T.A. 2975

Denethor woke up with a dull headache, a rare occurrence whose cause, in this particular case, was all too obvious.   Seldom did he overindulge in celebratory drinking, and now he was paying the price for his departure from temperance.  Wincing at a stab of particularly unwelcome daylight, he dragged himself out from under his tangle of blankets, shoved cold boots onto his feet, and pulled his cloak off the back of a chair.  Ignoring the congealing platter of breakfast meats someone had laid out for him, he managed to gulp down some water from the flagon beside it.  Pouring the rest into a basin, he splashed his face, more for the reviving effect of the ice-cold water than anything else; dragged a razor across his day-old stubble and smoothed back his hair.  Finally marginally presentable enough to appear before the troops, he strapped on his sword and shouldered his way out of this tent.

It must have rained again in the night, for puddles once again dotted the rutted mire that passed for a lane.  Though it felt colder than it had been last night, it was regrettably not cold enough yet to freeze the muck solid.  Soldiers spreading straw to sop it up swung their heads in his direction as he passed, and he nodded back with grim officiousness, hiding his amusement at their hopeful expressions.  So the rumors of a dismissal had already spread like wildfire.  Denethor smiled inwardly, not begrudging the homesickness he shared.  It would be gratifying to see Minas Tirith again, especially with the holiday approaching. 

As he approached the headquarters tent, one of his aides jumped off the top of a partially-loaded wagon and matched his stride.  “Good morning, Lord Denethor," he said.  "The vans left at first light carrying the last of the wounded.”  

Denethor grunted his satisfaction.  “Good.  Scouting reports?”

“All quiet, save that Thorongil’s company has not yet reported.”

“He is still not back?”  As welcome as he usually found the captain’s absence, the blatant disregard of his orders was beginning to rankle.  Still, no good would come from fueling the already-rampant gossip about a rivalry between himself and the men’s favorite officer.  “Thank you,” he said in a tone of dismissal.  “Send for my captains.”

One of the men’s less-favored officers was waiting for him in the headquarters tent, lounging on the edge of the table and idly shuffling unit markers around on a tactical map.  Seeing Denethor, he reached across the table to hand him a thick message pouch without bothering to stand up.  “Letters.  They came by messenger this morning.”

“Good morning, Turgon.” Denethor said, accepting the packet with a raised eyebrow.  “Is there any word about the relief I requested?”

“I would not presume to open the Captain-general’s mail,” Turgon said with a wounded expression, “even if he is my brother-in-law.  But I did take the liberty of sorting them for your convenience.”

Denethor broke open the seal of the letter Turgon had placed on the top of the stack. “The relief company left Pelargir the day before yesterday,” he read.  “They will arrive tomorrow morning, if the weather holds.”

“That is good news,” Turgon said.  “I hope that means you still plan to break camp and depart for Minas Tirith today.” 

Denethor tapped the letter against his palm, considering.  In truth, he had hoped the relief troops would arrive before now.   The delay meant he would have to leave some troops behind, to man the camp.  “I suppose a small force should suffice to secure the camp until the relief force arrives,” he said finally.  “Say, one company.  I’ll even let you make the selection.”

Turgon’s elated grin collapsed into a scowl.  “So you are to be the hero for dismissing the troops for Mettarë, and I am to be the ogre who picks those to stay behind, is that it?”

Denethor smiled.  “Rank has its privileges.”

“Well, then,” Turgon mused.  “Whom to select?” He paced around the table, fingering map markers and displacing them as if they were chess pieces.  “If I were a good leader, I would choose myself to stay behind, as a testament to my self-sacrifice and dedication.  On the other hand, if I were a clever leader, I would use this opportunity to establish my supremacy over the other captains.   No wolf ever made pack leader by allowing the others to eat first, after all.  Men respect strength over weakness.  What do you say, Denethor - nobility or assertiveness - which would the men respect more?”

“I think you should pick yourself to stay behind, if only so you stop begetting brats on my sister every Mettarë,” Denethor said sourly.  “But if you want to know what the men respect, maybe you ought to ask the glorious Captain Thorongil.”  

“Pity he isn’t here,” Turgon said slyly, “or I would.”

“And he would tell you to put your men first,” Denethor replied. "And you would ignore him, as you do me." 

“Truly I lack leadership ability," Turgon said.  "Lucky for me I married well.  I confess I didn’t believe you when you said we would conclude the campaign before Mettarë.  It seemed a hopeless task.”

“You must have lost a pretty penny on that bet.”

“My lord Denethor,” Turgon said, mustering an insulted expression, “gambling is strictly prohibited amongst the Guard corps.”

“As is drinking to excess,” Denethor said dryly, smiling to himself as he recognized the seal on the next letter, “but that does not seem to stop anyone.”  He brushed his finger gently over the delicate ridges of the wax before slicing through them with a fingernail.  “You really ought to trust me more, Turgon.  I had no more desire than you to spend the winter in this bleak mud hole.  I plan to spend Mettarë feasting, drinking, and dancing in the bright hall of Merethrond – though somehow I suspect feasting and drinking are the least of your priorities.”  He blinked and fell silent as he began to digest the troubling contents of the second letter. 

“Your guess is right,” Turgon answered, oblivious to his preoccupation.  “It has been exactly five months and sixteen days since I last held your buxom sister in my arms, and I do not intend to extend that record more than one week longer.  But how can you pretend to disdain my mortal weakness while you yourself are glowing like a campfire?  Or am I mistaken in thinking that is your lady’s letter you fondle so gently?”

Only too aware he was flushing from his throat to his hairline, Denethor looked down at the letter it would be more accurate to say he clutched rather than fondled.  “It is indeed her seal, as you well know, but you mistake my mood.  Finduilas sends word that she is traveling with her family to Minas Tirith for Mettarë.”

“That is wonderful news,” Turgon said, his expression darkening only as he noticed Denethor’s.  “Isn’t it?”

Glaring daggers at him, Denethor threw the letter onto the table.  “It is a conspiracy,” he pronounced.  “Her family never travel to Minas Tirith for Mettarë.”

“A conspiracy?”  Turgon rolled his eyes.  “Have you considered that she might simply miss you?  That her heart longs for you; that she cannot bear being parted from you?”

“Rubbish,” Denethor answered.  “It is a proposal she wants.  She has been hinting at it for months, and she is full aware that betrothals are toasted at the stroke of midnight on Mettarë.  Mark my words, Turgon - she is maneuvering for her attack.”

Turgon laughed.  “She is a lady of Gondor, Denethor, not an opposing general.”

Denethor looked at him disdainfully.  “Do you truly think there is a difference?”

"In that case, rejoice in your good fortune,” Turgon said, mockingly raising a stale glass of ale, “for you shall never be defeated by a more beautiful rival.”

“I do not intend to be defeated at all,” he replied.  “By anyone.”

“Ah, Denethor, when will you realize that not all defeat is bitter?” Turgon said.  “Love is not war, but a grand game.  As men, we are fated to chase a woman until we permit her to catch us.  And it is high time you allowed yourself to be caught, my friend.  For more than two years you have been courting this lady.  There is already talk in the city of your unseemly delay in offering a marriage proposal.”

Denethor looked up from a supply report.  “What kind of talk?”   

“The girl’s reputation is suffering, and her family are becoming insulted on her behalf.   In fact, her father intends to speak to yours when they are here for Mettarë.”

“You cannot be serious,” Denethor said.    

“This is no tavern wench you are courting,” Turgon said.  “The Prince of Dol Amroth is no man to trifle with.  His daughter could have any man in Gondor.”

Denethor looked down at the maps layered on the table.  “Then let her have him.”

“Do you not love the lady?”

“It is not that simple.”

“It is just that simple,” Turgon said.  “You find a pretty, well-bred girl, with nice broad hips – preferably of a higher social class; although in your case I suppose we must ignore that restriction – and simply get on with marrying her.  It is done every day.”

Denethor scowled at him.  “How do you know all this?”

“What, that people marry?  Gracious Elbereth, I must make a point of circulating you more in society.”

“No,” Denethor said coldly, “how do you know that Finduilas’s parents are planning to speak to my father?”

Turgon smiled.  “As it happens, I also received a letter from my beloved this morning.”

Denethor groaned.  “I should have known.”  His sister was an insufferable busybody, but her gossip was always accurate.  Suddenly the prospect of feasting Mettarë away in Minas Tirith seemed much less appealing.  Not only would he be scorned by the entire Dol Amroth contingent for insulting the honor of their beloved princess, but now he would have his father and Finduilas’s conspiring against him as well.  He rested his aching forehead in his palm.  “You are right, Turgon.  Love is not war.  War is much, much simpler.”

Turgon slapped him on the back.  “So it is.  And you handled this war masterfully.  My congratulations.”

Denethor snorted.  “Save your congratulations for Thorongil.”

“You give yourself too little credit, my friend.”  Turgon said, pouring him a glass of ale from a flagon that had probably sat out all night.  “Here.  Drink this; you look like you need it.  It was your brilliant strategy and execution that brought about the quick success of this campaign.”

“Yes, my strategy was indeed brilliant,” Denethor said, taking a drink of the vile liquid.  It could hardly make him feel worse, after all.  “But it is not the subtle strategy, the clever placement of the pieces, or the flawless execution of each move that the men remember - only the final, courageous gambit of one piece - Captain Thorongil.”

“Courageous!”  Turgon scoffed.  “Brazen, you mean.  Foolhardy, even.  He should have been slaughtered, along with his entire company.”

“I would have agreed with you,” Denethor said, “but for one small thing.  He wasn’t.  In fact, he came through it without a scratch.”  He pursed his lips against a sour taste that had nothing to do with the ale.  “It was the most brilliant maneuver I have ever seen.”

“It was luck,” Turgon maintained loyally.  “Don’t fret over it.  Soldiers are like flighty birds, Denethor.  Their gaze is easily distracted by a flash of colorful feather. But do not think they have forgotten who their Captain-general is.  The men would follow you anywhere.  They would die for you.”

“They would follow me, yes,” he said, “but it is Thorongil they love.”  It had been in Thorongil’s name that he had been forced to raise his cup last night, again and again; Thorongil’s name that rang out in the camp until his ears pounded from hearing it.  He forced the memory aside and squared his shoulders.  “But no matter.  The men are soldiers of Gondor and I need not own their hearts to command their allegiance.   There is only one heart that I refuse to cede to Thorongil – the Steward’s.”

“Surely there is no risk of that,” Turgon said.

Denethor once would have found it nearly inconceivable to imagine that anyone, much less a nameless foreigner, could threaten his standing with his own father, yet the outrageous now seemed hideously close to realization.  In Ecthelion’s eyes he had seen a spark of the same enchantment that so captivated the men.  There was something magical about Thorongil, some spell he cast on everyone around him.  Not surprising, he supposed, in someone so suspiciously friendly with Mithrandir.  The crafty conjurer never did anything without some hidden purpose.  “We shall see,” he said, “when we return to Minas Tirith for the victory celebration. Maybe I was foolish to quietly endure Thorongil’s ascendancy, believing his star would eventually sputter and burn out.  Instead, his renown has grown until he threatens to eclipse me even in my own house.”

“He is nobody.  He is no threat to you.”

Denethor looked at him sharply.  “Isn’t he?”  With a finger he traced the long, winding line of the Anduin on the map before him, from the mouths of Anduin to Minas Tirith.  “You are loyal to a fault, Turgon.  It makes you blind. And a blind man is of no use to me.”

“You summoned us, Captain-General?”

Denethor beckoned in the two captains who stood at the door.  “Where is Thorongil?  Is he with you?”

They looked at one another uncomfortably, before finally the taller of the two spoke.  Hador, a thin young man from Pelargir with pale eyes and a scar across the bridge of his nose, shuffled his feet slightly, as if fighting the urge to flee.  “A messenger arrived a little while ago, bringing word from Thorongil that he would be delayed until at least tomorrow.  His scouts spotted orc sign east of the Poros crossing.”

“Orc sign.”  Denethor felt fire rising in his face again.  “We have just concluded the greatest campaign against the Southrons in nearly a hundred years, and you mean to tell me that Thorongil is running around hunting ors?” 

Hador winced.  “It appears that way, my lord.”

“Orcs,” Denethor repeated incredulously.  “Orcs are everywhere, like mice in a cornfield! Why is he wasting his time chasing orcs?”  Out of the corner of his eye, Denethor could see Turgon, smirking.  With a vicious wave of his hand, he dismissed the two newcomers.  “Get out of here.  Make ready the troops to move, but wait for my order.  And send me that messenger of Thorongil’s.”  When they had left, he spun to confront Turgon.  “You think this is amusing?  I will not stand for insubordination.  I ordered him to return last night.”

Turgon snorted.  “What of it?  Leave him to his orcs!  For his tardiness, let him be the one chosen to stay behind.  Of all of us, he alone has no family waiting to celebrate the holiday with him.”

“None except for my own,” Denethor retorted.  “Do you know what my father would say if I returned victorious to Minas Tirith without the Steward’s favorite captain?  I would be scorned as a sluggard for making merry while the hero of the hour toils away in Gondor’s defense; reviled for leaving my rival to clean up the field of battle while I rush home to claim all victory for myself.   Indeed I will even be accused of engineering his absence to deny him the glory and honors awaiting him.  No, Turgon.  I will not return to Minas Tirith until I have Thorongil firmly under my wing.  It will be I who raises the first toast to him in the great hall of Merethrond – as his proud and gracious commander.”

“My lord?”  A young soldier stood hesitantly in the doorway. 

Denethor waved him inside.  “Are you the messenger from Captain Thorongil?”

“Yes, my lord.  Cirion is my name.”  The boy was clutching his hat in his hand, nearly shaking with fear.  Evidently Hador had told him the Captain-general was in a foul humour.

Denethor crossed his arms.  “Let us hear the story.  Where did you leave Captain Thorongil?”

“It was about an hour’s ride upstream from the Poros crossing,” the boy answered.  “The captain wanted to make sure the retreating Southrons did not double back and try to flank us.  He split the company into two platoons, one scouting south of the river and one north.  He took the northern party.  Around noon yesterday, one of the forward scouts saw orc sign to the east of us, in the foothills.  That was when the captain ordered me to ride back to camp and give word that he would delay his return until tomorrow, at the earliest.”

“Very well.  Go tell the stable master to ready my horse for travel,” Denethor ordered him, “and get a fresh one for yourself.  Requisition supplies for three days, get them loaded onto the horses, and be ready to depart in one hour.”  When the boy had gone, he turned to Turgon.  “Go to your tent, pack your things, find two bowmen who are not too hung over to shoot straight, and meet me in the stable.”

Turgon stared at him disbelievingly.  “You actually intend to go after Thorongil.”

“I do.”

”Instead of leaving for Minas Tirith.”

“I intend,” Denethor said slowly, “to go after Thorongil and march him back to Minas Tirith in time to celebrate Mettarë.  In fetters, if necessary.  And you,”  he emphasized by poking Turgon in the chest, “are coming with me.” 

Following Thorongil’s path along the north bank of the Poros, toward the jagged line of the Ephel Dúath, Denethor led from the front, relishing the silence.  He was still in too dark a mood for conversation, though over time his rage at Thorongil had subsided to a dull and rather peevish annoyance.  In fact, he had begun to feel slightly childish for making a show of dragging his recalcitrant captain back to Minas Tirith, instead of simply leaving him to his ridiculous orc hunt.  He was forced to admit, privately, at least, that it would be extremely unlike Thorongil to deliberately provoke him through insubordination.  Always scrupulously proper, Thorongil would certainly not jeopardize his position now, even as he poised himself to penetrate Ecthelion’s inner circle.  He played the game very, very well; never seeming to aim higher than his station, even as his station simply seemed to rise of its own accord, like a raft bobbing in a rising tide.  And even Denethor was forced to admit that Thorongil knew orcs like no man he had ever met.  He would never reveal where he acquired such instincts and skill, but Denethor did not think it was from Rohan.  The Rohirrim fought orcs like they fought everything else – on horseback, in mass formation, screaming bloody war cries, obliterating all that stood in their path.  But where the Rohirrim were all brute force and no cunning, Thorongil hunted orcs silently, stealthily, like a fox stalking its prey.  Denethor had the uneasy feeling that he must have seen something unusually troubling to prompt his uncharacteristic disobedience.

It was a a few leagues east of where Cirion had been dispatched back to camp where the tracks of Thorongil's party intersected with those of a large group or orcs.

“Look here.”  Turgon dismounted to examine the tracks.

“Orcs?”  Denethor scanned the surrounding hills, seeing nothing but bare trees and rocks.

“Plenty of them, but something else as well.”

Denethor knelt beside him and fingered the faint impressions in the moldy earth.  “Bare footprints?”

“Men’s footprints,” Turgon said.  

“But barefoot men?”  Denethor scowled at the impressions.  “Southrons, do you think?”

Turgon shook his head.  “Soldiers would not be barefoot.”

“Slaves, then?”

“I would wager.  Though we’re a bit far north for slave trafficking.  Odd.” 

Denethor sighed and sat back on his heels, scanning the leaden sky that threatened snow before morning.  If Thorongil had indeed come upon a group of slaves being taken as tribute to Sauron, he would not give up the chase, even if it took him to the fences of Mordor.  Denethor felt a chill run up his spine.  He turned to his grim-faced captain.  “Leave a marker here,” he said quietly, “to signal anyone coming behind us.”  Though there would be no one looking for them, he reckoned, until at least tomorrow afternoon.  He stood up and glanced around at his men.  “String your bows,” he ordered. “Have your swords at the ready.  It looks as if we may have to use them.”

The afternoon wore on and the light grew greyer as they made their way eastward, along a high path above the Poros.  The group rode in silence, ever alert for the stray snap of a twig or bird call.  If there was a small blessing, Denethor reckoned, it was the time of year that left the bare woodland sparse, the undergrowth winter-dead.  The risk of ambush was low in the open forest.  Only when the trail bent sharply around the jutted shoulder of a hill was Denethor forced to send a scout ahead to clear the trail.  It was at one such bend that he waited, with Turgon and the two bowmen, while Cirion, the messenger from Thorongil’s company, climbed up the ridge above them to scout the trail beyond. 

“It will be dark in a few hours,” Turgon said.

Denethor took off his gloves and tucked his hands into his armpits to warm them.  “I know.” 

Turgon said nothing else, though Denethor knew what he was thinking.  After nightfall, this area would be infested with orcs.  They would soon need to scout for a campsite, someplace hidden and yet defensible, to hole up and wait for the dawn.  “If we do not see any sign of Thorongil’s party soon,” he said finally, “we will start looking for a place to make camp.”

Turgon nodded, then a sharp whistle came from above.  Seeing Cirion frantically gesturing, Denethor drew his sword and glanced behind him, satisfied to see the archers already sliding behind the cover of tree trunks as they fitted arrows to their bowstrings.  Turgon’s sword was at the ready.  A second whistle followed the first, and Cirion made the hand signal for “friendly troops” just as Denethor heard hoofbeats fast approaching around the bend.  He glanced backward, not sure the archers had seen the signal.  Risking a voice command, he hissed, “Hold your fire!”

An instant later, four horses thundered into view, each bearing a Gondorian soldier and a ragged, skinny figure wearing tattered scraps of clothing.  The riders rushed past their comrades before wheeling around, leaving the archers a clear field of fire to cover any pursuers.    Denethor strode forward and caught the reins of the lead soldier.  “Are you pursued?”

“I don’t think so,” the man gasped. He was a veteran of Thorongil’s company, a sturdy Lossarnach man named Hallas.  “The orcs have no horses, though we lost one man to their archers before we could get out of range.”

“Where is Thorongil?”

The soldier’s bleeding left arm was wrapped around his rescued slave; with his right he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder.  “Back there,” he said.  “Maybe a league.  They were still fighting, when we left.  We rescued five slaves from the orcs, and the captain ordered us to flee with them.”

“How many men does Thorongil have?” Denethor demanded. 

“There were nine of us.  The four you see here, our comrade who fell, Captain Thorongil, and three others still with him.”

“And how many orcs?

“A dozen or more.  We killed several while rescuing the slaves.  The fighting was still going on when we left to get these to safety.”

Denethor regarded the slave, compassion mingling with disgust.  The creature, barely recognizable as a human, trembled in the arms of the soldier.  It was stick-thin; hunched and hollow-eyed.  Dull skin clung to wasted limbs, and sparse hair of a drab, indeterminate color stuck out from its scalp.  Clearly, this was no healthy new tribute offering being delivered to Mordor, but an escapee from the infamous fields of Nurn, or from some unspeakable mine in the bowels of the Ephel Dúath.  He was surprised any had made it this far before being recaptured.  Sauron was said to pursue escapees relentlessly, and put them to a gruesome, public death to deter further attempts.  Denethor unfastened the pack full of provisions from his saddle and strapped it to Hallas’s.  “Take these people as far as the crossing of Poros” he said, “make camp there and feed them.  Send a messenger back for help.  In the morning, if we have not returned, leave one of you to safeguard the slaves, while the other two return to aid us.  Go!”  Without waiting for acknowledgement of his order or for Cirion to climb down from his perch, he mounted his horse and spurred it into a gallop even as he turned hard around the bend. 

No more than two miles further on, Denethor came upon a wounded horse, stomping restlessly beside the body of a man in Gondorian armor.  The horse was bleeding from an arrow in its rump, and the man had taken two in his back.  A matted mess of bloody hair clotted against the back of his head.  This must be the fifth horseman Hallas had mentioned.  He was too short and stocky to be Thorongil, and Denethor slowed only long enough to make sure he was dead before resuming a gallop.   A few more minutes of hard riding brought him to what must have been the main battlefield.  It was eerily quiet now, with five dead orcs strewn about a small clearing puddled with blood and littered with battle debris.  Denethor dismounted and paced around the clearing, scanning the confusing tangle of hoof prints, boot prints, and bare footprints in the churned earth.  “Where did they go?” he barked at Turgon, kneeling beside some tracks on the far side of the ravaged area.

“It looks like they split up,” Turgon answered.  “Three of Thorongil’s men rode that way,” he said pointing to a straight path leading eastward, toward the Ephel Dúath, “chasing a group of several orcs with two or three slaves. “All the other riders turned around and went back that way,” he said, indicating the direction from which they had just come. 

“Three in pursuit of the orcs, and five escaping with the slaves,” Denethor said.  “That makes eight.  But Hallas told us there were nine in all.”

“I am sure only three riders followed the orcs.” Turgon followed the tracks a little ways away from the churned earth of the battle site.  “The hooves imprinted well in the soft soil just here, and the ground is undisturbed beyond the clearing but for the tracks leading away.”  He stood and walked back to the near side of the clearing.  “It is harder to read the ground over here, but I it looks like six sets of hoof prints lead back the way we came.”

“Six sets?  But only five riders escaped with rescued slaves.”  Yet there must have been a sixth rider, if Turgon was right that only three pursued the orcs.  But if so, where was he?  Denethor cursed under his breath.   “All right,” he said after a moment.  “Turgon, take your two men and track the larger group.  And you,” he said to Cirion, “keep your bow out, and come with me.  We are going to find the missing man.”

I would have one of my lieutenants flogged for doing something this foolhardy, Denethor thought as he trotted back down the path the way he had come.  Reaching the place where they had found the wounded horse and its dead rider, he dismounted and knelt beside the corpse.  The boy came to stand beside him stiffly.  “His name was Carandur,” he said in a small voice.

“There is no time to bury him now,” Denethor said, trying to be gentle.  “We will come back and do it later, if we can.” It was a fiction.  The body would be gone by morning, eaten or dragged off by one of the foul creatures that prowled these woods at night.  “Take his sword, and any other valuables you think his family would treasure.”  When the boy did not move, Denethor himself retrieved the man’s sword from the ground and handed it to the boy, then rolled the body over to check for valuables, finding a small leather bag tied around the man’s waist, under his clothing.  Metal – probably coins – clinked inside as Denethor cut the thong around Carandur’s waist and handed the bag to Cirion.  “Here.  Keep this safe.  Now let us go find our sixth man.”  He stood up and looked around.  He was not the tracker Turgon was, but even he could not fail to spot crumpled underbrush and broken twigs where a horse had passed.  The sixth man had evidently ridden to where his comrade fell - maybe in his defense, and then for some reason left the path here.  “Look there.  Your missing comrade rode down the hill, toward the river.” 

“What about the slave, sir?”

“What slave?”

“If Carandur was the fifth man in Hallas’s group, where is the slave he was carrying?”

Denethor stared at the boy.  He had forgotten about the missing slave.  “The horse will be easier to track than a man,” he said finally, “and our first priority must be finding our own.  After that, perhaps we can look for the slave.”    

Denethor had no trouble following the trail of the sixth man.  The slope he had forced his mount to descend was perilously steep, and deep gouges marked the soil where the horse’s hooves had slipped.  It was not long before Denethor was forced to dismount to make a safer descent, wondering at his nameless comrade’s recklessness.  He must have been chasing something, Denethor reckoned – or been chased.  Picking his way down the slope as fast as he could without risking a headlong tumble, hearing Cirion do the same behind him, he was still a good height above the river when he spotted the dead horse lying on the ground.  Motioning quickly to Cirion for cover, he made his way over to it, finding that it had not been dead very long – the body was still warm, and the blood pooled beside it was fresh.  It was when Denethor craned his head around, scanning the surrounding terrain, that he saw the dark shape of a dead orc on the ground a short distance away, near a steep drop-off that must fall toward the river.  Denethor’s hand tensed on his sword and he froze in place, listening for sounds of movement.  Hearing nothing over the sound of Cirion’s boots crunching the underbrush, he turned to silence the boy, seeing only then that he was staring in horror at the dead horse.  Denethor rose and caught him by the shoulder.  “What is it?”

The boy’s face was dead white as if had just found his own mother skinned alive.  “What?”  Denethor repeated, shaking him by the shoulders to jar him out of his shocked daze.  “Tell me.  What is it?”  Surely the boy had seen dead horses before; in fact he had not reacted this badly to seeing the other one just a short time ago.  Denethor glanced back at the horse, dawning suspicion quickening his breath as he noticed something familiar in the white blaze running along the dark.  “Cirion,” he said slowly, “whose horse is that?”

The boy took in a hitching breath, then answered without taking his eyes off the animal.  “Captain Thorongil’s.”        

Denethor hissed a curse that he was quite sure Cirion had never heard before and bent beside the horse.  As he leaned over to unfasten the pack strapped to the saddle, he heard something like a whimper, or a sob.  He turned around, thinking it was Cirion, but the boy’s eyes were wide with surprise, staring at a thick oak tree a short distance away.  Motioning for him to ready an arrow, Denethor drew his sword and made his way over to it.  When Cirion had himself positioned at an angle from which to take a shot at whatever might spring forth, Denethor raised his sword and stepped around the bole. 

The slave shrieked. 

Denethor dropped his sword and clamped a hand over the man's mouth.  “Hush,” he said.  “We won’t hurt you.”  He had no idea if the man spoke Westron.  With his free hand he pressed an index finger to his lips.  “If you scream, the orcs will come.  Do you understand?  Orcs.”

The man must have understood his meaning, if not his words.  He nodded frantically, as if desperate to convince Denethor he intended to comply with whatever he was babbling about. 

“Good,” Denethor said soothingly, as if speaking to a frightened child.  “I’m going to take my hand away now, and you must be quiet.  All right?”  The man seemed calmer now, and Denethor slowly he removed his hand.  The man did not move or speak, though his eyes were still wide with fear and his breath came in shallow pants.  Now that Denethor could lean back on his heels, he saw that the man was bleeding from a dirty gash on his leg.  He wore nothing but rags, and he must be shivering with cold as much as fear.  “Get me some bandages and a blanket,” he said quietly to Cirion before turning back to the terrified slave.  “Do you speak Westron?  Westron.  The common tongue?”  The man stared at him blankly, then shook his head and said a few words in the Southron language.  Denethor sighed.  He knew exactly three phrases in Southron, one of which was, ‘What is your name?’  He used it. 

“Tilkar,” the man said.

“Tilkar,” Denethor repeated, pointing at the slave.  Then, pointing at his own chest, he said, “Denethor.” He repeated the same sequence with Cirion, and finally he pointed to the dead horse.  “Thorongil,” he said slowly.  “Thorongil’s horse.”  Then he spread his arms wide, raised his hands palm-up and mimicked looking around for someone.  “Thorongil?” he said, letting his voice rise in a question.

The slave nodded.  He understood.  Raising a skeletal arm, he pointed over Denethor’s shoulder.  “Thor-gil.”

Denethor spun around, following the line of the slave’s extended finger past the dead orc, to where the sloping hillside abruptly dropped off into nothingness.

Denethor looked over the edge of the bluff, relieved to see that the sheer rock face fell only twenty or thirty feet straight down before embedding itself in a tree-studded slope that dropped slightly less precipitously to the river far below.  There was a chance, then, that Thorongil had survived the fall.  He turned away from the sight of the two figures lying motionless on the riverbank.  “Get me some rope.”

“I don’t have any,” Cirion answered.  “Only the scouts carry rope.”

“Go and check Thorongil’s horse, then,” Denethor said.  He himself did not carry rope, being the Captain-General, but he would not be surprised if Thorongil did.  The man always seemed extraordinarily well-equipped.  He turned back to the rock face, deciding it would not matter much either way.  The bluff top stood at least a hundred feet above the river.  He would be lucky to find enough rope to lower himself down the short vertical section of the bluff. 

“Here,” Cirion said, handing him a slender coil of blood-stained rope. 

Denethor threw it over the side.  It unwound as it fell, bouncing off the cliff until the far end came to rest against the rock.  It did not reach all the way to the bottom of the sheer face, but it would do.  “Bring me my pack,” he ordered, kneeling to tie the rope to a tree trunk.   “And Thorongil’s,” he added.  When Cirion dropped the packs at his feet, he opened his and hastily rifled through it, tossing out items he would not need.  “Once I am down below,” he said without looking up, “it will be too risky to shout orders, so listen carefully.  If orcs come, get on your horse and flee.  Do not try to fight them alone.”

“What about him?”  Cirion asked, looking over his shoulder. 

Denethor glanced at the huddled figure of the slave. “If you can get him up on a horse,” he answered, “take him with you, but if he panics and runs away, let him go.”  Denethor filled his half-emptied pack with supplies from Thorongil’s – food, a blanket, and a spare shirt.  He shouldered his pack and stood up.  “Wait here.  If Thorongil is alive, I will signal you by waving my arm.”

Cirion peered over the edge.  “Are you going to bring him back up with you?”

“Only if he is able to climb,” Denethor said; an unlikely proposition.  “If he is dead I will have to leave him behind.”

“But what if he’s hurt?” Cirion protested.  “You can’t just leave him there!”

“I do not intend to leave him there,” Denethor said, pulling on the rope to test the strength of the knot.  “If he is alive, I will stay with him, while you go for help.” He left unsaid that he did not, in fact, have high hopes of finding Thorongil alive.  Pulling Cirion away from the edge to break his fixed stare at the unmoving body of his captain, he gripped his narrow shoulders.  “You are a soldier of Gondor, and you must indeed be an apt one or Thorongil would not have you in his company.  If he is alive, you must go and find Turgon.  He will know what to do.”

“What if I can’t find him?”   Cirion’s voice, steadily rising, cracked on the last syllable.

Checking his impatience, Denethor kept his own voice low and steady.  “If you have not found Turgon by nightfall, hide somewhere until dawn.  At first light, ride back to the crossing and wait for help.”  Releasing the boy’s shoulders, he tightened the wrist-straps of his gloves, and took the rope in his hands.

“Don’t you want this?” 

Poised to climb over the edge, Denethor looked over his shoulder to see Cirion holding a leather case from Thorongil’s pack.  Denethor had discarded it, taking it for a shaving kit.  “I don’t need that.”

“What if the captain is hurt?  You’ll need his herbs and medicines.”

“I am not learned in herb-craft,” he admitted.  Like most soldiers, he knew enough to stop up a gushing stab wound or splint a bone, but beyond that was for the healers.  He had heard Thorongil knew something of healing, but he had not known he carried his own supplies.  “I would not know what to do with it.” 

“He would.”  Cirion held out the kit expectantly. 

“Very well,” Denethor said, kneeling to present his back to the boy.  “Put it in the pack and strap it up tightly.  Quickly, now!  Daylight is wasting.”

Denethor lowered himself hand-over-hand down the cliff, and as anticipated ran out of rope before he ran out of rock.  Dangling from the last few inches of rope like a chicken in a butcher shop, he jammed the toe of his left boot into a crack and studied the base of the cliff below.  He faced a better outcome than Thorongil had; a drop of only ten or twelve feet instead of thirty, but once he landed with momentum on the precipitously steep slope he was just as liable to roll like a fallen boulder all the way to the bottom.  Only by grabbing hold of one of the scattered trees that clung to the side of the hill would he hope to avoid an immediate, uncontrolled, and quite likely fatal descent.  Twisting his body around to face forward, Denethor eyed a tree directly below him and released his grip. 

He landed hard, feeling the shock in his knees, and instantly pitched forward into a wild tumble down what seemed to be a nearly vertical slope.  He aimed a flailing arm for the tree he had spotted from above as he rolled past it and missed badly.  Luckily, the next tree he encountered required no such precision of aim, as he slammed into its trunk with enough force to rattle his teeth.  With a grunt, he managed to hook an arm around it before he could ricochet off and clung there, gasping, as his heart pounded in his chest.  When he could breathe again, he looked up and waved at Cirion's pale face peering over the edge of the cliff, then straightened his twisted pack straps and began to pick his way down the steep hillside the riverbank.    

By the time he released his grip on the final tree trunk and leapt down onto the blessedly flat ground, Denethor was breathless again.  Unsheathing a dagger, he made a quick scan of the area, a task for which he’d been unable to spare attention during his descent.  The opposite riverbank was thickly wooded but flatter than the near side, from which tall bluffs and rounded hills rose both upstream and down as far as he could see.  The dead silence of a winter afternoon clung to the chill air, and nothing moved but the leaden riffles of the river as Denethor hurried to the pair of bodies lying on the riverbank.  They did not seem to have moved at all since he had first spotted them from the bluff top, and he had little hope of finding Thorongil alive.  He reached the orc first, slowing just long enough to heave a kick into the body as he stepped over it, to make sure it was dead.  A few yards away lay Thorongil, curled on his side, his face hidden by a tangle of leaf-encrusted hair and his clothing pulled wildly askew.  As Denethor reached him, he saw that his scabbard had become entangled in his cloak, wringing the cloth into a wad and constricting it against his throat.  Denethor hastily unfastened Thorongil’s brooch to free the twisted fabric, feeling warm skin beneath his fingers.  Thorongil stirred at the touch.  “Stay still,” Denethor said, placing gentle pressure on his shoulder to keep him from rising while looking up, trying to spy Cirion atop the bluff.  When he did not see the boy after a few seconds, he rose and positioned himself directly beneath his path of descent.   He still did not see Cirion, and now he realized with growing concern that he could no longer see the rope, either.  Being light-colored, he reasoned, it might simply blend into the buff-colored limestone in the waning afternoon light -- or, he reckoned more darkly, Cirion might have cut it to conceal it from approaching orcs.  Or, more likely still, he dispassionately concluded, Cirion had been killed by orcs who had simply taken the rope.  Denethor counted to ten.  Cirion did not appear.  He counted to twenty.  He glanced sharply over at Thorongil and the dead orc, whose bodies, he realized with alarm, were clearly visible from the bluff top.  He rushed back to the orc and dragged it to the base of the slope, heaving it into the underbrush.  Hurrying to Thorongil, he knelt beside him again.  Though his eyes were closed, his body was tense with pain.  “Thorongil,” Denethor whispered urgently, “It is Denethor.  Can you hear me?”

A pause; then a slight nod.

“Where are you hurt?”

It took several hitching breaths before Thorongil could answer.  “Ribs.”  

Denethor sighed.  He had witnessed enough tirades by outraged healers to know that moving a man with broken ribs was not recommended, but on the other hand remaining in the open, in full view of any band of orcs that happened to stroll past, was even more foolhardy.  “There are orcs about,” he said simply.  “We need to move.”  After a moment, Thorongil nodded and withdrew his right hand from its protective grasp of his side.  Denethor took it and pulled him up as gently as he could, getting a hand and then a shoulder under him to support his weight, but as soon as Thorongil tried to stand, his left leg seemed to give way and he crumpled with a cry of pain.  “What is wrong?” Denethor asked, tightening his grip.  “Is it your leg?”

Without another sound, Thorongil went limp in his arms.  Catching him under the armpits and hoisting him over his shoulder, Denethor spared but a wishful glance at the bluff he had just descended before setting off instead along the flat riverbank, heading downstream as quickly as his burden allowed.   In the scant few minutes since he found Thorongil, the clouds had darkened and the air felt colder.  A snowflake landed his face, and then another.  He quickened his pace.  Though the coming of night would lessen the risk of being seen from above, night and cold and snow would make the need for shelter all the more urgent.           

A short distance further on, he came to a stream-scoured bluff thrusting up from the riverbank.  In the gloom he could make out a dark blotch at the base of the rock.  Moving closer, he found what he had hoped for - the lower portion of the bluff had been eroded by the river, leaving a shallow recess which at this time of year, with the river flowing well within its banks, would provide good shelter.  The overhang ought to be just deep enough to shield them from prying eyes above as well as the worst of the snow.  Lowering Thorongil to the smooth shelf of rock, he dragged him as far beneath the overhang as he could.   

It was almost dark now, and growing colder by the minute.  A fire would be welcome both for its light and its warmth, but Denethor could not risk alerting orcs to their location.  He shrugged out of his pack and dumped out the contents onto the ground.   The blankets he put to the side, along with the provisions and extra clothing, save for one shirt that he wadded up and placed beneath Thorongil’s head.  Deciding to risk a single candle, he lit it, wedged it between two rocks, and bent to examine Thorongil.  His face and hands were dirty, bruised and cut, but the bleeding seemed to have already stopped.  Denethor suspected the worst of the injuries would be hidden beneath his scuffed and torn clothing.  He unlaced the coat and jerkin, while the shirt he simply sliced down the front.  As he pushed aside the fabric to expose Thorongil’s battered chest, a glint of gold reflected the candlelight.  He reached down and fished the end of a gold chain from the waistband of Thorongil’s trousers, seeing that it was attached to a small leather drawstring pouch that must have hung from Thorongil’s neck.  The hasp of the chain had been broken, probably from tumble down the cliff.  Resisting the temptation to open the drawstring bag and look inside, Denethor instead tucked it for safe-keeping into the carry-pouch he wore at his own waist. 

The candlelight illuminated deep red bruises that spread across Thorongil’s entire left side, from his shoulder and chest all the way down to the bottom of his ribcage.  As Denethor probed the area of the darkest bruising, Thorongil flinched, gasped, and drew up his knees, curling curled inward to protect the injury.  His eyes fluttered open, the confusion in them slowly yielding to recognition as he focused on Denethor.  A frown creased his brow as he took in the white rock above him and the blackness beyond the circle of candlelight.  “Where are we?” he asked, his voice barely a rasp.

“In a cave.”  Denethor pressed him down as he tried to raise himself up on an elbow.  “Don’t try to move.”

Thorongil collapsed back to the ground under his touch, hissing as he braced his side.  “My men – are they all right?”

“One is dead.”   So far, thought Denethor. 

Confusion still lingered in Thorongil’s expression.  “What are you doing here?”  

Denethor suppressed a smile.  Normally, Thorongil was much too politic to pose such a tactless question.  “You disobeyed a direct order,” he answered coolly.

Adding to the incomprehension on Thorongil’s face was now a measure of disbelief, which he seemed to muster himself to a greater degree of alertness in order to contemplate.  “Am I to believe you came all the way out here to reprimand me?”

“Your men follow your example,” Denethor said brusquely.  “If you cannot be bothered to obey an order, why should they?   Besides,” he said slightly more gently, “I was under the impression that you sent for help.” 

Thorongil conceded the point with a sheepish nod.  “You're right.  I did.”

"It has arrived."  Denethor unstoppered a water bottle and held it out.  “You had better drink, and rest.  If help does not arrive by morning, we will have a long journey back to the crossing, and I suspect your left leg is broken.”  Concerned that removing the boot would aggravate the injury, he slipped the blade of his dagger beneath the boot and the skin of Thorongil’s calf and prepared to cut away the leather.   

Thorongil caught his hand.  “Leave it on.” 

“Leave it?”

“It feels like the ankle is broken,” Thorongil said, twisting slightly to get a better look at his leg.  " But unless you have something with which to splint it, it is better to leave the boot on for now.” 

Denethor sheathed the knife, slightly annoyed at Thorongil’s accurate assessment that he had not thought to gather something for a splint.  “Very well, then,” he said.  “Where else are you hurt?”

Thorongil indicated his left shoulder.  “My left collarbone is broken, and my hip pains me a great deal on that side, although I think it is just badly bruised.  Bind my left arm across my chest.  It will hold the ribs and the collarbone in place until a healer can be found.  But tell me, did you see a slave?  I was fighting to free him from the orcs when I went over the cliff with one of them.”

Deferring to Thorongil’s evidently competent self-diagnosis, Denethor abandoned his fumbling attempt at examination and turned his attention instead to slicing his spare blanket into strips.  “Ah, yes,” he said, “Tilkar, I believe he said his name was.  I sent him for help with your lad Cirion.”  It seemed best for now to avoid mentioning that both the slave and Thorongil’s young messenger had most likely been killed by orcs.   Lifting Thorongil to a sitting position, Denethor wound strips of cloth around his chest, binding his left arm securely.  He unfastened Thorongil's sword belt and wrapped him in his cloak before easing him back down onto a blanket.  Displaying the healer’s kit Cirion had insisted he carry, he nudged him lightly on the shoulder.  “I am no herb-master,” he said.  “Show me what will ease your pain.”   

Thorongil opened his eyes.  “This one,” he said, reaching gingerly to extract a small packet of folded waxed paper.  “Bring me a cup.”  Taking a pinch of the brown powder between his finger and thumb, he dropped it into the cup Denethor provided and instructed him to mix it with water.   

As Denethor set the empty cup down and straightened the blanket covering Thorongil, the snow began to fall more heavily.  Blown by a rising wind that whistled through the bare treetops, it soon dusted the ground just outside the overhang with a coating of white.  Denethor did not know whether to be thankful for the concealment the snow would offer or to curse it.  As much as he did not want to be found by orcs, he had very much hoped to be found by Turgon come morning.   Thorongil, despite being lean of build, was no feather, and carrying him back to the Poros crossing would take days, if he survived it.  For that matter, Denethor thought darkly, assuming they avoided being slaughtered by orcs along the way, the cold would probably kill them both.  He shook snow from his hair and reached down to brush a light dusting of it from Thorongil’s blanket, surprised to see the captain watching him.  He had hoped that whatever was in the brown powder would allow him to sleep.  “Try to rest,” he said.  “I will keep watch.”

“I will,” Thorongil said.  “But first – I owe you my thanks.  And my apology.”

“Apology – for what?”

“For committing insubordination,” Thorongil’s voice carried a hint of amusement.  “I meant to obey your order, but when I realized the orcs were tracking men, I had no choice but to pursue them.” 

“I know.”  Slightly annoyed at having his last shred of self-righteous indignation so handily thwarted, Denethor reluctantly resigned himself to a truce.  Leaning back against the wall, he gathered his cloak against the cold and watched the snow for a moment.  “I suppose I should thank you, as well.”

Thorongil, who had closed his eyes, cracked one open.  “For disobeying your order?”  

“For saving me from the Mettarë ball.”

“You have always seemed to greatly enjoy the Mettarë ball.”

“I always have,” he admitted.  “But I have uncovered a plot, you see.  My lady is traveling to Minas Tirith this Mettarë with a mission to ensnare me in matrimony.”

Thorongil seemed to find this terribly amusing.  “I would not have guessed marriage to the Lady Finduilas to be such a terrible fate.”

“Now you sound like Turgon,” Denethor said, taking satisfaction in Thorongil’s mortified wince. “You would have love and marriage be such a simple matter.  Why then do you not marry, if marriage is such a desirable state?  You could have any lady in Gondor, save perhaps for a few of the highest breeding, and yet you seem to delight in frustrating their attentions.”  Denethor was fully aware of the rumors surrounding the captain’s masterful skill in deflecting female advances - some argued he was cold; others more romantically maintained that his heart had been broken by a lady long ago, and he could never love another.  He himself had never put much thought to the matter – some men, he observed, were made for war, others for love, still others for politics or letters.  Denethor respected a man who knew his strengths and weaknesses, and avoided the disgrace of meddling in matters beyond his ken.

For a long while, Thorongil lay as silent as the falling snow.  “I do not desire to marry a lady of Gondor,” he said finally.

Denethor raised an eyebrow in challenge.  “And yet you would counsel me to do so.”

“Since you are free to follow your heart,” Thorongil said, “so then I would counsel you.  Unlike me,” he went on, seeming amused again for some reason Denethor could not fathom, “you may have the hand of any lady in Gondor, no matter how lofty her breeding.  Do you love the Lady Finduilas?”

He averted his gaze from Thorongil’s piercing stare, looking instead at the flickering candle flame. “I suppose I do.”

“And she loves you.”

“She does,” Denethor said, “but I fear that in time she will find the price of loving me too high.”

A surprised wince darted across Thorongil’s pale face.  “What do you mean?” he asked

Already, Denethor regretted opening his mouth.  After wisely keeping his own counsel in matters of the heart for so long, he was a fool to speak of such things with the last person to whom he should have revealed weakness – a man so much like himself as to inspire outrageous rumors of marital indiscretions on the part of his father.  While dismissing such gossip as absurd, Denethor himself found their similarities unnerving; so much so that he increasingly, as Thorongil’s unprecedented ascent through the ranks proceeded, found himself struggling with the absurd suspicion that like a changeling left in place of a stolen baby, Thorongil hoped to take his place.  Such worries, he had reassured himself countless times, were not only irrational but completely groundless:  a foreigner like Thorongil might be prove an apt commander, useful in time of need, but not even Ecthelion could bestow on him the Numenorean lineage that bought legitimate standing in Gondorian society.  He would rise so high, and no further. 

Realizing Thorongil was still waiting for an answer, he reasoned that out here, together in the dark and the cold, sharing the uncertain prospect of rescue or the greater one of orc attack, there would be no harm in letting the curtain of their rivalry slip for a while.  “I loved her from the moment I saw her,” he found himself saying, “standing atop the sea cliffs behind the castle of Dol Amroth, with her dark hair streaming in the wind.  Her face was glowing from sunlight and salt breeze; her eyes reflected the sparkle of the waves below.”  Realizing he had shut his eyes dreamily to summon the memory, and that he sounded like a love-struck fool, he opened his eyes sheepishly and looked down at his hands.  “She is a wild creature, made for the raw winds and the salt spray of the sea coast.  To her, Minas Tirith would be a sterile prison; a bitter cage for a wild gull.” 

He pulled up his knees, shrugging deeper into his cloak, expecting Thorongil to make some derisive comment, but the captain looked thoughtful. “Could it not be that the lady loves you more than her sea cliffs?  Should the choice not be hers?”

“The lady is drunk on the honeyed wine of new love,” he answered.  “She does not yet imagine that it will someday taste bitter.  Someday, when she is tamed by her choice, she will hate me for letting her make it.  I should release her, let her marry some young knight of Dol Amroth who will carry her off to a windswept beach and wade with her barefoot in the tide pools and devote his life to making her laugh.”

“Why do you not do it yourself?”

“Because I cannot,” he said.  “You call me free, Thorongil, but I am not free.  The night the mountain of Mordor burst into flame, I swore my life to the struggle against the Enemy.  No other wish or desire can take precedence; not even love.”

“All in these dark times must struggle against the Enemy,” Thorongil said.  “And it is not only Gondor that resists the will of Sauron.  Do you truly believe that in this you stand alone?”  

Denethor’s jaw tightened and a familiar burning rose in his gut.  “And when Gondor falls, who then will stand?  What is Gondor to you, but a place to earn your fame and glory?  You fought under Thengel’s banner, now Ecthelion’s.  Soon, some other fortune will beckon you, and Gondor will become nothing to you but a fading memory.  Where will you be when the army of Mordor comes marching forth from the Black Gate to knock at the gates of Minas Tirith?   Whose banner will you fight under then?” 

“I swear to you,” Thorongil answered, “on the honor of all my fathers, that I will never forsake Gondor in its time of need.”

Denethor shut his mind to the conviction behind the words.  “An empty vow, coming from the lips of a baseborn vagrant,” he said.  “How do you expect me to believe you?”

Thorongil's expression conveyed more sadness than offense.  “After all these years, do you still think so little of me?” 

“If you would have me think more highly,” Denethor answered, “give me a reason.  I ask you again - what is Gondor to you, a foreigner?”  It was more than a goad – he wanted the answer locked behind Thorongil’s wary stare. 

He did not answer at first, though Denethor got the impression there was much he wished to say, but did not.  “Hope,” he said finally.

“Hope?”  Denethor repeated.  “Just hope?  Hope for what?”

Seeming weary, Thorongil simply shook his head, shifting slightly under the blanket, as if to make himself more comfortable.  Suddenly his expression froze, and he pushed the blanket away from his torso, reaching his free hand first to his throat and then, frantically, to his bandaged chest.

Denethor leaned over him with concern.  “What is wrong?” 

Thorongil’s motion abruptly stilled and he looked up with a stricken expression, like a boy caught stealing pies from the baker.  “I was wearing a chain around my neck,” he said finally, his voice carefully level but his eyes – Denethor had never seen them like this before - panicked.  “I don’t suppose you saw it lying on the ground where you found me?”

The space between two breaths was all the time Denethor had to make his decision.  Flakes of snow fell and melted on his hand where it rested on his belt pouch, as still and frozen as Thorongil’s expression.  Two breaths, and he did not do what would have been so simple – open the pouch and remove the chain.  And then the moment was gone, and it was too late.  “A chain?” he said, knowing the words were irrevocable.  Having uttered them, he could now not pretend to have no idea how Thorongil’s chain ended up in his belt pouch.  It made him a thief, and a liar, yet he was too intrigued by Thorongil’s obvious distress, too curious about the contents of the pouch, to pass up this one chance to delve further into his secrets. “What did it look like?” he asked innocently.

“It was a just a simple gold chain,” Thorongil said, carefully but obviously guarding his reaction, “with a small pouch of leather attached to it.” 

Denethor shook his head.  “How unfortunate.  You must have lost it in your fall.  I hope it was not something extremely valuable.”

Thorongil had looked weak before.  Now he looked sick.  “No,” he said, though it sounded like a lie.  “I suppose not.  It was quite old, but its value was purely sentimental.”

“A shame, losing something like that,” Denethor said.  “Irreplaceable, I suppose.”  He pulled the candle from its mount and made a show of looking around on the floor of the rock shelter.  “I don’t see it in here anywhere.  It is too dark to look outside for it now, but in the morning, if Turgon finds us, I will send some men to search the area where you fell.  I am sure it will turn up.”

As if finally overcome by tiredness and pain, Thorongil lay back heavily and closed his eyes.  “Thank you.”

Denethor pulled the blanket over his shoulders.  “Try to get some rest.  If help does not arrive by morning, it will be a long day of travel.”

The potion he had prepared for Thorongil eventually took effect, as his guarded breaths gradually eased.  When he was asleep, Denethor put out the candle to save it and sat beside him in the darkness.  After a time, the snow stopped, the stars came out, and the night grew colder.   Having wrapped Thorongil in both blankets, he was left with only his cloak to tug around him.  He crossed his arms to keep warm, and it was not long after that when his hand, resting at his waist, crept to the flap of his belt pouch and slid it open.  From there, his fingers made short work of the delicate knot holding Thorongil’s pouch closed.     

Inside was only one object – a small rounded metal case, flattish, smoothly finished, with a tiny loop through which the chain had been threaded.  He could feel a seam running all the way around it, and two tiny catches, one on each side.  He pressed them in unison, then in turn, then in various combinations.  As a child, he had been gifted in solving mechanical puzzles, and he had never been able to abandon one without finding the key.  Once, when he was nine, his tutor had given him a puzzle box that took him three weeks to solve.  He had worked on it every waking moment, and then, after his mother banished it from her sight, all night long when he should have been sleeping, until finally, after many sleepless nights, he solved the puzzle. 

He was beginning to think this one would take three weeks to solve as well.  He had been working on it for the better part of the night, judging by the stars, reduced at last to absently fingering the latches in random sequences as he half-dozed in the freezing darkness beside Thorongil, when at last the latch popped with an almost inaudible click. 

He started so abruptly that for a moment he feared the movement would alert Thorongil, asleep inches away.  He kept perfectly still, holding his breath as he listened for any change to the captain’s breathing.  When he did not stir, Denethor released a breath and flipped open the locket.  Inside was a ring.  He slipped it onto his finger, tracing the design – some kind of intricate looping pattern, set with several small stones.  He turned away from Thorongil and held the ring up, hoping to catch enough starlight to see it by, but it was so dark he could barely see his hand in front of his face.  He could not risk lighting the candle in the shelter for fear of waking Thorongil, but he supposed there was little risk in lighting it just around the corner, out of view.  Retrieving the candle, he crawled out from under the overhang and stood up, kneading a tight muscle in his back.  His feet had gone numb from the cold; he resisted the urge to stamp them only out of fear of making noise.   He realized belatedly that the cold could not be doing Thorongil any good, either, in his weakened condition.  When he went back to the shelter, he probably ought to rouse him and make sure he was not in danger of freezing to death.  But first, he could not resist getting at least a glimpse of this oddly-shaped ring.  He was sure it must be valuable, despite Thorongil's denial, and based on his panic at losing it, a cherished possession.  But where would he come by such a thing?  Though the old, worn, cover story had never rung quite true - Denethor had never believed that a younger son from a poor family seeking glory in the service of greater men would possess the innate confidence and self-assurance that Thorongil, for all his overt humility, had never been able to conceal.  Neither, however, had he ever arrived at an alternate explanation for Thorongil's background that would account for the presence of valuable heirlooms.  Whatever Gondorian blood flowed through his veins was likely the result of a dalliance by an itinerant Gondorian trader with some gullible Dale milkmaid.  Thorongil's more intriguing and anomalous qualities - the native fluency in Sindarin, the mastery of letters and lore, the ease with which he moved in high-born circles, Denethor could only attribute to the careful tutoring of a certain meddlesome wizard.  Thorongil, he had long ago concluded, was nothing but a pet project of Mithrandir's, designed to infiltrate the Steward's inner circle and influence his policy.    

Mithrandir.  The ring might be no family heirloom after all, he realized, but some gift from Mithrandir.  With this new suspicion fueling his curiosity, Denethor bent to shield the candle from the wind.            

Because even wholly preoccupied with the mystery of Thorongil’s ring as he was, Denethor retained the core instincts of a disciplined warrior, he habitually glanced about him one last time to survey the area before taking the risk of lighting the candle.  If he had not done so, he would have missed the unmistakable glint of firelight reflecting off the surface of the river, just around the downstream bend.     

Denethor froze.  Just a moment ago, a flicker of light had caught his eye, somewhere out there in the blackness.  Now it was gone.  Still gripping the candle he had been about to light, he rubbed his grainy eyes and stared at the spot where he had seen the flicker for just an instant.  Now, nothing but blackness and more blackness met his eyes.  Just as he decided that exhaustion and nerves were playing tricks on his eyes as well as his mind, he saw it again  - a yellow flicker out in the middle of the river, like flame upon the water.  And it was moving.  A boat, he thought for an instant; then realized the light was a reflection only – the reflection of flame carried by something unseen, moving toward him along the riverbank but still hidden from view by an outcropping of rock just downstream.  As he watched, the dancing light moved closer.  Flattened against the cliff face, out in the open, he debated whether to stay where he was or try for the shallow recess where Thorongil lay.  Thorongil – Denethor’s breath caught anew at the thought of the injured captain, lying helpless just yards behind him.  If he woke and called out, or made a sound in his sleep, he would give away their position.  With all his strength, Denethor willed the injured captain to silence.            

A horse snorted, and a torch appeared around the bend, carried in the hand of a dark-cloaked rider.  Behind him followed more horsemen, dark as shadows and silent as the snow.  Denethor could not discern their hooded features, or make out any emblem on their gear or garb, but the straight-backed silhouettes assured him of their race, at least – these were Men.  He could not yet tell if they were friend or foe.

He held his breath, straining to make out any whisper of speech that might reveal their origin.  For desperate moments he heard only the faint, unavoidable noises of movement – the dull jingle of a bridle, the creak of leather; the clink of a scabbard against a stirrup.  Heartbeat by pounding, agonizing heartbeat, the column of riders drew closer.  Just as the first rider’s torch illuminated a large boulder not twenty feet in front of him, a faint groan issued from the narrow recess in the cliff behind him.  Denethor grimaced, hoping against hope that the sound had not carried.  His hand tightened on his sword as he saw it was no use.  The lead rider had pulled up short.   “Swords!”   he barked.

Denethor nearly laughed with relief.  The strain evident in the leader’s voice had failed to disguise its most endearing quality - a cultivated and wholly familiar Minas Tirith accent.  His attention now focused on avoiding being skewered by his own men, Denethor sprang forward into the light.  “Turgon!  Hold!  It is I!”

“Hold!”  Turgon bellowed.  “Hold!  It’s Denethor!”  He leapt to the ground and caught Denethor around the middle, squeezing until his ribs hurt.  “You’re safe!  We feared you were dead!”

A second figure, slightly shorter and broader, stepped up beside him.  “Lord Denethor!  Is Captain Thorongil with you?”    

Recognizing Thorongil’s lieutenant, Beleg, Denethor indicated the dark maw at the base of the cliff.  “In there.”

“No!”  Another figure rushed forward.    Beleg thrust out a hand and caught hold of the writhing form that Denethor realized was the messenger boy, Cirion.  The boy squirmed to free himself.  “Let me go!  He’s not dead!  He can’t be dead!”

“Wait, lad” Beleg ordered, holding fast to the boy.  Fixed on Denethor, his eyes were wary, set for bad news.  “Is he…?” 

“He’s alive.”

Beleg murmured a blessing and his eyes briefly closed, then he released Cirion and ruffled his hair.  “What did I tell you?”  he said.  “Our Thorongil is not so easy to kill. Though maybe he needs to be reminded that he is no falcon to go launching himself off cliffs!  Come, lad.  Let us see how our reckless captain fares.”

A half dozen soldiers followed him to the alcove, enclosing Thorongil’s blanketed form in a protective semi-circle.  Turgon crossed his arms and looked skeptical.  “How bad?”

“He’ll live.”  Denethor looked away from the spectacle unfolding around Thorongil.  “How did you find us?”

“Cirion brought us to the spot where Thorongil fell, but it would have been impossible to descend that cliff in the dark, or to bring you back up that way.  Luckily, one of the scouts has spent some time in this area and knew another way down.  Longer, but safer.”

Denethor spied Cirion, on tip-toe behind the circle of soldiers, peering worriedly over their shoulders.  He called his name and beckoned to him.  “Come here, boy.”    

Cirion hesitated for just a moment before tearing himself away.  When he shuffled forward to present himself to Denethor, shadows and a lock of untrimmed hair obscured his down-turned face.    

“Look at me,” Denethor commanded.  “Why did you leave?” he asked. “You disappeared before I gave the order.  I did not know what happened to you.”

The coltish frame shifted uneasily, the boy dropping his gaze again to stare at his boot tops. “B-begging your pardon, my lord,” he said, “but I did just like you ordered.  When you were almost down to the river, the slave started shouting at me.  I couldn’t understand his words, but when I looked up there were orcs coming across the hillside, straight for us.  Lots of orcs.  I knew if I left the rope tied to the tree they’d look down and see you.  I couldn’t untie it - the knot had pulled too tight - so I cut it with my knife and threw it over the side.  Then I did like you ordered - I got the slave up on the horse and rode away as fast as I could, hoping they’d follow us instead of looking for you.”

“It worked,” Turgon said.  “When we found him he had ten orcs on his tail.”

Feeling abashed, Denethor gripped the boy’s thin shoulder gently.  “You did well,” he said.  “You may have saved our lives.”

“By the time we came upon Cirion, it was nearly dark,” Turgon said.  “Even with the woods crawling with orcs, I knew we could not wait until morning to search for you.” 

Cirion’s gaze had shifted slightly at Turgon’s self-proclaimed valor.  Denethor smiled sourly.  More likely, the zealously loyal, bear-like Beleg had threatened to go alone if Turgon didn’t agree to lead the party.  “I knew I could count on you,” he said dryly. 

The unmoving figure of Thorongil was once again the object of Cirion’s attention.   “Is Captain Thorongil going to be all right?”        

“Certainly,” Denethor said.  “Captain Thorongil has survived much worse than this.” It was probably true, he reckoned, thinking of the many old scars he had seen on Thorongil’s body. 

“He’ll be on his feet in no time,” Turgon echoed. 

With a reassuring pat on the boy’s shoulder, Denethor moved forward to stand behind Beleg.  “How much longer?” he asked. “It will be light soon. We ought to be moving.”   

His attention fixed on the semi-conscious Thorongil, Beleg grunted his acknowledgement but did not answer immediately.  On the ground beside him lay the remains of Denethor’s makeshift patchwork of blanket strips.  They had been replaced with much more professional-looking wrappings, which Beleg was finishing tying off.  When he appeared satisfied with them, he covered Thorongil with a blanket, rose to his feet and drew Denethor a few feet away.  “Wrist, collarbone, and a couple of ribs,” he recited matter-of-factly.   “If he did not have such a hard noggin it surely would have cracked as well.  Has he coughed up any blood?”

“No.”

“That is good.  Nor is his belly tender, and I did not find any other broken bones.”

“He told me earlier that his left ankle was broken, but would not permit me to remove his boot.”

Growling, Beleg dropped down beside Thorongil and flipped aside the blanket.  With one slice of his knife, he had off the muddy boot, probing the swollen and discolored flesh around Thorongil’s ankle.  “Splints,” he spat at the nearest soldier, “and find some padding as well.”  

Having no stomach for bone-setting, Denethor took the opportunity to go look for his horse, grateful to find that Cirion had managed to save it.  He avoided looking at the unmistakable, blanket-shrouded shapes across the backs of two of the mounts as he reached to stroke his gelding’s velvety black neck, remembering only as the first rays of dawn flashed against something green on his hand that he still wore Thorongil’s ring.  He froze and glanced about, but no one was looking in his direction.  Turgon was deep in discussion with his archers, and the throng around Thorongil was occupied with carrying him out of the cave.  Denethor relaxed, then started again at a slight movement in the corner of his eye.  It was the rescued slaves, huddled together on the ground so silently that at first he had failed to notice them, though they sat only a few feet away from the horses.  They were staring at him now like a flock of starved owls, their eyes bulging accusingly from hollow sockets.  His lip curling involuntarily in distaste, he twisted the ring around on his finger so the gems faced inward.  They dug into his palm as he clenched his fist.  After a moment he pulled out his riding gloves and put them on.  He would have to wait until later to get a good look at the ring.  Even now, Cirion passed to his left, fetching a horse which he led over to Beleg.  Several of Thorongil’s men lifted him up onto it and one mounted behind him, supporting him.  Once he was settled more or less securely, Beleg strode over to Denethor.  “If you’re ready, we’re ready.”

Denethor frowned at the reeling Thorongil skeptically.  “Are you sure he is well enough to ride?”

“No other way.  He’ll have to be.”  Beleg stabbed a thick finger at the trail leading downstream. “A mile or so downstream, the path ascends from the riverbank into the hills.  The trail is too narrow for a tandem litter, and a hand-litter would be too slow.” 

“I am no surgeon,” Denethor pressed, “but I would not suffer a man with a broken leg to ride even a single mile, much less a hundred.”             

“It cannot be helped.  But he will not have to ride a hundred miles.  I’ll send a rider ahead for a wagon to meet us at Poros Crossing.  From there the road is good to Pelargir.”

Turgon swung a leg over his mount.  “Once in Pelargir, we can take ship to Minas Tirith and save ourselves a week’s march.”

“If a ship can be found to carry us,” Denethor said.  “All of Gondor will be traveling to Minas Tirith this week.”

“How fortunate that I travel with the Lord of the White Tower,” Turgon said cheerily.  “No ship captain in Gondor would turn away the son of the Steward.”  

Denethor refrained from rebuking him only out of the mercenary realization that Turgon’s willingness to put loyalty before scruples might become useful before this was over “We are a long way from any ship yet,” he said mildly.  “Let us be on the road.”

The muddy trail and Beleg’s desire to spare Thorongil pain slowed the pace of travel, and a pale midday sun reflected off the river by the time they arrived at Poros Crossing.  The snow, if it had fallen at all down here in the valley, was long melted, and despite his lieutenant’s care, Thorongil’s face was pale and drenched with sweat when Beleg hauled him from the horse and carried him to a bed of blankets in the grass by the river.  Soldiers and freed slaves set about gathering firewood and water as Denethor watched Beleg tend his captain, warrior’s hands working nimbly as a tailor’s.  As expertly as if he’d been detailed straight from the Houses of Healing, Beleg inspected Thorongil’s splints and wrappings, then measured and mixed powders and herbs.  Recalling that Beleg was a career soldier, the son of a drunken dockworker from the Harlond, if Denethor was not mistaken, he stepped closer.  “Where did you learn your leech craft?” he asked conversationally.  “You seem to have some skill.”

Without pausing in his work, Beleg nodded at Thorongil.  “From my patient.  He taught me well.  He taught us all.”

“Indeed.”  Denethor felt unease building.  Over the years, he’d heard occasional remarks about Thorongil’s unusual skill in healing, but had paid them little mind, assuming the man had picked up an odd bit of healing craft here and there just as he seemed to pick up odd bits of knowledge about the stars, plants, animals, or ancient history.  Now, he realized, it had been a piece to a puzzle he had ignored in his eagerness to dismiss his adversary as a pretentious upstart.  Watching Beleg’s scarred hands move with the confidence of a guild healer, Denethor wondered what other clues to Thorongil’s origins he had too hastily dismissed.   

He felt something digging into his palm and realized it was Thorongil’s ring, pressed into his flesh as he clenched his fist.  At least now there was no longer any reason to postpone inspecting it.  “I’m going to scout the area,” he said to Beleg.  “Call me if the wagon arrives.”  He looked around, spotting a stand of trees on the hill above the crossing.  He climbed the hill and walked deep into a thicket of brush and winter-bare saplings.  Anyone seeing him would assume he was conducting such business as soldiers normally conduct in the woods.  Hidden at last from prying eyes, he unclenched his fist and removed his glove. 

The ring was beautiful.  In the light of day, the emeralds he had caught such a fleeting glimpse of earlier were revealed to be the eyes of a pair of serpents, coiled around a clump of what might have been flowers, or perhaps a stalk of wheat.  It was difficult to tell.  Details that must once have been intricately wrought had been worn nearly smooth.  His own ring, worn by every Steward’s heir since Eradan, looked almost new by comparison.  A lump of worry was forming in the pit of his stomach.  This strange serpent ring, he knew instinctively, was no mere piece of jewelry.  If it were, an upstart like Thorongil would have displayed it openly, to impress, instead of secreting it away in a locket around his neck.  Besides, Denethor knew a heraldic emblem when he saw one.  Yet this was the emblem of none of the noble houses of Gondor or any other realm he knew of.  The pieces of the puzzle were forming a picture he did not much like - a secret, ancient ring carried by a wandering mercenary from the North, a mercenary who looked like a Dúnadan, spoke like an Elf, and knew Númenorean history as well as he did.  The knot in is belly hardened into a rock as fragments of ancient tales, long-dismissed and half-forgotten, rushed like startled pigeons to flutter against the walls of his mind.   

Shouts of greeting echoed through the clammy air, scattering his thoughts.  He took off the ring and put it back in his belt pouch.  The average soldier would pay no mind to a new ring on the finger of the Steward’s son, but Turgon was pretentious enough to notice things like emerald rings, and nosy enough to ask about them.

He stood at the crest of the hill.  Down below, on the riverbank, men were moving about, quenching fires and gathering belongings.  A wagon was being loaded – no proper healers’ van, but a mere supply wagon hastily pressed into service.  Denethor reached it just as Thorongil was being settled upon a layer of grain sacks padded with blankets. 

“No healer,” Beleg said curtly, adjusting a cushion under Thorongil’s splinted leg.  “They’ve all been dispatched to Pelargir with the battle wounded.”  With that he climbed into the back of the wagon beside his captain.  “At least they sent some poppy.  It should ease his travel.”

“Do the best you can, Lieutenant,” Denethor said.  Though he derived no pleasure from seeing Thorongil indisposed, he could not help but note that the poppy would dull Thorongil’s memory of the journey, permitting, perhaps, a reconstructed version of events to be impressed upon him, should that be required later.  Nodding to Beleg, he mounted his horse and signaled Turgon to lead the column.      

The road from the ford to Pelargir was well-maintained to support rapid troop deployments to the border.  They reached the city at nightfall of the second day, just as the torches were lit on the city walls.  Thorongil was turned over to the care of the lord of Pelargir’s healers, who promptly insisted he should not be moved for at least a month.  Denethor just as promptly overruled them, earning the ire of the healers, the exhausted gratitude of Thorongil, and the immediate suspicion of Turgon. 

“I don’t understand you,” Turgon complained the next morning, once they were underway aboard the only merchant ship that could be found on short notice whose berths were not already spoken for by holiday travelers or holiday geese.   In a last minute change of heart, Denethor had relented and allowed Turgon to come along  He had already begun to regret his decision.  “Why not take the chance to be rid of Thorongil and return to Minas Tirith to claim all the glory of the victory for yourself?”  Turgon stepped over his pack and handed Denethor a plate of food. 

“Because it will appear that is exactly what I am doing,” Denethor answered, scowling at the galley’s meager offerings.   “For an aspiring courtier you are remarkably unsubtle, Turgon.”

“How is Thorongil?”

“Either sleeping or beaten into submission.  The healer shooed me out of the room before I could get a good look at him.”

“A bit of a fusspot, isn’t he?  The healer I mean.  Still, I suppose it’s lucky he insisted on coming along.  I didn’t fancy nursemaiding Thorongil all the way back to Minas Tirith.” 

“It will only be two days.”

Turgon impaled a piece of meat and attempted to chew it.  “Are Thorongil’s quarters any better than this?” he complained, patting his mattress for effect.  “I cannot believe this is the best accommodation that could be found for the Captain-General of Gondor.”   

“Just be thankful you’re not sleeping on the cold ground out there,” Denethor said gruffly, indicating the darkened fields across the water, gliding past beyond the tree-studded riverbank.  From the boat, all looked silent and peaceful.  Here and there a yellow glow signaled the presence of a farmhouse, and Denethor imagined families gathered around the hearths, singing songs and eating hot stew with fresh bread.  All seemed tranquil and safe, as if no mountain of fire loomed to the east, threatening to consume it all.  At times he envied the people their simple lives, their freedom to live them as they chose.  With him, there was nothing but duty, always duty.  “Half of Gondor and all their livestock are trying to get to Minas Tirith before the holiday,” he said to Turgon.  “Do you know how much I had to pay the barge captain for these berths?  My father will have a fit.” 

“Not when he finds out it was for the comfort of his beloved Captain Thorongil,” Turgon said.  “Now, I would have simply commandeered the vessel.  Actually, no, I would have commandeered a better one.  I feel like a bilge rat cooped up in here.”

“If the accommodations did not meet your expectations,” Denethor said tightly, “you could have ridden back to Minas Tirith with your men like the other captains.” 

“I’m surprised you didn’t order me to,” Turgon said, “to build my character, or some nonsense.”

“That nonsense is called leadership.  You might try it sometime.”  Denethor gave up on the plate of grisly meat and reached behind him for the flask of brandy he had bought at a stall by the wharf.  He took a long drink from it and handed it to Turgon.  “Thorongil would never have left his men.”

“Thorongil.”  Turgon’s voice was thick with scorn.  “I didn’t think you approved of Thorongil.”

“If you spent less time mocking him and more time studying him, you might learn something.” Seeing how quickly Turgon was dispatching the brandy, Denethor snatched back the flask.  “It is a fool who underestimates his opponent.”   And I have been one, he thought.

“Opponent?”  Turgon spread out his blanket and wedged his lanky form into the cramped bunk. It was too short; he had to crimp his neck to prop his head against the bare plank wall.  “You do him too much credit.  Thorongil is nobody.  You are the Steward’s son.”

“Nobody?  My father does not think so.  His men do not think so.  Thorongil’s men love him.”

“Love!”  Turgon scoffed.  “Not that again!”

“Thorongil’s men would die for him, to the last man, because they know he would do the same for them.  My men, though they may not love me, would do the same, because they respect me.  Yours not only do not love you, they do not respect you, because all you think about is your own comfort and reward.  How then are you to lead?”

Turgon made a sour face.  “Why should I concern myself with pleasing those who charge it is to please me?  Why should you and I deprive ourselves of comfort to prove we are worthy to lead?  I do not understand where you get these notions, Denethor.  I do not see your father forsaking the Citadel to huddle in some leaky First Circle dump.  Nor will you when you return to Minas Tirith, I think.  It is a false modesty to abase ourselves in hopes the men will not resent our superiority.  Do you not see - it is superiority that they crave.  If they question our superiority they will challenge our orders.  And then they will not be so eager to die on them, I think.  I have not risen as high as this to live like a conscript.  By the good will of your family, and the good luck of mine, there remain only two men in Gondor whose approval I need concern myself with.”

“Only two?”  Denethor cocked an eyebrow.  He had never heard Turgon speak so boldly before.  Maybe it was the brandy.

“The Steward and his son.  I do not think I have forgotten anyone.”  Turgon asked blandly.  “Unless the king should come again, of course.”

“Suppose he did.”

Turgon’s left eye narrowed as it did when he was trying to figure out if his opponent was bluffing at cards.  Then he chuckled and took a drink from the flask.  “That would depend,” he said.  “Would he offer me a princedom, do you think?” 

“Perhaps if you married his sister.  Pity you already have a wife.”

Turgon laughed and handed over the flagon.  “Perhaps he is to be a heathen king, and shall decree that we should each have ten wives.”

It was Denethor’s turn to chuckle.  “You couldn’t handle ten wives.”

“You are right.  I can’t handle the one I already have.  But you are the lore-master here, my friend.  Tell me, from whence is he to come, this king of yours?”

“Whence would he, do you think?”  Turgon did not answer.  Caught up in his own thoughts for a time, Denethor looked up to see a pained expression on his brother-in-law’s face.  He chuckled.  “I will spare you the torture of speaking the uncomfortable truth, Turgon – it is a fact that no king will ever come from the line of Húrin.  If it were not so, the high throne would not now be empty, the crown of Ëarnur would not now be moldering in a tomb, and above the White Tower you would see flying the splendid banner of a king instead of a plain white sheet.”

“If you insist,” Turgon said diplomatically.  “But if this is so, there will never be a king again in Gondor.  The line of Anárion is perished.  The line of Isildur was rejected a thousand years ago, and has vanished into the wastes.  There is no other.”

Something in those words gnawed at a very old memory, but Denethor could not put his finger on it.  “Yes.  And it would be foolish to keep a throne vacant for a thousand years, waiting for a king who will never come.  And yet that is what we do.  Why?”

“Gondor waits for the king.”  Turgon scratched his forehead.  “At least that is what I was always taught.”

“The people think they want a king.  They imagine he will come riding on a white horse and save them from the threat of Mordor, from the terrors that haunt their dreams.  It is a comforting fable that gives them hope as the cloud in the east grows darker and their doom approaches.  But Gondor - if Gondor had wanted a king it would have simply crowned one and been done with it long ago.  Gondor does not want a king – it fears the thought of one.  The princes and the lords fear the power a steward might claim, should he decide to make himself a king.  As a steward, he is manageable.  He is not too far above them.  A king, on the other hand, they would have to obey without question.  They like things the way they are.”

“So do I,” Turgon said.   “My family has worked for generations to endear ourselves to your family.  It would be a shame if we had to start over.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Denethor said. “In the days ahead, I think I will have need of your loyalty.”

“Why?”  Turgon asked sharply.

Denethor was not ready to tell him the real reason, to tell him about his dark, still-forming suspicions about Thorongil.  There were yet things he must do, once he returned to Minas Tirith, things he must know, before he told Turgon, if indeed he told him at all.  “Finduilas is in Minas Tirith," he said instead,  “awaiting an answer.  I do not know what it will be.”

 ***************************

Apologies for the delay in updating this story. 

This chapter is dedicated to a very special person, unowho.

  - Chapter 4 - 

Turgon groaned and struggled to roll over in his narrow bunk.  “Has it stopped raining?”  

Denethor could not tell if it was sleep that slurred his voice, or the open barrel of Lebennin brandy on the deck beside his bunk.  “Yes, finally.”  The stormy night had yielded at last to a grey dawn that half-heartedly illuminated flat brown water stretching toward barren fields.  A cold mist coated the fine hairs on the hand he extended out the tiny porthole of their cabin.  “It’s much colder, though.  Nearly freezing.”          

Bare feet thudded onto the plank floor.  “Can you see the Citadel yet?”

“No, but we shouldn’t be far from the Harlond.”  The captain had promised an early morning landing and the crew seemed to be preparing for one.  Purposeful footsteps had been moving about on the upper deck since long before first light.  If all went as planned, Denethor could deliver Thorongil to the Houses of Healing by mid-morning, leaving the rest of the day to resolve the looming catastrophe of Finduilas’s marriage ultimatum.  He dared not hope for enough time left over before the feast to explore the mystery of Thorongil’s strange two-headed ring.  It would probably have to be left until after Mettarë.  He turned from the window to see Turgon dipping his cup into the brandy again.  “That’s very expensive stuff,”  he commented.

“The best,” Turgon agreed.  “Try some?” 

Denethor ignored the waved cup.  “Please tell me you at least paid for it this time.”

“I am an honorable man!”  Turgon looked wounded. “I won it playing cards with the first mate.” 

“Well, I think you’ve had enough of it,” Denethor said.  “I’ve no intention of hauling you up six circles.”  Hauling Thorongil up six circles would be challenge enough.  A wagon would have to be found, and the streets would be clogged with holiday travelers who even now could be seen moving along the road to the city.  Denethor frowned at an enormous winter-bare tree standing alongside the bank.  Wagons, horses, and people moved steadily past it, but the boat should have left it behind by now as it slowly progressed upriver.  Instead, the tree remained stubbornly planted exactly in the middle of the porthole.  He reached for his boots and jammed them onto his feet.    

“Where are you going?”

“Topside.  We’re not moving.”  Denethor pulled his cloak on and stood up, stooping to avoid hitting his head on the low ceiling.  “I’m going to find out why.”

“Traffic,” the captain grunted in response to his inquiry, with a resentful jab of his head toward the impenetrable clot of vessels blocking the river ahead.  It extended as far as Denethor could see, all the way to the bend in the river just south of the Harlond.  Cargo of all kinds was stacked on the decks – casks and crates, livestock, great pottery jars of oil, enormous mounds of wood and charcoal – all of it destined for Minas Tirith.  Through the mist, Denethor could faintly see the spike of the Citadel looming high above the city.  “I worried this would happen,” said the captain, jabbing at the offending vessels with his pipe.  “The delay getting out of Pelargir, waiting for your healer and all his special supplies.”

“He’s not my healer.”

The captain raised a bushy eyebrow.  “It’s your man he’s tending’ to down there, ain’t he?  It’s like this.  If my merchandise doesn’t get to Minas Tirith in time for the festival, I don’t get paid.  Simple as that.”

Denethor stepped forward, forcing the captain to crane his neck to meet his icy gaze.  “Now, see here,” he said.  “My 'man' down there is a Captain of Gondor, gravely wounded in battle on the very fences of Mordor.  He risked his life to keep you and your precious cargo safe.  How dare you speak of profit.”      

The captain’s face drained of color.  “Begging your pardon, sir,” he said with a shakier voice, “I didn’t mean no insult to your ma- your officer.  But you can see there’s no gettin’ round this log jam anyhow.”

“What’s going on?” interjected a blanket-draped Turgon, whose curiosity had finally drawn him out of his bunk.  His bleary gaze followed Denethor’s pointed finger until he focused on the bobbing mass of vessels filling the river.  “Oh,” he managed, sagging onto a cask. "So much for an early arrival."

Behind him, climbing awkwardly up the ladder from the lower deck, Denethor could see the healer from Pelargir.  Denethor kneaded his forehead.  “How long until we reach the docks?” he asked the captain.

 “All day, at this rate.  You can see nobody is moving.”

“We don’t have all day!” The healer scuttled toward them with his robes flapping.  “My patient must be taken to the Houses of Healing without further delay!  These conditions are entirely unsuitable!  Damp, cold, filthy – it is an abomination!  An abomination!  It is a wonder that the patient does not have the lung sickness yet, especially given the deliberate attempts –” at this he shot a glare at Turgon – “at sabotaging my treatment plan.  Do you have any idea how difficult it is to keep wounds clean under these conditions?  No, I can see you do not.  Well,” he concluded a heartfelt sigh, “I simply cannot work under these conditions.”

The captain stared at him as if considering whether anyone would object if he simply threw him overboard.  Then he turned to Denethor.  “If you want," he said, "I can put you off over on the bank there.” 

Along the bank, where farm fields were giving way to the outlying villages around Minas Tirith, Denethor could see other boats that had already abandoned the queue for the docks in favor of dumping their cargo directly on the bank.  Some of the freight was already being loaded onto wagons and hand-carts to join the long line of traffic snaking toward the city.   “No,” he said.  “The road is just as clogged with traffic as the river.  Thorongil is too weak to withstand that much jostling.”

"Out of the question!"  echoed the healer.

“We’ll just have to wait our turn in line, then,” said the captain.  

“We’ll see about that,” Denethor said.  “Wait here.”  With Turgon following, he spun on a heel and made for the ladder to the lower deck.

“What are you going to do?”  asked Turgon, as he stormed into the galley and snatched a dish towel from a startled deck hand.

“I do not intend to spend another day in this leaky wreck while it floats within sight of the Citadel,” Denethor said, “or endure one more minute of that healer’s yapping about the unhealthy vapors in the bilge.”  Clutching the towel, he climbed back to the top deck and thrust it at the captain.  “Take this and hoist this on your mast.” 

The captain stared blankly at the swatch of plain white cloth.  “Hoist this?  It’s a towel!”

Denethor returned his incredulous look with one of regal impassivity.  “Not anymore,” he ground out.  “Now it is the standard of the Steward.  Hoist it on your mast and order the other traffic to make way.”

The captain looked at the towel skeptically.  “If you say so, sir.”  He whistled for the mate.  “Raise this atop the mast, like he said.”  When it was done, the captain stepped up to the prow and cleared his throat.  “Ahoy there!  Make way! Make way in the name of the Steward!” 

The response to the captain’s order was immediate, if not particularly gratifying.  “Pipe down, you old blowhard!” a grizzled seaman called from a barge hauling charcoal.  “What is that on your mast, eh?  A pillowcase from your cabin?”

“You’re drinking too much of your own cargo if you think you can bully your way to the front of the queue like that!” called another.

“Hauling Ecthelion’s special brew, are you?”  a third cracked.  “Send some of that Lebennin brandy over here, and we’ll think about letting you by!”

The captain turned to Denethor and shrugged.  “You can see for yourself, sir.  It’s useless.” 

Denethor exhaled through his teeth and brushed the captain aside.  Stepping up to the prow, he took a deep breath.  “Listen to me!” he bellowed.  “I am Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor.” He watched with grim satisfaction as heads swiveled and jaws dropped open.  “In the name of my father, the Steward, I order you to make way for this vessel.  We are on urgent business and must not be delayed.”

For a moment he was answered by only stares and dead silence.  “Did you not hear Lord Denethor?”  shouted the captain.  “Move those lard-buckets you call ships out of our way!”  That did it.  All at once, idle deckhands leapt to their feet, boots scrambled on rain-slick decking, and voices could be heard shouting up and down the line of boats.  “Did you hear that?  That’s Lord Denethor himself!  Make way, you fools!”

Even with an improvised and slightly gravy-stained banner of the Steward banner flying proudly from its mast and the full cooperation of the other vessels, it was already mid-morning by the time the humble beer barge of Captain Calas finally sidled up to the docks at Harlond.  Denethor’s relief at gaining the docks was short-lived, for there, tied up in a berth, could be seen a sleek, swift ship flying the unmistakable white swan standard of Dol Amroth. 

“She’s here,” said Turgon helpfully.  “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to get a wagon for Thorongil,” he answered brusquely.  “Help the healer off the boat with him while I find one.” 

He pulled rank for the second time of the morning to commandeer a conveyance for Thorongil, which the healer promptly but predictably condemned as unsuitable.  “A donkey cart?” he shrieked, skinny arms flapping in bird-like outrage.  “I simply cannot transport a wounded man in this fashion!  A proper casualty wagon must be brought from the Houses of Healing.”

“You must be joking,” Turgon said.  “Look at the traffic.  It will take all day to get a message to the Houses and bring back a casualty wagon.” 

Denethor looked down at Thorongil, lying beneath the awning of a shed where they’d put him to get him out of the way of the steady stream of freight sleds being moved along the wharf.  “What say you, Captain Thorongil?  Donkey cart or wait all day for a proper wagon? ”

Lines of pain pulled at the corners of Thorongil’s eyes, but a spark of mirth shone within them.   “No need for either wagon or cart,” he said.  “If a horse can be found I would be glad to ride.”

Affecting a studious expression to conceal his enjoyment of the healer’s horrified gasp, Denethor nodded.  “Very well.  Turgon, find him a horse.”  It was utter nonsense, of course - Thorongil was in no more condition to sit a horse than he was to sprout wings and fly, but Denethor did not have the heart to deny him this brief revenge on his captor. 

The captor was having none of it.  “I forbid it!” he yelped.  With impressive speed, he rushed to Thorongil, nearly getting himself run over by a cart full of apples in the process, and pinned him to the deck.  “You are in no condition to get up!”

Denethor astonished himself by winking conspiratorially at Thorongil.  “Now, now.  The good Captain has been lounging about for four days.  A bit of fresh air and exercise might do him good.”    

Without taking his hands off Thorongil, the healer threw him a pleading glance.  “Lord Denethor, I insist you forbid this course of action.”

Denethor shrugged.  “Captain Thorongil is a most headstrong officer.  He usually gets his own way.”  

Turgon came trudging back, pulling hard on the lead of the sorriest beast Denethor had ever seen.  Denethor looked at him in disbelief.  “What is that?”

“You asked for a horse.” 

Denethor stared at the animal.  “I meant a live one.”

“It’s alive!”  Turgon said indignantly. “Granted, it has seen better days – “

“Yes, sometime in the Second Age.  Where is its saddle?”

“I do not need one,” piped in Thorongil.

“He’s an excellent rider,” Turgon said.  “I’ve seen him ride without –“

“Saddle or no saddle, I refuse to allow it!”  shouted the healer, releasing his hold on Thorongil to advance on Denethor.   “This man is in no condition to ride!  He cannot even stand!”

Denethor crossed his arms.  “What you suggest, then?  Leave him here on the wharf to be pecked at by gulls?  He cannot walk to the Houses of Healing and you did not like the cart.”

The healer wrung his hands.  He looked unhappily at Thorongil, whose demonstration of fitness for duty had progressed as far as propping himself up against the wall of the shed, and then back to Denethor.  Finally his shoulders slumped.  “The cart,” he said meekly.

“An excellent choice,” Denethor said.  “Let us be on our way.”

A city perched on the side of a mountain does not have the luxury of broad thoroughfares, and the festival had left Minas Tirith’s narrow ones even more choked than normal.  At the city gates, Denethor conscripted a pair of uniformed guards and ordered them to clear a path ahead of Thorongil’s cart, but even so, progress through the six levels of the city was slow and torturous.  People, carts, animals, street vendors, and even puppet theaters encroached on the thoroughfare, threatening complete paralysis.  By the time Thorongil was carried inside the Houses of Healing, he was as white as the Steward’s banner, and Denethor was as exhausted as if he’d fought a legion of orcs.  A legion of orcs would not have been nearly as difficult to get out of the way, he reflected with annoyance as he plunged back into the throng to make his way to his quarters.  It was with utter relief that he shut the door behind him, dropped his pack on the floor and threw his cloak across a chair.  His boots and sword belt quickly joined the pile on the floor.  He padded barefoot to the window and looked out onto the blessedly distant commotion below.  He could see the traffic on the road from the Harlond, but now it looked like a trail of ants carrying crumbs back to the nest.  Scents of roasting meat and baking bread wafted through the air, reminding him that he had not eaten since dinner last night.  His stomach grumbled, and he would have liked to take some time to inspect Thorongil’s ring in the privacy of his own quarters, but protocol demanded that he report to the Steward as soon as he was presentable.  Reluctantly, he locked the serpent ring in his safe.  As soon as he was bathed, shaved, and dressed, he went to see his father.  

He should have anticipated that word of his return would race through the city, right to the seat of the Steward.  He should have guessed that Ecthelion would rush to be at his favorite captain’s side, even before receiving the report from his commander.  Even before seeing his own son.  Denethor stomped out of his father’s vacant office and marched back to the Houses in a state of raging disgust, scattering passersby from his path like startled chickens. He did not slow even to acknowledge the greeting of the doorkeeper who had helped him carry Thorongil inside barely an hour ago. 

The room Thorongil had been taken to, at the Warden’s insistence, was one reserved for Gondor’s elite citizens.  That he was no citizen of Gondor at all save for the favor of Ecthelion seemed to be a fact lost on everyone but Denethor. 

Denethor barreled down the hallway now and nearly barged straight into the room.  At the last instant, he made out his father’s voice and skidded to a stop just outside.  Leaning around the doorjamb, he saw Ecthelion standing by the bed, along with the black-robed Warden and the pasty healer from Pelargir.            

“…utmost confidence in your staff, Master Warden,” Ecthelion was saying.

“We shall do all we can for him,” the Warden said.  “Without the expert care rendered by our esteemed colleague, Master Saerbellas, the task would have been far more difficult.”

The fish-eyed Saerbellas wrung his paper-pale hands together.  “Master Warden is too kind,” he said. “I only did my humble best under very unfortunate circumstances.  If my counsel had been heeded, the captain would have been properly cared for in the Houses of Healing in Pelargir instead of suffering in the damp, moldering bilge of a beer barge.”  Denethor cringed as Ecthelion’s shoulders stiffened, but the Pelargirian took no note of it.  “This man’s recovery,” he continued, “indeed, his very survival – was gravely endangered by this reckless and needless expedition!” 

Denethor’s hands clenched into fists, but before he could step forward to defend himself, another voice spoke up.  “Master Saerbellas exaggerates, my lord Steward,” said Thorongil.  “There is nothing wrong with me that a bit of rest will not remedy.”

Ecthelion laid a hand gently on Thorongil’s head.  “Such rest is well-deserved.  You are heralded as a hero of Gondor, and I could not be prouder of you if you were my own son.”

Denethor was able to count his next ten heartbeats, so loudly did they whoosh in his ears.  Torn between stalking into the room and stalking off to sulk in private, he instead stood rooted in place.  My own son.   Here was where his generosity and indulgence of Thorongil had got him.  By failing to keep him in check, to counter every shift in the power balance, he had lost valuable ground.  Unforgivable ground.   Possibly unrecoverable ground.  My own son.    In the beginning, Thorongil had been nothing but a foreigner, a stranger.  Now, it was Denethor, not Thorongil, who was the barbarian at the gate.  The time for failed strategies was over.  He must engage Thorongil directly.  Yet it would not do, not do at all, for Ecthelion to see his resentment or his rage.  It was time to play Thorongil’s game, and to beat him at it.  He took a deep breath, affected an easy smile that ached down to his gut, and stepped into the room. 

“Denethor!”  Ecthelion rushed forward and embraced him.  “Welcome home, my son!”    

“It is good to be home,” he said, and for an instant he meant it, returning the embrace with the warmth that his father seemed unfailingly able to draw out of him, no matter how stubbornly he tried to maintain his indignation.           

Ecthelion glanced at Thorongil.  “I was greatly concerned when I heard Captain Thorongil was wounded.  I thought perhaps I might find you here with him.”

Warm sentiment fled as quickly as it had come, leaving him speechless and staring.  As if campaigning in the freezing mud for three months, tracking a reckless and disobedient glory-hound through an orc-infested wasteland, rescuing him at great personal risk and then personally delivering him into the hands of the healers were not enough, evidently he was expected to change his bedpan as well.  He swallowed his rage and forced an indulgent smile.  “Captain Thorongil has already seen quite enough of me over the past weeks, is that not true, my friend?”    

“I owe Denethor my life,” Thorongil said.  “If not for him, I would be dead.”

Denethor clasped his adversary’s hand.  “A warrior’s duty, nothing more.  You would have done the same.” 

Ecthelion’s calculating gaze swept from one to the other until Denethor felt he could not hold the pose one more instant.  Finally he nodded.  “Well, done, then.  But let us not tire Captain Thorongil.  He has earned his rest.”  With a nod to the Warden, he made for the door.  Almost as an afterthought, he turned back.  “Come, Denethor.  You and I have much to talk about.”

There was no chance to talk on the way back to the Citadel.  A much more public figure than his son, Ecthelion was repeatedly forced to stop and exchange holiday greetings with crowds of cheerful and slightly drunk holiday revelers wishing him a good year and long life, offering him cups of spiced wine or sweets, and asking for his blessings upon their children.  Denethor had never been able to read his father well enough to know if he truly enjoyed interacting with the common people or viewed it as a necessary duty.  But when finally Ecthelion shut the door of his private study behind him, Denethor sensed relief in the way he cast off his cheerful demeanor as quickly as his cloak.  He poured two glasses of cordial from a decanter on the side table and handed one to Denethor.  “The more worry weighs on the people’s minds, the more they need the diversion of the festival.”  He took a drink as if he needed it.  “That healer – what was his name, Saddlebags?  He seemed quite displeased with you.”

Denethor shrugged.  “He wanted me to leave Thorongil behind in Pelargir.”

“Good that you didn’t.”  Ecthelion patted his own thigh. “One of those Pelargirian bloodsuckers tried to take my leg off once.  Have I ever told you the story?”

“Yes,” Denethor said quickly. 

“I took an arrow behind my knee in a skirmish with –" Ecthelion paused, possibly because Denethor had begun intently examining a book of poetry on the desk.  “Well, in any case, Thorongil is better off here in our own Houses, where we can keep an eye on him.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Denethor said.  He put the book down.

“Tell me about the campaign.”

“The Southrons should not harry us for a long time.” 

“Casualties?”

“Forty-eight dead, all told.”

“A hard won victory, but a victory nonetheless.”  Ecthelion raised his glass in salute.  “My congratulations.”

Denethor did not raise his glass.  “Is it me you congratulate, or Captain Thorongil?”

“Must it be one or the other?”  The level gaze narrowed sharply.  “Thorongil spoke highly of your campaign strategy.”

Denethor felt his neck burning.  “I was not aware I needed Thorongil’s endorsement.”

“Would you rather have his criticism?”

“I would rather be subjected to neither!” Denethor said more sharply than he intended.   “Thorongil is not my better, to pass judgment for good or ill.”

“He does not judge you.”  Ecthelion sat down in a chair by the fire and rubbed the bridge of his nose.   “Nor do I.  But he is a man of keen insight, can you not see that?  This incessant competition, this jealousy of yours, begins to tire me.”  When Denethor did not answer, he swirled the amber liquid in his glass.  “Do you know why the House of Dol Amroth has chosen to grace my hall this Mettarë?”

It was Denethor’s turn to take a badly needed swallow.  “Adrahil wishes a proposal for Finduilas.”

“And will she get one?” 

He stood up and looked at the fire, suddenly feeling more like an awkward child than a seasoned commander.  “I do not know.”  

“Do you love the girl?”

Denethor let his forehead fall forward against the mantel with a faint but audible thud.  “It is not that simple, Father.”

“What could be simpler? Do you love her or not?”

Denethor spun, incredulous.  “You of all people should know there is more to it than love!”      

The barest flicker of emotion flashed across Ecthelion’s face, before his expression hardened into calm imperturbability.  “If love does not concern you, then you are a fool.  But it is your affair.  If you do not care to speak of love, let us consider more pragmatic matters.  Dol Amroth is a powerful house.”

“Yes.”

“It would be a good match.”

“A good match.”  That was an understatement.  “Is that what matters, a good match?”   

“Well, you have already discounted love.  You must understand, a courtship of this length raises certain expectations.  It is not fair to the girl, if your intentions are not serious -”

“It is not –"  Denethor reintroduced his forehead to the cool stone of the mantel.  “It is not that I am not serious.” 

He rolled his head to the side to see Ecthelion looking at a portrait above the mantel.  It was the portrait of a woman who had been a very good match.  “Denethor,” he said wearily, “I have been patient, but you are nearly 50 years old.  You are my only son, and heir to the Stewardship.  You must think of Gondor.”

“I think of nothing else!”  Denethor’s fingers tightened around the stone slab.  “My duty to Gondor leaves little time for a wife.”

“Your duty to Gondor requires you to have one.”

He sighed and pushed himself away from the hearth, walked over to the bookshelves and ran his hand along the leather-bound spines.  “For duty’s sake,” he said, “I could wed a lady of high breeding and higher ambitions, with expensive tastes and courtly manners, who would clothe herself in my title and leave me to my own interests.  But Finduilas is not that kind of lady.”  Denethor smiled privately at the memory of Finduilas challenging him to a race on horseback along the dunes of the coast.  “She wants more out of marriage than that.  She wants romance, and happiness.”

“Then give it to her!”

“How?”  He turned to face his father.  “Minas Tirith would imprison her like a soaring gull trapped in a flock of clucking, fussing pigeons.  She would be homesick for the sea, and lonely so far from her parents and family.”

“So it always is at first, with girls from the country.  They get over it, eventually.  She will adjust.  Your sisters will help her.”

“My sisters will ruin her!” 

“Think then on this,” Ecthelion said.  “The granddaughter of the Prince of Dol Amroth will not end up a spinster.  If you do not marry her, someone else will.”  He carefully scrutinized his son.  “At the Mettarë feast a year hence, could you bear to see her betrothed to another – someone, say, like Thorongil?”

“Thorongil!”  Denethor said the word with more venom than he intended.  “Surely it would be unthinkable to marry a princess of Dol Amroth to a foreigner.”

“Probably,” Ecthelion agreed.  “Unfortunately for Finduilas, she will end up married to someone of more breeding and less character than Thorongil. And then, my son, because indeed you do love her, it will be your bitter fate to watch her from afar for very many long years.  You will steal glances with her from across crowded rooms, you will watch her children play and wonder what they would have looked like, if they had been yours.  How do you think you will feel, when you see her for the first time on the arm of another man?”

Denethor’s chest felt tight.  “As long as she were happy, I would rejoice to see it,” he said.  “I would sooner set her free than be the cause of her suffering.”

Ecthelion grunted out a bitter chuckle.  “If you think to spare her suffering by rejecting her, then you have a great deal to learn.”  He laid a hand on Denethor’s shoulder.  “Adrahil has asked to meet with me at eight o’clock this evening.  I do not think we need to guess the reason why.” 

“No.”

“I expect you to be there.  With an answer.” 

“Of course,” he answered, as if it were that easy.  Twelve hours in which to decide the small matter of the course of his life.  “I will return by eight.”      

~oOo~

He opened the lock box.  Twin emerald-eyed serpents flashed as he held Thorongil’s ring up to catch the sunlight.   Before he could examine it more closely, there was a knock at the door.  “Come in,” he called, thrusting the ring into his pocket.

He waited, but the door remained shut.  A servant would have simply let himself in, and he was expecting no other visitors.  Curious, he rose and opened the door himself.  When he recognized the tall young man who stood there, he wished he hadn’t.  “Lord Denethor,” the son of Prince Adrahil said with a small bow, “I hope I have not disturbed you.”

Denethor stared for a second before he found his voice.  “Imrahil! Of course you are not disturbing me.  Come in.”  He could not imagine what business Finduilas’s younger brother could have with him – it would be the height of impropriety to dispatch one so young as an envoy in marriage negotiations, and the House of Dol Amroth was nothing if not fastidiously proper in such matters. Yet he could not leave the lad to stand in the hallway.       

Imrahil did not respond to his invitation, but remained standing awkwardly, nervously, in the corridor.  “I was hoping, that is, we were hoping…”  His gaze kept shifting to something, or someone, to his left. 

“What is it?”  Denethor saw the boy’s gaze again flicker to one side.  “Is someone there?”  He stepped out of his apartment and looked down the hallway.  Half hidden in the shadows at the far end of the corridor he made out a slight figure cowled in blue.  His heartbeat quickened as he realized who it must be.  He turned back to Imrahil.  “Does your father know she is here?”

“He thinks we are at the market.  But Finduilas insisted on seeing you.” 

Denethor stepped back into the room and grabbed his cloak off the back of a chair.  It would not do, would not do at all, for Finduilas to be spotted lurking outside his chambers, brotherly chaperone or not.  “Come.  Follow me.”  With Imrahil on his heels, he paused only long enough to take Finduilas by the hand before leading the pair to a secluded courtyard near the kitchens that was usually deserted at this time of year.  He bade Finduilas sit on a bench beneath an apple tree.  “The cook uses this place as an herb garden in the summer,” he said, “but it is little visited in the winter.  We should not be disturbed here.” 

Finduilas pulled her hood back, shocking Denethor with the change in her appearance.  The face he thought of as he fell asleep every night was radiant with health and happiness, reflecting all the colors of the seashore – sparkling eyes that reminded him of silver waves against a blue sky, skin lightly tanned like the finest gold sand.  The face before him now was as colorless as the stone walls, the eyes as brooding as the clouds overhead.  “They said you were not expected back until after Mettarë,” she said.   

“I just arrived this morning.  I was escorting a wounded officer, or I would still be on the road from Pelargir.”

“Maybe that would have been better.” When he did not respond, she looked away.  “My father is neither patient nor subtle.  I pleaded with him, but he feels my honor is at stake.  He intends to demand an answer tonight but I ask you to let me hear it first.”   

Denethor sighed.  “If it were only a matter of love, I could give you the answer you desire.”

She released a harsh breath and withdrew into her cloak as if seized by a chill.  “If not love, then what is it you stumble over?”

 “I want you to be happy.”

She laughed disbelievingly.  “Is that all?  Then be with me.  That is all I need to be happy.” 

“I know you believe that.”  He took her hand; small but not delicate, the palm hardened from horse-riding and sailing.  He ran his fingertip across the ridge of callus.  “I fear you were never able to make a sailor out of me.”

This earned him the ghost of her old smile.  “It was not for lack of trying.” 

“It was easy to be happy in Dol Amroth,” he said.  “It would be different here.”  He glanced about at the tall stone walls.  “How could you be happy in this barren wasteland, so far from the sea, where every sunrise is defiled by the smoke of Mordor?  Tell me you did not die a little as you first caught sight of that evil mountain.”

Her eyes darkened still more.  “I do not deny it,” she whispered.  “It felt as if the claws of Mordor were reaching for my throat.  But you must endure the threat of Mordor every day of your life.  I would not have you suffer through it alone.”

“And I would not have you suffer at all!”

“Life brings its own suffering, Denethor.  Against that suffering, all we have is love.”

“If it were within my power,” he said, “I would go with you to Dol Amroth, and ride with you every day atop the dunes.  Every evening we would watch Anor set over the sea together, and laugh at the antics of the sea birds.  I have thought of little else over the past months.  But my duty and my life are not in Dol Amroth but here, in this prison of stone.  I cannot live in your world.  I cannot ask you to live in mine.”

Her voice was barely audible.  “You cannot, or you will not?”  

For a long moment he was silent, failing the words that would make her understand, or for the wisdom to make himself see another way.  For a long moment, he was silent.  And then she pulled her hand away, and was gone.      

~oOo~

The archivist was busy copying a book of poetry, so engrossed in his work that he noticed his visitor only when he stepped forward and blocked the sunlight streaming through the western window.  He jerked his head up then, first in annoyance, then in startled delight.  “My lord, Denethor!  What a pleasant surprise!”  Denethor noted that he kept his writing hand perfectly still so as not to smudge his work; evidently he remained hopeful that the interruption would be brief.  “I had not heard you were back in the city.”

“I hurried back so as not to miss the feast.”      

“Ah.”  From his expression, it was not clear the archivist realized or cared what feast was currently being celebrated by the unenlightened classes.  “Your campaign went well, I take it?  Where was it now, Ithilien or…?”

“Harad.  Very well, thank you.” Denethor smiled fondly; he always found the archivist’s curious detachment from the real world around him somehow endearing.  “I wondered if you might help me with something.”  Though his voice betrayed none of his apprehension, his heart was pounding like that of a thief hiding in a house at night, waiting to make off with the silver. 

The archivist put aside his pen and dabbed at his stained fingers with a rag.  “Of course, my lord.  How may I help you?”

Denethor’s tongue seemed suddenly to be made of dry wool.  He swallowed.  “I wondered if there might be any extant accounts of the Council decision regarding Arvedui.” 

“Arvedui!  Those records date back a thousand years,” the archivist said.  “Original documents would have crumbled to dust long ago.”  

Denethor’s heart sank.  “Dust,” he repeated in a whisper.  “They are all gone, then?”

“Copies would have been made, of course.  Documents of such historical value would be kept in the private archives.  As the son of the Steward you are naturally welcome to view them.” The archivist pushed back his chair.  “I just have to remember where I left the key.  It has been some time since anyone has been in there.”  He got to his feet and went to a large cupboard against the wall.  “I don’t keep that key with the others.  Wouldn’t do to have just anyone wandering in there and fingering ancient documents like that.  They shouldn’t be handled at all, really.”  He looked at Denethor hopefully, then let out a long-suffering sigh. “Well, then.  Let me see…where did I put that key?”

“Stop, stop.”  Denethor caught the archivist’s arm.  Perhaps it would not be necessary to view the documents themselves, if the archivist knew what they contained.  “Are you telling me that you have read a chronicle of the decision regarding Arvedui survives?”

“Oh, yes.”  The archivist’s voice was muffled, coming as it did from inside a cupboard in which he had buried his head as well as one arm up to the shoulder.  “I have read it.  Sometimes I hide keys down here.  There is a hook high up on the right, just so….no.”  He crawled back out and wiped his hands on his robe.  “Perhaps in the foreign acquisitions…”

Denethor shadowed him as he shuffled to the next room. “Do you happen to remember,” he said, striving to keep his voice level, “if it was recorded that Arvedui presented tokens of the Northern Kingdom?  I seem to recall my tutor mentioning something about it.”

“Tokens.”  The archivist was preoccupied with scanning the shelves lining the walls.  For a moment that stretched until Denethor was tempted to leap forward and shake him, he did not answer.   “Yes,” he said finally.  “The Council made no ruling on their authenticity, though it was largely presumed they were genuine.  Ties were still quite strong between the Northern and Southern Kingdoms in those days, and Arvedui was well known in Gondor, having married the daughter of Ondoher, as you know.”

“Yes, yes,” Denethor said impatiently.  “But you say that he did present evidence of that lineage.”

“There were three items:  A broken sword, purported of course to be the shards of Narsil; the Ring of Barahir; and the Scepter of Annúminas.”

 “The Ring of Barahir.”  Denethor swallowed as his finger traced the faint ridges on Thorongil’s ring.  “What did it look like?”

“It was said to bear the emblem of the Noldor house of Finarfin,” the archivist said, reaching to pull down a container off a high shelf.  “According to legend, it was gifted in the Second Age from the Noldor Finrod Felagund to Barahir of the Dúnedain.  It passed to his son, Beren, and eventually came into the possession of the Faithful of Númenor.  Ah, here we are!”  He proudly held up an ancient-looking key.  “I knew I put it somewhere safe.” 

“What did it look like?”

“What did what look like?”

“The Ring,” Denethor said, very slowly, “of Barahir.” 

“Oh.  It was said to bear the emblem of the House of Finarfin.”

“Which was?”

“Something unusual, if I recall.”  Key in hand, the archivist set off down a narrow corridor that ended in an ancient oak door.  “I seem to recall there were scales involved.  Dragons, perhaps?  No, no.  Scales but no wings.  Scales but no wings.  What was it, then?  Fish?  Oh!  Now I remember – serpents.  Yes, that was it.  Two serpents, with emeralds for eyes.”

Denethor turned on his heel.

“Or was it sapphires?” he could hear the archivist say, as he stalked out of the archive.  “Either way, quite a unique design, really.”

Denethor was halfway out to the street before he heard a faint voice calling, “Wait!  Don’t you want to see the scroll?”

Denethor moved like an aimed arrow through crowds of laughing people, the scents of roasting meat and spiced ale that filled the air, the sounds of laughter and singing wafting from inns and private houses, oblivious to all of it except as obstacles to his progress.  Downward through all the levels of the city he moved with relentless, desperate purpose.      

He mustered a grunted reply to the gate guard’s holiday greeting and walked out to the deserted promenade by the river.  The water flowed past, sluggish and grey beneath a pale sunset.  There was a bench by the riverbank, near the path where lovers walked through fields of daffodils in the springtime.  He sat down there, staring at the river. How could he not have known?  How could he not have guessed?  The clues had been there all along.    It was his own arrogance, his logical, rational assumption that since Thorongil could not be of Númenorean blood, then he was not.  He had been a fool.  Had his own blood not leapt in his veins in recognition of its own kind?  It had.  He had felt it.  He had known it, and yet refused to believe it. 

A few flurries of snow drifted into the flat brown water and melted away.  So it could be with Thorongil’s ring.  It would be easy, so easy to throw it into the river, to let it sink below the grey water and bury itself into the silt below, never to be seen again.   He stood up, clutching the ring.  He looked at the water.  After a time, he sat back down.  He did not even hear the approach of footsteps in the snow.

“What are you doing here?”  He recognized the voice without turning.  Turgon.  “I’ve been looking all over for you.” 

He did not bother to look up. “Why?”

“Adrahil is going to see your father.”

“I know.”

“He thinks you’re not going to propose to Finduilas tonight.”

“I am not.”

Turgon stepped around to the front of the bench, forced himself into Denethor’s line of sight.  He was dressed in festive garb.  Evidently he had dragged himself away from a party.  “Are you mad?”

“Does it matter?”

“What is wrong with you?”  Turgon sat down beside him.  “You’ve been stubborn and pig-headed as long as I’ve known you, but you’ve never been stupid before.  Are you trying to start a feud with Dol Amroth?”

“Of course not.”

“Do you not love Finduilas?  I know you do!”

“Stop.”  Denethor raised a warding hand.   “I’ve already been through this.  Twice, in fact.  It has nothing to do with love.”

“Maybe it should!”

He got up from the bench, walked to the river’s edge.  “There is no time for that now.”

Turgon followed him to the bank.  “No time?  The House of Dol Amroth has invaded in force.   The two most powerful men in Gondor are facing off like enraged bulls, all of Minas Tirith is awaiting an announcement which you have just informed me you do not intend to make, you have broken a lovely girl’s heart and botched the most important decision of your life.  What could possibly be more important than that?”

He turned to face Turgon.  “The Return of the King,” he said.

Turgon stared at him.  “The what?”

“This.”  He opened his hand, revealing Thorongil’s ring.  The Ring of Barahir.  “Before I say another word, kneel and swear an oath of loyalty.”

Turgon’s brows leapt upward.  “An oath?  What oath would you have me take?  An oath to Gondor and its Steward I have already taken, and you are not yet my lord.”

Before he knew what he was doing, Denethor had Turgon’s collar in his fist.  “Are you with me or not?” he snapped.  “Choose now or get out of my sight!”

Turgon’s face blanched.  He dropped to a knee.  “‘Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor,” he said hoarsely, “and to the Lord and Steward of the realm, and to my lord Denethor, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end. So say I, Turgon, son of Ondoher, Captain of Gondor.”

 “Now swear on your honor as a Captain of Gondor that you will never reveal to anyone what I am about to tell you.”

When Turgon had obeyed and risen to his feet, Denethor held out the ring.  “Behold the Ring of Barahir.”

Turgon shook his head blankly. 

“It is an ancient token of the Northern Kingdom. The last time it was seen in Gondor, it was on the hand of Arvedui himself.”

“Pretty,” Turgon commented.  “The northern Dúnedain had perished, I thought.  Where did this turn up?”

“It was secreted into Gondor years ago and kept hidden in plain sight, indeed, right under our noses.  It is the lynchpin of a grand scheme concocted by Mithrandir, to infiltrate a usurper into our ranks, concealing his true origin and treasonous ambitions behind a façade of honor and loyalty, pretending to serve Gondor while stealing enough hearts to be received with adoration when at last he casts aside his disguise and reveals his true purpose – to claim the throne of Gondor for himself.  Oh, he is patient, this one, and cunning.  In this he is a good pupil of his master.”

“Who is?”  Turgon was looking at him as if he had just sprouted a second head.  “What are you talking –” His mouth dropped open as realization dawned in his eyes.  “Thorongil?”

“The same.” 

“That ring is his?   How did you get it?”

“I found it when I rescued him.  He thinks it has been lost.  I went to the archives today and confirmed my suspicions about it.”  Denethor held out the ring.  “See for yourself how old it is.”

Turgon handled the ring delicately.  “This was Arvedui’s ring?”

“His, and that of all his forefathers before him, back to Barahir himself.  Yes.”

“But even if Thorongil is his heir -” Turgon cocked an eyebrow.  “Is he?”

“There is no way of knowing.  At the very least it appears that he is descended from the northern line and fancies himself its heir.”

Turgon cocked an eyebrow.  “Not necessarily.”

“How else do you suppose he came to possess Arvedui’s ring?”

“The way unsavory men always come upon things of great value. Thievery.  Grave-robbing.  Luck at dice.” 

Denethor shook his head.  “No.  There is something too righteous about him, too bold.  It is in pretending to be a low-born rustic that he has ever struggled.  This,” he said as he took the ring back from Turgon, “is real.  If Thorongil is not Arvedui’s heir, at least he has reason to believe that he is.  He is no simple fraud.”

“If he is Arvedui’s heir, then he must know he’ll be sent packing, just as Arvedui was.”

“Must he?”  Denethor took one last look at the ring before slipping it back into Thorongil’s locket.  “Arvedui did not enjoy the favor of the Steward.”

“Neither will Thorongil, once he is exposed,” Turgon said.  “Once we tell your father.”

“We shall do nothing of the kind!” Having spent many sleepless hours agonizing over this very decision, he was now certain of his course.  “It is far too late for that.  The wool has been pulled over my father’s eyes for too long.  Do you not see how he loves him?   If he had any inkling that his beloved captain was no nameless mercenary after all, but a true-blooded son of Númenor, and Arvedui’s heir at that -”

 “But if he knew that Thorongil had lied –“ 

“No!”  Denethor grabbed one velvet-draped sleeve and yanked until Turgon’s face was inches away.  “I forbid it!   The Steward’s judgment has been so corrupted that he is likely to embrace Thorongil and condemn me for disloyalty.  No,” he repeated, releasing Turgon’s arm, “no one is to know.  Not my father, not the Council, most especially not your gossipy wife.  If you cross me in this I promise I will extract payment that you cannot imagine.” 

“Why did you risk telling me all of this if do not intend to expose Thorongil?”

“I need you to remember a little story,” Denethor said.  “You need tell it only if someone questions you.  The story is this:  After we reached Poros crossing with Thorongil, you sent scouts back to the area where you found us.  They came upon this locket, lying on the riverbank.  We had already left Pelargir when they got there, so they joined the company traveling overland.  They should arrive in Minas Tirith tomorrow or the next day.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“To account for where the ring has been, in case Thorongil is suspicious after I give it back to him.”

“Give it back!”  Turgon stared at him uncomprehendingly, stomped off a few paces, did an about-face, and stomped back.  “You are mad!  Why would you give it back?  Throw it in the river!”

“I am no thief.”

“Throw it in the river,” Turgon repeated, “and no one ever need know.  Isn't that what you came here for?  Let Thorongil go on believing it was lost the night you rescued him.  Without it, he has no claim.”

“Certainly he has.  There are other tokens of Arvedui’s house which I must assume he can produce at need.  In any case, my father is the weapon he intends to wield, not this trinket.  By now, he has realized just how crucial and perishable that weapon is.  He correctly perceives that I will oppose him, if I become Steward.  He knows he must make his move before then.  Now that I recognize the threat he truly represents, he will find his way much more difficult, I think.  Our truce is over.  The match is about to begin.”

“Then I would remind you of the first law of combat – do not give your enemy a weapon he can use against you.  I tell you again – throw this thing into the river!”

It would be so easy.  Denethor cupped the ring in his hand, stroking the tiny entwined serpents.  It would be so easy to make it go away.  “No,” he said finally.  “It is Thorongil who sneaks into Gondor like a thief in the night; Thorongil who tarnishes the failing honor of his ragged house through trickery and deceit.  I will not buy victory over him with my own honor.  I do not need to.  I will give him back the ring.  Let him do with it what he will.”

“And then what?”   

“What do you mean?”

“You just said that his plan is to gain your father’s favor.  He looks like he’s doing a fine job of that.  How do you plan to stop him?”

Denethor sighed.  “I do not know.”

“Well, then, would you take a suggestion from an old political hack?”

“What is it?”

“Outmaneuver him.  You are Ecthelion’s son.  Start acting like it.  Get closer to him than Thorongil is.”

“How?  My father is enamored of him.  He has charm, charisma.  I am merely Ecthelion’s son.  Thorongil is his delight.”

“For an intelligent man, you are a fool, my friend.  You have the power to delight Ecthelion, but you simply refuse to exercise it.”

“What power is this?”

“Do you truly not see the one thing you can give Ecthelion that Thorongil never can?”

“What is that?”

Turgon grinned triumphantly.  “A grandchild.  Remind him who his son is.  See how much time he has for Thorongil when he’s bouncing his grandson on his knee.”

Denethor stared at him.  “I have been a fool.”

“Yes, you have.”

“I have to marry Finduilas.”

“You have to marry Finduilas.”  Turgon clapped him on the back.  "And you had better get moving.  There isn't much time."