  I should have been there to protect him.”
    “Fear not,” said Faramir, “I am told by the king that Bergil’s wounds will have him abed for some days, but they will not kill him.  And he is receiving the best of care in the White City.  Rest.  Ride to him in the morning.  I shall look to the company in the meantime.”

    Some hours later, the Grey Company rode through the east gate of Cair Andros, King Elessar and Gimli at its head.  Captain Inglor had been wounded and was carried on a horse before his lieutenant.  Ghan rode his pony nearby them.
    As they entered the city, Faramir was there to greet them with the lord of the city, Megildan, and his son, Belecthor, standing near.  It was apparent to them that the result of the battle weighed heavily on them.  Though the White Company had been rescued, Minas Morgul was now in the hands of Urlak and the Orkish races.  Elessar and Faramir spoke long with Megildan that night and made plans for the defense of Ithilien.  Though Minas Estel was well protected by the White Company, Cair Andros now needed reinforcement.  Elessar pledged a measure of the Knights of Gondor to the task.
    That night, as the stars shone between the trees above the camp’s flickering fires, the two companies mingled and many tales of the battle were exchanged.  Chief among them was the story of the Dwarf Ghan who charged to the defense of the fallen Captain Inglor and trampled no less than three Uruk-hai beneath his great shield and slew the first with his ax, even through the iron helm of the Uruk-hai.  Thus it was that among the men of Gondor, Ghan was ever known as Ironax.
    A tale was also told of a great battle between Elessar and Urlak.  They had met on the battlefield and the Orkish king had issued a challenge.  In due time, Andúril clashed with the Uruk-hai’s hideous halberd.  Men who saw it later said that though Elessar had looked small compared Urlak, still he shone the brighter and mightier of the two.  At last, Andúril broke the Uruk-hai’s halberd in two and Urlak was forced to run to his army for aid, ending the challenge in dishonor.
    And yet, as wondrous as these tales of the battle were, there was behind them a great sense of loss and unease.  Many had been lost and Minas Morgul was once again occupied by evil.  All assembled at Cair Andros were aware of what the future was going to hold for by the end of the night, there was not a soldier in the camp who did not name the battle the First Battle of Minas Morgul.

    Faramir spent most of that night in counsel with King Elessar.  After speaking for long hours about the course of the battle and the circumstances that had led to it, several things were decided.
    The first was that word needed to be sent to Edoras of the circumstances in Ithilien.  Some of the northern reaches of the Moon-land boarded Rohan with only the great river to separate them.  If war were to break out in all earnest, Éomer-king would need to look to that short spit of his eastern boarder.
    A messenger was sent also to the Prince Legolas at Galenost.  With the Orkish conquest of Minas Morgul, the Elven settlement was near to the paths that the Orcs would now frequent.  Though Mablung’s Rangers would do what they could from Henneth Annún, the Elves would have to fortify their new city.
    The king decided to reinstate the garrison at Osgiliath which since the end of the War of the Ring had been disbanded in order to man other outposts to the south and north.  The sight of the fell worm, Elessar said, had rattled him being so close to Minas Tirith; indeed, so far into the lands of Gondor.  The Citadel of the Stars and its crossing were still too critical to leave its fate in the hands of other leaguers.
    And finally, the Steward and the King gave thought to communication between Minas Tirith and Minas Estel.  They had no doubt not that Urlak had devised his trap thinking that word would not reach the City of Kings.  He had even acted to prevent just that by sending the fell worm after Glorlas and Bergil.  The youths’ skills as Rangers had been all that had saved both of them.  Faramir was quick to praise the king’s foresight in ordering Minas Estel to be built within sight of Minas Tirith.  Their visibility to each other allowed for a visual signal.  The beacon fires had worked well to save time in summoning the Riders of Rohan during the War of the Ring; there was no reason it could not be used in Ithilien.
    The sun was risen by the time all these plans had been made and Faramir went out from the king’s tent to find Beregond once again.  The captain had evidently taken to the nearest empty cot he could find the night before for Faramir found him in a tent mere horse-lengths from where they had last spoken, near the tents of the healers.  Faramir was loathe to rouse Beregond, for the captain slept deeply and looked exhausted still, but he would not hinder a father worried about his child.  And so, he saw Beregond off mid-morning, riding over the western bridge of Cair Andros and into the land of Anórien.

    Beregond rode hard throughout most of the day.  He found the road that led around the tip of Ered Nimrais and followed it south.  Amon Dín came into his view mid-afternoon and by the time the sun was setting, he entered the gates of Minas Tirith.  He went at once to the sixth circle and quickly saw to his horse, then made for the Houses of Healing.
    As he entered, he passed a noble who could not have been any older than he.  His hair was graying already and his cloth was dyed a deep red that was generally reserved for persons of status.  He moved with calm but strangely self-interested purpose.
    Beregond cared not for protocol at the moment and stepped past the noble fleetly.  But his way was blocked a moment later by the noble’s hand and he saw that his face was twisted into impatient recognition.
    “You are Beregond, son of Baranor, are you not?” he asked, his voice cold.
    “I am,” said Beregond, “is there-”
    “Why are you in the White City?” the noble asked, anger now in his tone.  “Certainly, the king has not reinstated you to the Citadel Guard!”
    “Indeed he has not,” said Beregond in confusion, “I remain Captain of the White Company.  Forgive me, but I must go within.  My son is-”
    “You have no business in Minas Tirith, vile serpent!” snapped the noble, moving to block Beregond’s way into the Houses.
    “I beg pardon, sir,” said Beregond, his patience wearing thin and his ire rising.
    “Pardon!  You are a slayer of your brothers-in-arms and you will receive no pardon from me!”  The noble now braced himself in the doorway, glaring at the captain.
    Finally, Beregond was at his wit’s end.  As his rage exploded forth, he grabbed the noble by his collar and pushed him against the post of the doorway.
    “I know not who you are, nor do I care!” Beregond growled.  “But you stand between me and my son who lies wounded within.  By the Valar, if you do not move aside, I will move you one way or another!”
    The noble shook free of Beregond’s grasp and regained his feet, brushing his hands off on the captain’s leather gambeson.  Though shorter than Beregond by a great measure, he still managed to gaze down his nose at him in contempt.
    “T’was my beloved cousin you slew at Fen Hollen,” said the noble, “you should not have been allowed to remain in Gondor, let alone be made captain of a company of soldiers.”
    Beregond threw up his hands and turned away.  He stalked into the Houses of Healing in a foul mood.  As he went, he heard the noble shouting after him.
    “This is not over, traitor!  You will rue the day you crossed Maelrúth, Lord of Ethring!”
    “As if I do not already,” Beregond muttered to himself.
    After that, it took him only a few minutes and an inquiry of a healer to locate Bergil’s room in the Houses.  He all but ran there, skidding to a halt when he reached the proper door.
    His son lay within upon a low bed.  Bergil was pale and his skin shone with sweat.  One leg was leaden with splints, his left arm was bound to his side, and bandages were wrapped about his midriff tightly.  He slumbered fitfully, seemingly unfeeling of his hurts.
    Bergil was not alone in his room.  As Beregond entered, he saw a young lady, not much older than Bergil and dressed in the brown habit of a healer’s apprentice, lighting a hanging lamp to ward off the growing dark.  Hearing Beregond, she turned to him and curtsied quickly.
    “You are his father?” she asked.  “You are Beregond?”
    Beregond’s resolved crumbled at seeing the plight of his son.  His voice caught in his throat and he could do little more than nod in response to the young healer.
    “Your son will heal, sir captain,” she said, “exhaustion and the heat-fever took him as well as a wound the master healer named a spider bite.  He has a broken leg and his arm was removed from its place in his shoulder, but both are in remarkably good condition, considering how far he went with them as they were.  He needs but rest and time to heal.”
    “How long has he been like this?” Beregond managed to say, taking a few uncertain steps toward his son.
    “He was brought to us two days ago,” the healer replied, “in truth, he is already much improved.”
    Beregond nodded his understanding and placed his hands on the back of the small wooden chair next to the head of Bergil’s bed.  “If I could have some time?” he asked.
    “Of course, sir captain,” said the healer, and turned to leave.
    “Wait,” said Beregond, with an afterthought, “you have watched over him?”
    “Yes.”
    “What is your name?”
    “My name is Higethryth, sir captain.”
    “That is no Sindarin name.”
    “Nay.  It is Rohirric.  I hail from Edoras and have come to Minas Tirith for study in the healing arts.  I wish to follow in the steps of the Lady Éowyn who herself studies healing.”
    “I thank you for your patient watch over my son, Higethryth of Edoras.”
    The healer acknowledged the thanks with a slight bow of her head and a gentle smile.  “I take my leave.  Good eve to you, sir captain.”
    As the young healer departed, Beregond took the seat by Bergil’s bed.  He clasped the youth’s unbound hand in his and gently called his name.  Bergil stirred, but did not awaken, so Beregond put his other hand upon Bergil’s brow and pushed aside sweat-matted hair.  He called Bergil’s name once again and the youth’s eyes opened and slowly focused upon him.
    “Father?” he asked as if through a haze.  “Am I dreaming?”
    “No, lad,” Beregond answered around forming tears and a mirthless laugh, “no dream, this time.  It is I.”
    “You wanted me to stay in Minas Estel,” Bergil murmured, “and I went forth anyway.”
    Beregond hushed him with a whisper and a hand upon his cheek.  “No, no, you did well.  Your message and your flight may have saved the company.  I am proud of you.”
    “The worm frightened me.”
    “I know.  Fear it no longer; it is slain.”
    “Are you leaving?”
    “Nay, Bergil.  I shall watch over you.”
    “I came through the Dawnless Day.”
    “I know.”
    With no more words between them, Bergil dropped off into slumber once again.  This time, however, it was deep and peaceful.  And there Beregond sat all that night, his son’s hand clasped in his.

    Three-hundred of the White Company had ridden forth from Minas Estel.  Weeks later, near one-hundred of them lay at rest in Caras Faerath in the southern shadow of the city’s greatest tower.  Of the three battalions, Mablung’s Rangers had taken the heaviest losses with nearly fifty of their number dead.  And so, it was decided that it was time to graduate the first class of Emyn Arnen’s Ranger-cadets.  Twenty-nine received their first orders on the same day as the setting of the great tower’s capstone.  Among them and received in honor were Bergil and Glorlas who of the cadets had already risked much in defense of Ithilien.
    All this happened a month after the mid-year in the Citadel of Minas Estel.  Beregond handed out the commissions to the young Rangers, Mablung at his side calling the names.  When Bergil’s name was called, the youth came forward slowly, still hobbling upon a pair of wooden crutches.  And at that moment, Beregond saw in his son’s eyes that something had changed.  There was new understanding and yet also something akin to pride, though not as presumptuous.  In the space of a few short weeks, Bergil had grown.
    Part of Beregond wept for that for his son’s innocence he perceived to have come from his wife who had passed.  And now, that too was gone.  Yet there remained admiration in Bergil’s eyes when he looked upon his father and Beregond found that it flattered him.

    A great scaffold had thus far wrapped itself around Minas Estel’s greatest tower.  Most of the city had assembled to watch the ascent of the tower’s capstone and the citadel was opened to them.  Slowly, the copper-shod stone was dragged to the top by the Dwarves of Gimli’s folk who had accompanied it.  In the noon-time sun, it gleamed of metal fire, as if the sparks of the Dwarven hammers that had forged it were caught within.  As it was placed, a great cheer arose from the crowd.  Finally, Minas Estel’s full height was achieved; near four-hundred feet from the base of the mountain to the tip of that capstone.  Though it did not rival Minas Tirith and the height of the Tower of Ecthelion, still it was a marvel to behold.
    Standing before the assembled crowd, Faramir waited for their cheers to calm.  In his hand was the White Rod of the Stewards and standing near was Éowyn, though she did not take his hand.
    “This day,” said Faramir to the crowd, “with the laying of this stone, we men of Gondor and our brothers from Rohan declare that we are all men of Ithilien.  This city stands as a declaration to all of Middle-earth; the time of men has come and we shall dwell here as long as this great tower stands.  Already we have purchased Minas Estel’s defense with the blood of our own.  Man have already fallen to save Ithilien.  And not only men, but others stand with us; Dwarves and Elves.  Let it be known to any who would raise their sword against us; Ithilien does not stand alone.”
    Here the crowd cheered and a cry came from the Dwarves high atop the tower.
    “Baruk khazad!  Khazad ai menu!”
    Faramir was glad of the pause this gave him for once again, something whispered in his mind.  He saw again shadow to the east, but there was also light in Ithilien.  Finally, the crowd quieted again and Faramir found his voice.
    “Let it be known in the farthest reaches of Eä!  The light begins here!"

As always, thanks go out to everyone for their encouraging words.  Thanks especially to Raksha the Demon for the mini-Nuzgúl about spiders and French Pony for being my sounding board.  Also thanks to Branwyn of HASA for much feedback and discussion.

Here’s some translation notes;

Leithio goe lín.  Garo post a nesto.  “Release your fear.  Have rest and heal.”

Urlak bhosh zurlug!  Urlak bhosh zurlug!  Has no translation.  Followed what I could find of patterns Tolkien himself established for Orkish; in other words, total gibberish.

Baruk khazad!  Khazad ai menu!  Dwarven battle cry lifted from the books.

Galborn – one of the Ranger-cadets.  Sindarin meaning “red light.”

Fréodgyth – the name of Faramir and Éowyn’s third child and first daughter.  From the Old English word “fréod” meaning “friend” and a feminine name suffix.

Glorlas – one of the Ranger-cadets.  Sindarin meaning “gold leaf.”

Megildan – Lord of Cair Andros.  Sindarin meaning “sword-wright.”

Maelrúth – the name of the noble that Beregond ran into.  Sindarin with a meaning I don’t want to give away just yet.  Needless to say, if he was an Elf, this would be his mother-given name.

Higethryth – the name of the young healer in Minas Tirith.  From the Old English word “hige” meaning “thinking” and a feminine name suffix.

Apologies to those of you reading this off SoA; I've been posting back chapters and this is the last one that is heretofore finished.  I'm afraid it's going to be something of a wait for chapter four.

And, as always, a hint for the next chapter; old friends return from western lands.  ^_^

Bado na sídh.

Berz.