A/N:  Special thanks to the lovely and talented Cairistiona for the beta feedback.

Disclaimer:  I own nothing except my OC’s.  I’m doing this for fun.  Sue me and I’d have to pay in quarters and tic tacs.

~

The stars were fading in the East—the first sign that sunrise was not far off.  Herumor instinctively drew his mount deeper into the shadows of the hills.  Time was running out.  He could wait all day if need be, but if his minions were to fight at their best, they needed to find their quarry soon.  Patience, the man reminded himself.  Perched atop his black horse, dark cloak drawn tight against the night wind, Herumor could almost be taken for one of the fabled Nazgûl.  But, there was nothing incorporeal about the grizzled hand that clenched his sword hilt or the black eyes that glared out from behind a sable mask.

His servants were growing restless.  They sensed the approaching dawn.  One, a particularly wretched beast dared to rise from his place of concealment.  Herumor’s throwing knife caught the goblin in the throat.  The orc fell without a sound.  Herumor stalked up to retrieve his dagger.  The fallen orc’s fellows ducked their heads and averted their eyes, clearly more frightened of their shadowed captain than of the approaching sunlight.  The man wrinkled his nose in distaste.  He would take men over these fell creatures any day of the week, but circumstances forced his hand.  And besides, the beasts had their uses.

There.  A stray gust of wind carried the sound he’d been hoping for; the faint rustle of leaves indicated an approaching party.  Herumor signaled his minions.  There was a low creak as bows were drawn.  The approaching party was moving cautiously.  Four scouts patrolled—one ahead, one behind, and one to each side.  Between the scouts rode eight mounted men—no, make that six mounted men.  The last two horses carried the gray-cloaked forms of elves.

Herumor suppressed a hiss of fury.  Hearing that the traitors and their kin associated with the wretched Eldar race had not prepared him for seeing it in person.  He forcibly stilled himself.  He was not here to hunt elves.  Leaving his mount behind, Herumor crept closer to the road.  The first two men were engaged in some kind of debate.  Their low voices should not have carried beyond the small party, but Herumor’s hearing was hardly average.

“I’ve told you too many times, Belegion, your nephew is too young to ride on patrols.  Is it not enough that we must fight alongside sixteen-year-olds?  Would you have us also endanger boys too young to shave?”

“Halpharn is young, but he is now the eldest in his family.  And besides, it is not we who endanger them but the Enemy.”

“We are nevertheless responsible for their safety.  Valar’s sake, Belegion, he’s not yet fifteen!”

“Yet already his family falls prey to the shadow.  I don’t like it anymore than you do, my lord, but experience has taught Halpharn that the village will not protect him—or his loved ones.  If we do not accept him in a patrol, he will find his own way of lashing out against the Enemy.  I have lost my brother to this fight, and now my niece is gone as well.  I do not want to also lose my nephew.”

Herumor tuned out the rest of the conversation and focused on the man Belegion had called “my lord.”  The man was a Ranger, tall and thin like all the others, dressed in an unremarkable green cloak that was unadorned, save for the standard silver star at his shoulder.  Herumor squinted to make out the man’s face in the dim light.  It was gaunt and dirty, with gray eyes and three days of stubble, but even so Herumor could see the resemblance.  He indicated his target with a quick wave of his hand, and the news passed quickly and silently from orc to orc.  The horsemen drew near.  Their scouts passed within twenty feet of Herumor’s concealed minions.  Still, the captain waited.  He savored the taste of the air, the anticipation of imminent death.  It was nearly time.  His work was almost complete.

Finally, when the leader of the party passed a mere fifteen feet from the hidden orcs, Herumor let out a shrill whistle.  The leader’s head came up and turned, seeking the source of the strange noise.  This proved a fatal mistake.  A bowstring twanged and a black-feathered arrow buried itself in a silver eye.  The man Belegion had called “Lord” didn’t cry out; he just grunted slightly and sank in his saddle, slipping from his gray horse almost in slow motion.  The sight took Herumor’s breath away; silent, almost poetic death.  The captain almost laughed.  How easy it was, then, to slay a legend.

Belegion broke the spell.  “Arathorn!” he screamed, trying to catch the dead man even as the Ranger slid beyond his reach.  His cry seemed to awaken the rest of the patrol.  Bows were strung in a flash; swords appeared from saddle bags as if by magic.  The two elves drew their long knives and spurred their horses towards the source of the signal.  Herumor’s orcs sprang out of their hiding places, almost a score strong, bellowing and swinging wildly.  But Herumor himself sheathed his sword and stalked back towards his mount, swift and silent as the wraith he resembled.  When the elves reached his former position, they would find only orcs.

The scouts joined the battle, and orcs quickly began to fall under steel and shaft.  Those who remained were wild and chaotic.  They looked for their captain, but he had vanished like vapor.  Herumor was no fool.  Though his force outnumbered the Rangers, ill-trained orcs stood no chance against outraged Dúnedain.  His servants had served their purpose; he could find others to replace them.

Leaving the fury of battle behind, Herumor pushed his horse into a canter and raced away into the East.  His task was almost complete.

~

The first light of dawn stole across the worn floorboards and crept up the sleeping woman’s pillow.  Gilraen groaned and rolled over, trying to steal a few more moments of slumber.  It was no use.  The light’s gentle nudging had not only woken her, but alerted her to the fact that her bed was cold.  With a sigh, she pushed back the covers and reached for her thick dressing gown.  Moving quietly, so as not to disturb the sleeping toddler at her feet, Gilraen rose and quickly made the bed.  The chore was painfully easy; none of the covers on the left side of the big bed had been disturbed.  Aragorn slept on, oblivious in his little trundle bed.  After a moment’s thought, Gilraen took an extra blanket from the foot of the big bed, folded it in half, and tucked it gently around her son’s shoulders.

Little Aragorn had his own bedchamber, of course—there were more than enough rooms to spare in the chieftain’s cabin—but when his father was away on patrol, as Arathorn had been for the past two weeks, Gilraen preferred to keep her son close to her.  The two-year-old stubbornly held that he was much too old to share the big bed, so the trundle was their compromise.

The outer chambers faced west.  Gilraen lit a candle to see by as she sparked the kindle in the big hearth.  Winter was slow to release its grasp on the northern hills.  Though March was almost gone and the earliest flowers were beginning to blossom, clear nights still left a hard frost on the earth and a chill in the air.  As Gilraen patiently stoked the fire into a modest blaze, she was glad of the robe around her shoulders and the woven rug under her feet.  She added another log.  They were almost out of firewood.  In another day or so she would have to choose between asking her brother to chop more or taking Aragorn to gather deadwood from the forest two miles away.  When she estimated that she’d built the blaze up as much as was prudent, the woman stepped back to warm her fingers and admire her handiwork.

The fire cast darting shadows over the big room—or the “hall” as Arathorn preferred to call it, though to Gilraen the grand name seemed incongruous with the humble wooden chamber.  Still, she had to admit there was a certain splendor to it.  Though stone was hard to come by and masons were few, the Dunedain who’d built this village had laid a foundation of granite that was built up into a large hearth and tall gray chimney.  The wooden rafters curved upward, recalling the sweeping arches of palaces and fortresses long gone.  The rough walls were hung with tapestries, many of them generations old, and here and there atop rustic furniture, one could spy a golden candlestick or a silver pitcher, memories of wealth long since faded.  The Rangers had little, but they afforded their chieftain what honor they could.

That sentiment was reflected in the size of the rest of the house—in the wide, flagstone-tiled kitchen, the dining room with its long table, and the many smaller chambers and sitting rooms.  Sometimes Gilraen wondered ruefully whether the size of the house truly reflected a desire to honor the Chieftain or whether it was rather a not-so-subtle admonition to the family to produce many children.   If that was indeed the motive, it had proven woefully ineffective of late.  Arathorn was the only son of Arador, who was himself the only son to survive childhood.  These days, the big house was full only when Arathorn’s sisters came with their husbands and children at Midwinter.

All the more reason to break the trend. Gilraen thought with a sly smile.  Arathorn’s farewell the night before leaving on patrol had been quite . . . enthusiastic.  Though she had told no one as yet, when her husband returned in two weeks, Gilraen hoped to have good news.

The sun was now fully over the distant hills, and its rays were finally filtering into the hall.  Tucking her feet into a pair of leather slippers, Gilraen stepped through the foyer and tugged open the front door.  Seeing the small wooden pitcher in its usual place on the front step, the woman smiled.  Her neighbor, Lothiriel, had mouths to feed and troubles of her own, but she always made sure that Gilraen had fresh milk for Aragorn.

Looking out over the collection of cabins, the woman couldn’t help but snort at the wild optimism that had prompted her forefathers to name this simple village Fornost Eden.  It looked the farthest thing from a fortress of kings.  At first glance, the dwellings were built to suggest a simple community of herders—and indeed that was how most Northern Dunedain supplemented their winter storehouses.  Fornost Eden was a modest collection of about a hundred houses, built of roughly hewn wood on a broad shelf halfway up a bluff.  The narrow streets were just dirt packed hard by the passage of men and animals.  Smithies and armories were tucked back against the hill, out of sight until one had passed through the entire village.  The large stable masqueraded as a simple storehouse, and houses of healing were hidden away in lofts or back rooms of unassuming cabins.

The trained eye, however, looked on Fornost Eden and saw immediately a town built for defense.  The hills at its back were largely impassable and guarded the dwellings on two sides.  A few trails cut through the heights, but they were narrow, allowing men to ride only two abreast at the widest points, and were so well concealed as to be nearly invisible.  Aside from these trails, the only path to the village was up the eastern face of the bluff.  The road there climbed and twisted, always within view of the village plateau.  A few well placed archers at the edge of the bluff could defend the road from all but the most determined attacker, and though the town’s gate was usually left open, two young men stood by the palisade walls night and day, ready to bar the entrance at a moment’s notice.

Well, maybe “men” was the wrong word.  Those on duty now had just begun their formal Ranger training.  Though neither could have been older than fourteen, they stood proudly in their green cloaks, quarter staves in their hands and horns on their belts.  As Gilraen watched, the shorter of the two raised his hand to shield his eyes from the sun as he scanned the plains.  Suddenly, he turned to his companion and tugged excitedly on the other’s cloak, pointing at something far below.  The other youth stood still for a moment, then raised his horn to his lips and let out three short bursts; the signal for “Patrol Returning.”  Gilraen frowned.  Her husband’s patrol was the next one due back, and it wasn’t expected for another two weeks.

All around her, women and children were emerging from their houses with various expressions of curiosity or apprehension.  Lothiriel emerged from her barn, sleeves tied back, apron dusted with hay.  Gilraen put an arm over her neighbor’s shoulders.  “Perhaps they’ve found some sign of Laleth.”  Lothiriel’s only daughter, a girl of six, had disappeared nearly three weeks earlier.

Lothiriel shook her head slowly.  “My heart bodes ill.  I do not think they’ve returned for me.”

The party came into view, and Gilraen’s heart clenched as she realized the other woman was right.  It was a mounted patrol.  The men were not riding in their usual loose, scattered formation.  Instead, the horses walked in two orderly columns of about six men each.  The last horse was riderless.  Towards the front of the line, two slender forms in dark gray stood out from their brown and green clad fellows.  Even from a distance, Gilraen could recognize Elladan and Elrohir, the twin sons of Elrond.  So this was her husband’s patrol.  Gilraen sighed.  Arathorn always hated delivering bad news.

Later, when she was rational enough to think once more, she would wonder why it took her so long to recognize the obvious.  She could only guess that pity had moved the Valar to blind her eyes for a few moments longer.  Though the leader of the patrol always rode first in parade formations, the column was headed not by her husband’s dapple gray gelding, but by her brother Arandur’s dun-coated mare.  As it was, the patrol was through the palisade and halfway up the sloping street before she realized the contradiction.

As her brother’s face swam into view, Gilraen’s throat constricted.  Let it be a coincidence.  Let Arathorn have joined a separate patrol, taken a message to the southern villages, stopped to go hunting, anything!  As the riders slowed to a stately walk, her heart hammered a wild protest, as if trying to pound its way out of her chest.  Let me be wrong.  Let him be somewhere at the back of the line.  Let him be holed up in a healer’s house somewhere.  Let him be inside the cabin right now, ready to jump out and surprise me.  Let it be a joke, a prank, a dream.  Arandur reined his horse in a respectful distance from Gilraen’s doorstep.  Desperate, Gilraen’s eyes raced across the faces of her neighbors, looking for anything that would contradict the pain in Arandur’s eyes.  Don’t let it be true . . . Arandur reached into his saddlebags and removed something long and slender, wrapped in green cloth.  Gilraen’s gaze finally fell upon her mother as she stepped from her cabin with Gilraen’s younger brother.  Ivorwen seemed carved of stone.  Her face was pale under a mass of dark curls laced with silver.  Her expression was frozen.  Something inside Gilraen seemed to be breaking.  Arandur was standing a few paces away, the green bundle held out in the hands of a supplicant.  It was true.

Ivorwen met her gaze and gave a single, solemn nod.  A strange quietness came over Gilraen.  Her eyes slowly swung back to meet those of her eldest brother.  They were dry.  She drew one deep breath, then stepped forward to meet the patrol leader.  Those who saw her said later that she walked like one in a dream.  Others claimed she moved as elves are said to do in sleep—in the world, but not of it.  Her steps were even—measured.  Her gaze never wavered.  She halted a mere half-pace from Arandur and raised steady hands to take the shrouded item.  As her hands closed on the damp wool and cool metal underneath, the slow breaking in her chest climaxed in a wracking wave of agony and the wreckage was complete.

~

Aragorn rolled over and pulled the blanket over his head.  He didn’t want to get up.  He was warm and comfy, but there were footsteps in his house.  The pull of curiosity battled with that of sleep, and for a moment, he allowed himself to hang suspended between the two.

There was a slight creak as the bedroom door swung open, and the decision was made for him.  Mama stood there in the doorway for a moment, just looking at him.  Aragorn picked his head up.  His mama was still in her nightclothes and that was strange because she always got dressed before she made breakfast and breakfast was always cooking by the time he got up. 

Mama walked over and sat down on the little bed.  Aragorn wiggled.  Now he couldn’t sit up; she was smooshing the blankets together.  He stilled when he saw her face, though.  It was white.  White like the papers in Papa’s study, white like the lilies they left for Grandfather Arador who had gone to the Valar.  She tucked Aragorn’s hair behind his ear.  Her hand was ice cold. 

There was something in her other hand.  She lifted it onto her lap so Aragorn could see.  It was green cloth like the kind in Papa’s cloak, all pinned together with the shiny star Papa always wore on his shoulder when he went out to fight orcs.  Aragorn reached out to touch the star.  It was as cold as Mama’s fingers.  He pulled it off the cloth.  The ornament was almost as big as his whole hand.  The cloth fell apart without the pin to hold it together.  There was metal and leather underneath.  Aragorn jerked his hand back.  He wasn’t allowed to touch Papa’s sword!

Mama just smiled sadly and took the pin from him.  She placed his hand on a hilt too big for his fingers to curl more than halfway around and folded both of hers around it.  Her hands were freezing, but Aragorn didn’t pull away.  His eyes began to fill, though he didn’t know why.  He blinked furiously.  He was much too big to cry.  Nevertheless, the tears welled up and made his silver eyes gleam even brighter than usual.  He looked up at Mama and swallowed a sniffle.

“When’s Papa coming home?”

~

Aragorn fidgeted a little by his mother’s side.  The strange clothes Mama had dressed him in were scratchy, and they fit all wrong.  The tunic was made of a strange fuzzy material that Mama had called “velvet,” with lots of black threads crisscrossing over the front—except she’d called those “brocade.”  The clothes were all the same color—a dark gray that matched Uncle Arandur’s eyes.  Mama had called them “mourning clothes,” but that didn’t make sense because they looked nothing like mornings and sunrises and besides it was past lunchtime. 

Aragorn looked down at Papa’s stone.  Mama had explained to him what the stones meant; now that Papa had gone to live with the Valar and Grandfather Arador, the people put his name on a big granite block and set it here on this pretty hilltop above the village, facing the West.  Mama said it was there so that people could look at it and think about how much they loved him.

The boy looked down at the flower Lord Elladan had given him.  It was a white lily—Papa’s favorite.  He remembered picking with Papa beside the riverbank.  “See, here, it looks like a trumpet,” Papa would say, “But don’t tell your uncles we’ve been talking flowers!”  Secretly, Aragorn didn’t think Uncle Arandur or Uncle Thorondir would have minded.  They were both standing behind Mama now, and they both had identical flowers in their big hands.

Grandfather Dirhael was speaking, but it was in Sindarin, and Aragorn didn’t know all the words.  Aragorn stared at his flower.  Were there lilies on the riverbanks where the Valar lived?  Was Papa picking them with Grandfather Arador right now?  His eyes were stinging again.  He scowled furiously.  He was not going to cry again.  It was too late, though; he couldn’t hold back a loud sniffle.

Mama’s hand came down to brush his face and pull him against her.  The hand was like a block of ice, but it was Mama and she was there.  Hiding his face against her rich skirts, Aragorn let himself cry at last.

~

As evening fell, Dirhael’s cabin was filled with raised voices.

“He is all that remains of the line!  He will never be safe here!”  Elrohir’s voice was almost desperate.  A fierce light, such as Gilraen had never seen, came over his face as he and his brother argued with Dirhael and Arandur.

“He is a son of Isildur.  I’ll thank you to remember that as you rearrange his life!”  The bitter accusation in Arandur’s voice did not go unnoticed by Elrohir.  The Elf Lord flushed.

Elladan stepped in before his brother could respond.  “What Elrohir means is that all peoples have a vested interest in seeing this bloodline preserved.  Here, the child will be ever subject to the whims of the Wild.  In Imladris we could protect him, we could educate him . . .”

The source of all this contention slumbered in Gilraen’s lap.  The long day had taken a belated toll on little Aragorn.  After the farewell ceremony, she had refused to take her son back to the chieftain’s house.  Instead, she sought shelter for a little while in her parents’ tiny cottage.  Yet, trouble followed, even to her childhood refuge.

“Bloodlines?  Don’t speak to me of bloodlines!  That child is my grandson.  Am I to sacrifice my blood so you can protect your precious bloodline?”  Dirhael.  Gilraen had rarely heard her father so angry.

Elladan tried for a placating tone, but his indignation was clear.  “Aragorn is a son of Elros.  We are his kin too.  We would treasure him no less than you . . .”

“But you cannot teach him who he is!”  This time, it was Arandur who was indignant.  “Can a fish teach a bird to fly?  No more can an Elf teach a child to be Dúnedain.”

“If you would but—“

“Gilraen?”  Ivorwen cut Elrohir off as if the Elven Lord were nothing more than a disobedient student.  “You’ve been very quiet tonight, my daughter.  Do you wish for your son to go to Rivendell?”

Gilraen took a deep breath.  Her eyes darted from face to face before coming to rest on Lord Elladan.  “You believe he will be hunted.”

It was not a question, but she waited for an answer.  Elrond’s elder son nodded emphatically.  “Some evil has been growing for several generations, now.  It was no coincidence that your husband alone of our company fell to the ambush.  The heirs . . . heir of Isildur is in danger.”

“It has always been so, my child,” Dirhael interjected gently, “Arathorn was sought as a child and Arador before him.  They survived and grew to manhood in this very village.”

“But they were not the last of the line!” Elrohir exclaimed.  He would have gone on, but Ivorwen silenced him with a look.

Gilraen returned her attention to Elladan.  “If I take him to your city . . .”

“To Imladris,”

“Yes.  Will he be able to visit Fornost Eden?  Will his uncles train him when he’s old enough?”

Elladan’s expression grew distinctly uncomfortable.  “Arrangements . . . would have to be made.  We won’t know the full details until we discuss the boy with our father.”

Gilraen turned her gaze on Lord Elrohir, hoping that the other elf would give her the honor of a straight answer.  Elrohir’s jaw worked for a moment under her steady gaze.  His eyes flicked from hers to his brother’s and back.  Finally, he spoke slowly, “Lord Elrond would have . . . concerns with such a situation.  It has been many years since the Rangers frequented Imladris.  If there were a sudden traffic of Dúnedain in and out, or if a large group suddenly took up residence, it could tip off the Enemy’s spies.  That could bring the Enemy’s wrath down on Rivendell—on all of us.”

Predictably, it was Elladan who broke the tense silence that followed.  “You have to understand, my father must protect his own people as well.  Enemy forces grow ever more numerous and more widespread.  Our best defense is in secrecy, as he has always said.”

Gilraen didn’t respond.  She continued to meet Elrohir’s gaze steadily, suspecting that there was more to be said.  There was a flicker in his eyes, and she arched one eyebrow deliberately.  Elrohir sighed and looked at his feet.  Gilraen had almost given up on further information when the elf murmured almost inaudibly, “Secrecy . . .” Slowly he raised his head and met each pair of eyes in turn before finally resting his gaze on Gilraen.  His voice was strained.  “Your son is the youngest chieftain in the history of the Dúnedain.  Protecting his identity from the Enemy . . . will be difficult.  I do not yet know what action my father would take were we to raise the child in Imladris.  But, if I were advising him, I would ask that the boy’s identity be kept a secret even from Aragorn himself.  Only you would accompany him to Imladris, and no other could visit for some time.  The child is young enough that we can raise him under an assumed name, imparting his true heritage to him only when he comes of age.  It will be as though Aragorn son of Arathorn never existed, and if, as we suspect, the Enemy already knows of his existence, he will conclude that the boy died of some childhood accident or illness—that the line has truly failed.”

For a moment, Elrohir’s words hung on the air.  Then came the sudden clamor, as everyone found their voice at the same instant.  Arandur and Dirhael were on their feet, arguing fiercely with Elrohir as Elladan tried to calm all three.  Even Gilraen’s brother Thorondir, only twenty years old, had joined in the debate.  Their voices grew louder.  Elrohir stuck a finger in Dirhael’s chest and Arandur balled his fists.  Gilraen drew a protective arm around Aragorn, who was finally stirring, a sob building in his small chest.  “Enough!” Ivorwen’s voice cracked like a whip, silencing all five men.  The matron’s imperious gaze skimmed over each of the debaters before finally coming to rest on Gilraen.  Her tone brooked no argument.  “The decision belongs to the child’s mother.”

Aragorn, still only half-conscious, rolled into a ball and buried his head in the front of Gilraen’s dress.  The woman carefully shifted him to her hip and stood.  “It’s been a long day.  I need to put my son to bed.”

To their credit, the men promptly looked ashamed of their thoughtlessness.  Dirhael spoke quickly.  “Of course, Gilraen.  You should take the master bedroom.”

Gilraen shook her head quickly.  “That’s alright, Papa.  My old room will be fine

By the look in Ivorwen’s eyes, Gilraen knew she understood.  “I’ll get the bed linens.”  The two women left the sitting room together and climbed the steep stairs to the tiny loft that had once been Gilraen’s room.  Everything was as Gilraen remembered—the narrow bed with its faded quilt, the old, battered boudoir, the moth-eaten curtains.  Though she hadn’t been in this chamber since marrying Arathorn, it would always be home. 

Ivorwen briskly stripped the bed and laid down clean sheets.  Gilraen carefully set Aragorn down on the mattress.  The child stirred, and his grandmother soothed him with a gentle hand on his brow.  As she arranged the blankets around him, the older woman spoke in a quiet, conversational tone.  “No one’s expecting you to make a decision tonight.  The peredhil’s proposal deserves careful consideration.”

Gilraen tugged a woolen blanket up to Aragorn’s chin.  “I cannot think of a life outside this village.”

“Perhaps you should.”

Gilraen straightened slowly and turned to face her mother.  She swallowed.  “What have you foreseen?”

Ivorwen avoided her gaze.  “It’s best not to speak of it.”

“Mother!” Gilraen’s voice caught, and she quickly lowered it to avoid waking Aragorn.  “This is my child we’re talking about!  I must know.”

Her mother sighed.  “You do know, Gilraen.  You know that so little can be known from visions and dreams.  It is not the nature of the gift for things to be clear and precise.  Often in trying to predict we do more harm than good.”

“But to speak so, you must have some idea?”  Ivorwen didn’t respond.  “The peredhil are right, aren’t they?  They said he’d be hunted?”

The other woman nodded slowly.  “But your father was right, too; we have faced such evil before.”

“Tell me what you saw.”

“Gilraen—“

“Tell me!”

The old woman closed her eyes, suddenly very weary.  “There are two paths now before your son, and the choice lies with you.  If he goes to Rivendell he will be protected—sheltered.  The Elrondion weren’t lying; they consider the children of Elros their family.  He will want for nothing, but he will not know his past, and so his future will ever seem frightening and tenuous.  When he finally learns of his heritage, the knowledge will be a burden, perhaps too great to bear.”  The woman ran a hand through her gray-streaked hair.  It was coming loose from its orderly braids.  “If he stays in Fornost Eden, he will ever be in danger.  Like all our sons, his childhood will be short, his life difficult.  He will know constant peril, and the Enemy may yet claim him.  But he will be Dúnedain, raised in the traditions of our people, and perhaps that will be enough to ground him for the trials to come.”  Her eyes watched something far away.  “Sometimes, the sight is more a curse than the gift we call it.”

Gilraen swallowed past the lump in her throat.  “You knew.”  She said suddenly.  “That’s why Papa opposed the marriage.  You both knew Arathorn would fall.  But you talked Papa around . . .” There was a long silence.  “Why?” Gilraen burst out suddenly.  “Why did you let me marry him?  How could you let your own child become a widow?”

Ivorwen’s hand reached out to cup her daughter’s cheek.  “It had to be somebody’s child.”  She slowly let the hand fall.  “It always does.”  Without another word, Ivorwen turned and hurried down the stairs.  For a long moment, Gilraen stood where she was, forcing herself to inhale deeply and exhale slowly.  Then she turned just as silently, lifted the covers, and slid into the bed.  As the wind howled outside and muffled men’s voices rose once more, she pulled her child to her and longed for the ignorance of sleep.

~

A/N:  Hope you enjoyed!  Expect a few more chapters of this tale.  Please let me know what you thought by leaving a review.  Concrit is welcome and appreciated.

The Lothiriel mentioned here is an original character and bears no relation to other characters of that name mentioned in Tolkien’s work.

I made a canon goof in plotting this story.  According to Appendix A "The line of kings was continued by the Chieftains of the Dunedain of whom Aranarth son of Arvedui was the first.  Arahael his son was fostered in Rivendell, and so were all of the sons of the chieftains after him." (RotK, p. 401).  For the purposes of this story, this tradition has not been kept for several generations beginning with Argonui, Aragorn's great-grandfather.

A/N:  A very special thanks to the talented Cairistiona and Calenlass Greenleaf for the beta help.

Disclaimer:  I don’t own Tolkien’s work, but if wishing made it so . . .

~

Another sun was rising in the pitiless East.  Gilraen had forsaken the comfort of her bed but was not yet ready to face her family.  Instead, she sat on her aged, hickory trunk and watched her son sleep.  He was so perfect in the faint light—so peaceful and innocent and . . . vulnerable.  Gilraen sighed and rested her head in her hands.

A soft knock startled her.  She looked up to see her brother Arandur at the doorway.  The Ranger’s ever-present sword gleamed at his waist, and he had yet to change his clothes.  Gilraen tried to force a smile onto her face for his sake.   After a moment, the man crossed the room and sat beside her on the chest.  He kept his voice low, minding the sleeping toddler.  “Did you get any rest?”

Gilraen shook her head.  “You?”

Arandur grunted a negative.  “Council meeting.”

“All night?”

“It was a subject of some import.”  The man paused.  “Have you considered the peredhil’s offer?”  Gilraen groaned and ran both hands through her knotted black hair.  That was all the answer Arandur needed.  “They’re right, you know; Elrond could keep him safe.”

The woman studied her hands.  “Do you think I should take him to Rivendell?”

For long moments, Arandur didn’t answer.  His eyes seemed a thousand leagues away.  “Gilraen,” he said at last, “Did you know I was not the first of our line to bear the name ‘Arandur’?”  The woman raised her eyebrows, surprised by the sudden change of subject.  She shook her head slowly.  The man continued, his voice slow and pensive.  “I went out on my first patrol under Arador when I was sixteen—back when Argonui was still Chieftain.  Mother was furious; we had just begun the practice of sending boys who had not yet come of age.  But, Arador requested my presence.  That was the only time I’ve ever seen Father overrule Mother.”

Arandur stared off into the distance.  Gilraen waited, not sure where he was going with this.  “Before I left, Father pulled me aside.  He asked if I wanted to know why he agreed to send me with the Chieftain’s son.  I was just a boy; it would never have occurred to me to ask.”  A slight smile quirked the corner of his mouth.  “He told me then of Arandur the First, our ancestor.  His father was Aranarth—the first Chieftain in exile.  Aranarth had two sons.  The first he named Arahael—wise king.  Arahael was Chieftain after him and his son after that, down the line to Arathorn, and now Aragorn.   The second son was called Arandur—servant of the king.”

Gilraen stared at her lap.  She’d always taken her brother’s name as a matter of course, understanding, but not pausing to ponder, its Sindarin translation.  She kept her tone carefully neutral, “It sounds like Aranarth was playing favorites.”

Arandur truly smiled at that.  “Perhaps, but perhaps not.  Father told me that the name ‘Arandur’ was the greatest honor he could give his son.  We are, all of us Dúnedain, merely servants of the exiled king.  Our lives—even our deaths—revolve around him.  And we are fortunate; we, alone of all the Men of Middle Earth, remember and preserve the living splendor of Númenor.”  Arandur picked absently at his frayed sleeve.  “Now, the elves speak of preserving that splendor by hiding it away in a foreign land, unnamed and unrecognized.  For us, who have devoted our lives to service, that would be nearly as bad as losing him for good.   What good is it to serve the king if he is in some far-off country, bereft of even the knowledge of us?”  Arandur closed his eyes.  “It might be the death of the Dúnedain . . .” He murmured almost too low to hear.  After a long moment, he looked at his younger sister.  “And yet, you must worry for him as a mother as well as a subject.  I . . . don’t envy your position.”

Gilraen looked away.  “Do you think he will be safe here?”

Arandur was silent for so long, Gilraen thought he wouldn’t answer.  Finally, he spoke reluctantly.  “The only promise I—or anyone else—can give you is that if he is slain, in all likelihood I am too.”

Gilraen’s hands twisted in her lap, but her voice was steady.  “Thank you for your honesty, Muindor.”

~

One all too brief hour later, Gilraen met again with her family and the sons of Elrond.  Few of them had slept; Arandur, Dírhael, and the Elrondionnath had just returned from a council of the village elders and Ranger captains.  Ivorwen had been called to the Houses of Healing to treat an infected arrow wound, while Thorondir, who was good with animals, had spent the night in the stables treating the minor wounds of the patrol’s horses.

Still, all six pairs of eyes were bright, alert, and fixed on Gilraen.  The woman looked away self-consciously.  To put off having to speak, she watched Aragorn playing in the corner with Dírveleg, Arandur’s four-year-old son, under the watchful eye of Dírveleg’s mother Rían.  The clink of marbles and their childish laughter filled the otherwise silent room.  Aragorn’s hands were still too small and uncoordinated to play properly, but he tried valiantly to shoot the marbles like his cousin did.  His cousin.  His family.  His home.

Gilraen turned and met Lord Elladan’s steady gaze.  Her voice was firm.  “My son will stay in Fornost Eden.”  Arandur’s and Dírhael’s faces immediately split into relieved smiles.  The men’s voices overlapped as they congratulated her on her wisdom.  Elladan didn’t respond.  His eyes sought his brother’s and the two seemed to reach a silent consensus.  They stood—their identical faces expressionless—and left the cabin without a word.

~

“Are we being banished, then?”  Elladan could tell his brother was trying to control his temper, but, as usual, Elrohir was failing spectacularly.  And, for once, Elladan didn’t blame him.

“Don’t be ridiculous, the peredhil have always been welcome in this village,” Was Elladan imagining things, or did Arandur’s voice hold a note of haughtiness?  “But Arathorn fell two days ago, and word has yet to reach Lord Elrond.  We cannot spare riders of our own as messengers, and the two of you know the road to Imladris better than anyone.”

Elladan kept his tone neutral.  “I can take word to my father.  Elrohir wishes to stay and aid the village.  He could be a great help to you.”

“Your offer honors us, but the road is too dangerous for a single traveler.  Fornost-Eden can take care of itself.”

“Fornost Eden is about to be a war zone!” Elrohir exclaimed, “You think the orcs will not come to finish what they started?”

For a moment there was silence.  Arandur spoke slowly, his voice laced with simmering anger.  “So we return to it,” he paused.  “You reject Gilraen’s decision.  After all, what is the will of a simple woman—even if she is Dúnedain—when compared with the infinite wisdom and foresight of the Half-Elven?”

Arandur’s tone was taunting, but Elladan refused to be goaded.  His voice was firm.  “Gilraen’s decision, right or wrong, was hers to make, and we will respect it.  We merely wish that you, as acting-chieftain, would have a little more care for the one who is to succeed you.  “Arathorn’s death—“

“Was a tragedy.”

“Was an assassination!”  Elladan tried to silence his brother with a look.  Predictably, he failed.  “Or do you really think it was coincidence that of a dozen riders only he fell?  There was a signal.  Arathorn died because the orcs knew who he was!”

“Arathorn died because of you!”  The last vestiges of Arandur’s control broke.  The man’s face twisted.  His voice reflected pain and rage in equal measure.  Elladan gripped his brother’s wrist, warning him to keep his peace.  He needn’t have worried; for once, Elrohir was speechless.  His brother’s eyes showed the same agony Elladan knew flashed in his own.  Arandur panted, looking from face to face.  “I told him we shouldn’t patrol so far out.  It was wild country—let the orcs have it.  But my brother-in-law always trusted you.  You said the patrol was necessary to protect the road and he believed you.  Now the village weeps and my sister grieves.  She doesn’t need you forever haunting her steps, hovering over the child.  For the Valar’s sake, let her have her mourning.  You’ve taken enough from her.”  The man’s eyes darted, looking for some repudiation of the words he’d spoken.  He found only pain and guilt.

Elladan spoke at last.  “We will return to Imladris and inform our father of your plight.  Our kinsman we leave to you, to protect and guide according to your customs.  I hope that if we return you will find it in you . . . to forgive us.”  Without another word, Elladan mounted his horse and turned towards the village gate.  After a moment, Elrohir fell in beside him.  Here and there, the Dúnedain watched their passage from windows and doorways.  Wives paused in their washing.  Children looked up from their games.  All followed the peredhil with solemn gray eyes until they passed through the gate and began their passage down the bluff.

When they were out of range even of sharp Dúnedain ears, Elrohir spoke, his voice soft but intense, “I can’t believe you’re just leaving them!  You know the Enemy will be close behind.”

Elladan didn’t respond immediately.  When he did, he kept his tone conversational.  “Your horse is lame.”

Elrohir stared at his brother as if he’d grown horns.  He looked down at his mount’s withers, as though expecting a gaping wound to suddenly appear.  “No he isn’t.  He has that little arrow graze on his leg, but Thorondir treated that, and it’s almost as good as new.”

“Still, I think it best that we not take chances.  We’ll go to Imladris, but we’d best take a . . . leisurely pace, don’t you think?”

Elrohir’s face reflected dawning comprehension.  For the first time since Arathorn fell, Elladan’s brother smiled.

~

In the darkest watches of the night, Gilraen was awakened by a hand on her shoulder.  “Gilraen, wake up.”  The young woman opened her eyes to see her mother’s drawn face, illuminated by a single candle.  “The village is on fire.”

Gilraen sat up quickly.  Aragorn rolled over and opened a bleary eye.  Whisking the quilt off the bed, Gilraen rolled her son in it and scooped him up.  It took her only a moment to stuff her feet into boots while Ivorwen draped a cloak over her shoulders.  The two women hurried down the stairs and out into the street.  The light of a half moon was supplemented by the many torches and lanterns in the hands of the villagers.  Men and women ran back and forth through the streets.  Children wandered aimlessly, the younger ones crying.  Now and then, a woman or group of women would come by with small packs of children in tow, picking up more as they went.  Smoke drifted through the air.

Ivorwen briskly pulled her hair behind her and secured it with a leather thong.  “Rían,” she called.  Gilraen’s sister-in-law hurried over, her long brown hair loose and blowing in the acrid air.  The woman had a baby one arm, Dírveleg in the other, and three or four older children in nightclothes trailing after her.  Ivorwen’s voice was brisk.  “You and Gilraen take the children back towards the smithies.  Loriwen is there taking count of the little ones.  Those from the houses that caught flame are accounted for, but it’s dangerous to have so many wandering.”

“What about you, Mama?”  Gilraen tried to keep the panic out of her voice.

Ivorwen smiled.  “Peace, ield-nín, I’m going to help fight the blazes.  Three cabins have caught fire.  Your father and brothers are already there.”  As calmly as if she’d announced a trip to the market, Ivorwen turned and strode away towards the gate, tying her sleeves back as she went.  She called over her shoulder, “Get to the smithies and stay there!” 

Gilraen drew a steadying breath and had turned to follow Rían when a slight figure nearly collided with her.  Taking a quick step back, Gilraen was surprised to recognize Halpharn, Lothiriel’s eldest.  The boy’s face was grimy and flushed, his eyes panicked.  “Please, miss, my little brothers are back there and they’re scared and they’re too little to know what’s going on and I can’t . . .” The boy suddenly trailed off, and his face paled.  Gilraen took no note.  She ran up to Rían and the two exchanged a quick word.  The older woman put Dírveleg down and took Aragorn’s swaddled form from Gilraen.

The widow turned, but the youth was nowhere in sight.  “Halpharn?” She called his name several times, coughing and hacking on the smoke.  It did no good; he was gone.  Gilraen stumbled down the street in the direction her mother had gone.  She hoped she was going in the right direction.  Halpharn’s brothers were twins, only three years old.  On this darkened street, there were countless places where they could get lost or stuck.

The smoke was getting thicker.  Men and women were running past in all directions, most wearing a mask of dampened cloth over their mouth and nose.  Gilraen held a sleeve over her face, but the dry cotton did little to protect against torrents of smoke.  She rounded a corner and froze in her tracks.  She’d found the fire.

Flames showed through the windows of Lothiriel’s cabin.  Another house was beginning to smoke.  And between them . . . Gilraen’s house, Arathorn’s house, the chieftain’s house was ablaze.  Flames licked the heavy wooden supports, spurted from windows, and lapped hungrily at the roof.  As Gilraen watched, half the roof caved in and flames shot up, reaching skyward like hungry fingers.  Men and women scurried to and fro around the three structures, trying to douse the flames with buckets of water and baskets of dirt.  More people crawled over the surrounding cabins dumping water on the roofs, trying to keep the blaze from spreading. 

For a full minute, Gilraen just stood there, watching her entire life go up in flames.  She hadn’t been in the house since leaving for Arathorn’s funeral.  It had hurt too much to walk in his childhood home, surrounded by memories and the little gifts he’d brought her from the south and west.  Never had she dreamed that she would never see them again.

A high-pitched wail broke through her stupor.  Gilraen turned to see two tiny forms huddled in the shadows of an alleyway.  Two identical faces stared out with wide, tear-filled eyes.  She’d found Halpharn’s brothers.  After that, there was no time for reflection—only action.  Turning from the blaze, she swept down on the pair of toddlers and hoisted one onto each hip.  The children screamed and kicked, but Gilraen didn’t loosen her grip.  She turned and ran up the street, away from the flames and the smoke, the terror and loss.

~

“Maybe Lord Elladan was right.” Arandur’s back was to Gilraen.  Her voice was timid.  “First the ambush, now the house . . . you don’t think it’s an attack?”

Arandur splashed a little more water on his face, trying to dispel both soot from the fire and the weariness that comes from three sleepless nights.  He sighed and turned to face his sister.  Gilraen had not washed.  She was not as filthy as he, but grime nonetheless clung to her hair, her nightgown, and the furrows in her face.  Beneath the soot, that face was pale, and Arandur doubted she was feeling much more rested than he.  It had taken all night to quench the flames, and in the end both Gilraen’s and Lothiriel’s cabins were lost—ordeal enough for two young widows.  Lothiriel had nearly lost two of her children as well.  The young woman had told Arandur how she had given up hope of seeing her tiny sons again when Gilraen walked, soot-streaked and shell-shocked, into the makeshift camp with both children in tow.  That was not how Arandur would have chosen for his sister to learn of her home’s destruction.

“Muinthel-nín,” he murmured, drawing Gilraen into an embrace, “You’ve lost much in a short span of time.  It is natural to look for reasons.  But there was a watch on the gate.  No strangers, orc or otherwise, have entered Fornost Eden.  That fire could have been caused by anything: a wet haystack, a forgotten candle, a stray spark from the hearth.  It could have smoldered for days before breaking out.  Do not create more enemies for yourself; you’ve enough already.”

Gilraen nodded against his chest.  But always, he could feel her doubt growing.

~

“Elladan?”

His brother’s voice jolted Lord Elladan out of a half-dreaming state.  “Hmm?”

“I’ve been thinking,”

“Never a good sign.”

“Ha ha.”  Elrohir pulled his horse alongside Elladan’s as they made their way through the forest.  “I’ve been thinking about what I heard.”

“The signal at the ambush?”

“Yes.  At first I thought someone had blown a high note on a pipe or whistle, but now I’m not so sure.”

“Yes?”

“It sounded more like a voice—a person whistling.”

That got Elladan’s attention.  “Orcs can’t whistle; their lips are rotting.”

“I know that, it’s just what it sounded like.”  The two rode in silence for a few moments.  “So then I started thinking—“

“Uh oh.”

“Thinking about the pattern of attacks lately—how the orcs have been moving in smaller companies deeper in Ranger territory.  It’s almost as if they have a strategy.”

Elladan sighed.  “We’ve talked about this, Elrohir.  The Enemy never moves without a purpose.  The orcs are here to accomplish some end; they always have been.”

“I’m not talking about a grand battle strategy; we’re still trying to puzzle that out.  I’m talking about . . . tactics.  The orcs move in smaller groups so that they’re harder to detect.  They lay ambushes with specific goals in mind every time.  Does that sound like typical orc behavior to you?”

“They’re soldiers, Elrohir.  They’re poorly-trained and barbaric, but soldiers nonetheless.  Such tactics are a part of any war.”  Elrohir didn’t respond.  “You think there’s more to it than that?”

“Don’t you?  Improving tactics, heightening casualties, and now a signal that couldn’t have come from an orc?  Do the math, Elladan.”

The other elf cursed softly.  “You think they have a new captain?  A Haradrim or a Variag . . .”

“Or worse.”

“Worse?  What could be worse than . . .” Elladan paused.  “No.  It can’t be.  Ridiculous.”

“Is it?”

“Elrohir, there hasn’t been a Black Númenorean this far north since . . . before the founding of Gondor!”

“Yet many things have changed since the founding of Gondor.”

“The race is extinct, Elrohir.”

“We can’t know that.”

“If you’re right . . .”

“If?”

“If.  Arandur will never know what hit him.  All their tactics are designed for battling hoards of undisciplined orcs, not troops under the command of a tactician.”

“Should we go back?”

Elladan hesitated a long moment.  “And be tossed out on our heels again?  I say not.  We’re a day’s ride from Maldir’s patrol; we can alert them to our suspicions as we pass through.”

“You still don’t mean to stay?”

“We can’t.  We’re here only on the chieftain’s sufferance.  And besides, some compulsion draws me homeward.”

The two elves pushed their mounts to greater speed and were soon flying through the silent forests.

~

Herumor stood with his arms crossed over his armored chest.  His hood was pushed back, allowing ebony hair to ripple in the night breeze.  His mask stayed in place, though; a simple black cloth covering his nose and mouth.  The wind brought the reek of orcs to his sensitive nose, but he forced himself not to shudder.

Two of his largest orcs approached, with a slender form clutched between them.  The orcs staggered up and deposited their burden with a grunt at Herumor’s feet.  It was a human figure swathed in a green cloak, a battered sword belted at its waist.  Slowly the figure raised itself to one knee, silent with bowed head and hunched shoulders.

“Look at me, boy.”  Herumor hissed.  The figure slowly raised his head, revealing a boy of thirteen or fourteen summers with the characteristic gray eyes of the Dunedain.  “It seems we have a problem.”  Herumor remarked mildly.

The child trembled.  “My . . . my lord I did as you commanded.  I set fire to the house at nightfall.”

“Indeed you did; we could see it from the valley.  And yet, we’ve been watching this past day, and your village seems quite cheery for a town in mourning; no laments, no wailing, no somber gatherings upon the hilltop.  Which leads me to wonder, why wouldn’t your people mourn the passing of the last of that revered line?”  Herumor paused.  “Unless, of course, it has not passed.  Look at me.”  The boy stared as if transfixed.  “The child lives.”  It was not a question, but Herumor saw the answer in the boy’s eyes.  “Fortuitous, isn’t it, that one so young should survive so fierce a blaze.  It makes me wonder . . .” His eyes drilled into the boy’s, “If we were betrayed.”

The child’s face paled.  “N-no, my lord.  The mother and child didn’t return to the house that night.  I didn’t know.  I didn’t tell them, I swear!”

“Do you think to double-cross us, boy?  Do you need another reminder of why you are here?”

“No, my lord!  I remember . . .”

“Bring out the dog!” Herumor called.  Chains rattled, the boy trembled, and an orc slowly stepped to Herumor’s side.  In its gnarled talon, the goblin clutched not an animal of any kind, but a tiny, whimpering scrap of a human clad in torn, filthy skirts.  Herumor swung his hand in a lazy backfist and smiled when his gauntleted fist made contact with a bruised cheek.  The little wretch gasped, but knew better than to cry out. 

The kneeling boy swallowed hard and fixed his gaze on Herumor.  “I didn’t betray you, my lord.”

“I believe you,” Herumor answered slowly, “And it’s the only reason she’s still alive.  But, nonetheless, you have failed.  It seems I will have to take matters into my own hands after all.”

What little color remained quickly drained from the boy’s face.  “No, please.  Not the whole village.  Please, my lord!”

“Silence!  You had your chance to settle this with less bloodshed.  You now leave me with no other recourse.”

For a moment, the boy was silent.  “Then, please, may I have your leave to return?”  The boy looked down.  “I won’t sound the alarm.  I just want to see my mother and brothers one last time.”

Herumor strode to within a pace of the unfortunate lad.  “You wish to die at their side and forget all your sins in one last glorious stand.”

The boy didn’t look up.  “Yes, my lord.”

Herumor laughed and reached out a hand to ruffle the boy’s hair.  “Nice try, little hero.  Am I to believe that you would choose one family member . . . over three?  Do not insult me, boy.  You will stay here until all is accomplished.  The boy’s face broke, and a solitary tear trickled down his dirty cheek.  Herumor turned to the waiting orcs.  “Take him away!”

As the orcs dragged the boy away, Herumor watched his retreating back thoughtfully.  In the three weeks he’d been cultivating this little minion, Herumor had become almost fond of the boy, in spite of himself.  After all, it was not the boy’s fault that he’d been born to a family of blood traitors—denigrates who consorted with elves and other such undesirables.  If Herumor’s Master moved quickly to his final victory, perhaps he could even keep this young one.  He would make a fair servant; he was half-broken already.  Herumor smiled.  Yes, the boy would make a good slave.  Once the Isilduroni were dead and their kin cast down forever.

~

Thorondir shook Gilraen’s shoulder insistently.  “You must wake up, muinthel-nín.  We must leave quickly.”  Gilraen opened her eyes blearily.  She’d only meant to rest her head for a moment . . . somehow she lay once again on her narrow pallet, with Aragorn slumbering beside her.  Thorondir was dressed for a patrol in Ranger leathers under a dirty cloak.  One hand rested ever on the hilt of his sword, and a bow and quiver were slung across his back.

“Thor?  Wha’s going on?”

“There’s no time, Gil.  The village is under attack.”  Gilraen sat bolt upright.  Thorondir pointed to a shirt and breeches draped over her boudoir. “Dress quickly.  I’ll prepare the child.”  Thorondir scooped up Aragorn who squalled slightly; the interrupted nights were taking a heavy toll on him.

Gilraen stepped behind a dressing screen and quickly stripped off her nightgown.  As she dressed she pelted her younger brother with questions.  “How large is the raiding party?”

“It’s too dark to tell for sure.  At least thirty, probably more.”

“Why wasn’t the alarm raised?”

“We don’t know yet.  Halpharn and Sarnbarad were on duty.  They’re only boys.  It’s possible the enemy crept up on them and overpowered them before they could wind the horn.”

“Are they still alive?”

“We don’t know.  Hurry, we’re evacuating all the women and children.”  Gilraen stepped out from behind the screen, pulling her boots on as she went.  Thorondir already had Aragorn arrayed in play clothes, a tiny cloak wrapped around his shoulders.  “Take your weapons.”  The young Ranger pointed to the bow and dagger Gilraen had trained with as a child.  Though she hadn’t practiced in longer than she cared to admit, the woman quickly belted the long knife at her waist, threw on a cloak, and strapped the bow and quiver to her back.  She took Aragorn from Thorondir and followed him down the stairs at a run.

Ivorwen waited by the doorstep, similarly clad with a bow in her hands and an arrow on the string.  “Come quickly,” she said, her voice soft but intense.  Unlike the previous night, there were no torches or lanterns in the street.  Shouts, the clang of swords, and the twang of bows reached them from the direction of the gate, but this street was almost eerily quiet.  There was no panic—no children running to and fro—the stakes were too high for that.  Instead, armed, silent women led their offspring in orderly lines towards the hills and the safety of the western passages.  They’d prepared for this.

Aragorn cried and kicked against Gilraen’s shoulder.  His mother shushed him as best she could before falling in step behind Ivorwen.  Thorondir, his sword loosened in its scabbard, brought up the rear.  Ivorwen set a quick pace, her long legs eating up the distance.  Before long, Gilraen was panting for breath, trying to keep up with her mother even as she sagged under her son’s weight.  “Mama,” she gasped, “We’re going the wrong way.  The evacuation groups meet by the north face.”

“Hush.  We’re not meeting the evacuation groups.”  Gilraen didn’t have long to wonder at that statement; their goal was in sight.  Ivorwen cut down an alleyway and into the big, red structure that served as the Ranger stables. 

It took a moment for Gilraen’s eyes to adjust to the dim light.  When they did, she froze in her tracks.  Three horses stood saddled in the trestles:  Arandur’s dun mare Mallorn, Thorondir’s yearling Begilaith, and Arathorn’s iron gray gelding Rohiridan.  Arandur himself stood at the gelding’s side, adjusting the tack and saddlebags.  Ivorwen strode up and helped her elder son tighten a girth strap.

“You have the provisions?” She asked.

“Three days food and water, just as you said.”

“Valar willing, you won’t need them.  If you ride fast you can meet up with Maldir’s patrol before daybreak.  Come, Gilraen.”

Thorondir took Aragorn from her yielding arms and sat him atop Rohiridan.  Ivorwen strapped something long and thin to the saddle horn.  Gilraen stayed where she was.  “What’s going on?”

Arandur’s voice was brisk.  “We’re getting you out by the swiftest road, now come quickly.”

“You’re coming with me?”

“Thorondir and I are to guide you to the nearest armed patrol.”

“But, you’re the acting-chieftain!”

“And this is my first duty, now come.”

“But Arandur, what about Rían?”

“My wife will follow with the regular evacuation groups, now get on the horse, muinthel dithen.”

Gilraen turned, confusion in her eyes.  “Mama . . .”

Ivorwen took her only daughter by the shoulders and rested their foreheads together.  “You must take Aragorn to safety.  That is your first duty as a mother, and ours as Dúnedain.  Your father and I will follow, no more than a day behind you.”  There was a sudden shout from outside the stable and a clang of weapons.  Ivorwen raised her head.  “Go.”

Gilraen raced to Rohiridan and dragged herself up into the saddle, pulling Aragorn close.  Behind her, the stable door flew open, and two young Rangers stumbled in, pursued by nearly a dozen orcs.  In a motion so smooth it seemed effortless Ivorwen drew her bow, released an arrow into the eye of the leading orc, and had another on the string in an instant.  Arandur and Thorondir drew their swords, wheeled their horses around, and charged in, cutting down two more orcs as Ivorwen’s bow claimed yet another.  Though both were bleeding freely, the younger fighters found their footing and planted themselves on either side of Ivorwen as her sons came around for another pass.  “There’s no time!” Ivorwen yelled, “Go!”

Though tears were streaming down Thorondir’s face, he and his brother turned from their mother and galloped out into the street, sweeping Gilraen along in their wake.  Swift as wolves in a forest, they flew down the street, the horses’ hoofs thundering beneath them.  In less than a minute, they reached the first of the mountain passes where women, children, and the elderly were assembling to flee on foot.  Thorondir raised his voice, “Make way for the Chieftain!”  As one, the crowds pressed back against the cliff face, leaving a broad track through which the three horses tore.  Now the horses’ hoofs were clattering against stone.  Boulders and rock faces were flashing by at an alarming rate.  Aragorn had finally stopped crying.  He seemed cowed into silence by this frightening new experience.

As soon as she felt it was safe, Gilraen reached down to touch the slender bundle her mother had strapped to the saddlebags.  Her hand encountered cool steel, richly engraved.  She swallowed hard.  Ivorwen had sent her with Arathorn’s sword.

A/N:  Hope you enjoyed!  Give that little review button some attention.  Concrit is especially appreciated.

A/N:  The “safe house” described here is not of my own invention.  It is, instead, a creation of the fine fellows at the Middle Earth Ranger Forum (ranger.budgetauthenticity.org).  I hope they don’t mind my lurking to pick their brains.

Huge thanks to Cairistiona for the beta feedback and Calenlass Greenleaf for the beta and the translation.

~

Once more, there was fire on the distant hilltop.  Herumor watched the village burn, only half-listening as a messenger gave his report in Adûniac mangled by the orc tongue.  It seemed the battle went ill.  Though they’d caught the Rangers entirely off-guard, the traitors had responded quickly, pushing back the bulk of the organized force.  There were more foes than expected; many of the women and older children had taken up bows and spears to help in the defense.  They knew that failure meant extinction. 

Herumor had tipped his hand.  There was no way this attack in the heart of Dunedain territory could be mistaken for a random raid.  If the attack failed, the Rangers’ retaliation would be swift.  Making his decision, Herumor issued a curt command and stalked back into the encampment.

The children were huddled in a tiny tent with two orcs posted at the door.  The boy held the little one in his lap, one arm slung protectively around her.  Herumor strode through the door and seized the younger child by the back of her ragged dress.  The little creature yelped and tried to get back to the boy.  Herumor jerked her sharply, forcing her to stumble beside him on her ruined legs.  The boy sprang to his feet.  “My lord, wait!”  He raced after them and tried to step between the captain and his little kinswoman.  “Where are you taking her?”

“Away.”  Herumor’s horse was already saddled.  He slung his tiny captive over his mount’s hindquarters like a sack of grain and lashed her securely to the saddlebags.

“But my lord, you said after the attack—“

“Plans change.  Now get out of my way.”  Herumor mounted his horse.

“Please, my lord, you can’t possibly—“

“Can’t possibly what, boy?  Who are you to keep me from doing exactly as I please?”

The urchin seized his stirrup.  “Then take me with you.  Please, let me stay with her!”

The back of Herumor’s hand caught the boy across the face knocking him back a step.  The child tried one more time.  “I can be useful to you, please . . . they’ll kill me.”

Herumor’s hand swung again, this time catching the boy in the temple.  The boy fell like a sack of bricks.  “That is no concern of mine.”  Herumor turned his horse and headed east at a trot.  A pity, he reflected, the boy would have made a decent slave.

~

As the eastern sky faded from inky black to dusty gray, Gilraen sagged over her saddle horn.  In front of her, Aragorn sprawled limp over the horse’s withers, held in place only by his mother’s arm.  The boy was so exhausted he managed to sleep, even on the bumpy, dangerous ride through the hills and lowlands.  Gilraen wasn’t doing much better.  In three days, she’d managed only a few hours of sleep.  Her body, unused to such rigors, seemed to be slowly coming apart.  Her head was one solid ache, while her bones felt as if someone had poured hot lead into them.

She stole a glance at the men riding with her.  Though Gilraen’s brothers had gotten even less rest than she, both sat ramrod straight in their saddles with watchful eyes scanning the trail.  Arandur hadn’t slept in four days, but his graven face showed no more than its usual wear.  As for Thorondir, Gilraen hardly recognized him.  When she’d married Arathorn, her younger brother was barely more than a boy, bright-eyed and cheerful, excited about his first patrol and eager to prove himself.  A few short years in the wild had wrought great change in him.  Little of the callow youth remained in this grim-faced guardian.  He seemed far older than twenty.

As they passed an oddly-shaped rock formation, Thorondir rode up beside Arandur, and the two conversed in low voices.  After a moment, Arandur reached into his saddlebags, pulled out a small wooden whistle, and gave two short blasts.  The sound was high and shrill.  To an outsider, it probably sounded like birdsong.  After a moment two answering bursts echoed from the forest.  Arandur and Thorondir reined their horses in, and Gilraen hurried to do likewise.

For a moment, the four of them sat, their horses shifting uneasily under them.  Then a green-cloaked form materialized from the gloom less than six feet away.  Arandur shifted his horse slightly, to put himself between the stranger and the other two riders.  He needn’t have worried; after a moment, the newcomer pushed back his hood, revealing a gray-eyed Ranger in his mid-forties.  Arandur greeted him with a nod.  “Well met, Malphor.”

The man’s expression didn’t change.  “Well met, Arandur.  What brings you so far from your regular patrol?  And in such company?”

Arandur sighed.  “That is a tale too long and grievous to tell here.  For now, we must get my sister and her son to what security we can make.  Is your brother about?”

Malphor hesitated.  “Maldir is with the main body.”  The Ranger gave a sharp whistle, and a younger man appeared at his side.  Malphor directed his next words to him.  “Return to the patrol.  Alert the captain that two Rangers have arrived with a woman and child.  I’ll escort them to the northern safe house.  I advise that he meet us there with all who can be spared.”  The other Ranger disappeared into the forest without a word.  Malphor turned to the riders.  “Come, it’s not far to the safe house.  Though, it’s off the road.”

The three dismounted, and before Gilraen could say anything, Thorondir scooped up Aragorn.  The woman wanted to object, but her son looked so comfortable nestled against his uncle’s shoulder, and she was so tired . . . The small party set off on foot, leading the horses.  Malphor led them on what seemed to be a deer trail.  It wound and twisted through the trees, crisscrossing with similar paths until Gilraen was hopelessly disoriented.  Malphor never hesitated, though; he led them quickly and surely over gnarled roots and around tumbled boulders.

The cabin seemed to appear out of nowhere; one minute they were picking their way through the silent forest, the next they rounded a boulder pile and came upon a small log structure nestled against the cliff face.  Malphor led them first to the shanty adjoining the cabin.  Here, they found a small stable complete with four stalls and ample hay and straw.  Thorondir passed Aragorn to Gilraen.  “I’ll look after the horses,” he murmured, “You should get the little one inside.”

Gilraen followed Malphor through a narrow door into the main cabin.  It was all one large room, save for a small door in the back that presumably led to a privy.  A dozen narrow cots lined the wall to her right.  The opposite wall featured numerous barrels, sacks, and crates.  A large hearth dominated the wall behind her flanked by counters for hygiene and food preparation.  The far wall housed only weaponry:  racks of swords, bundled bows, bushel baskets of arrows, and more.  Garlands of herbs and vegetables were strung from the rafters.  Gilraen saw little of it.  As if in a trance, she carried her half-conscious toddler to the nearest bed and removed his little cloak and shoes.  The child was fully asleep almost before she could pull the rough sheets and blankets over him.  Gilraen only wished that she could find rest so easily.

~

Gilraen emerged from the small privy and collapsed on one of the long benches by the table that dominated the room.  She stared at the tabletop, running her fingers absently along the whorls and knots of the rough wood.  She tried to force her mind to think upon mundane things.  Aragorn would wake soon and would need to be fed.  She should bathe him as well.  Nothing could be done about his dirty, sweat soaked clothes; there hadn’t been time to pack more and this outpost stored nothing in his size.  Malphor and Arandur would return soon, probably with a full patrol in tow.  She should prepare some food, maybe tea.  There was little else to do.  The cabin was silent. 

Gilraen was not with child.

It had been almost a whim, her wanting another baby.  She had done her duty by Arathorn in bearing him an heir, but her heart secretly yearned for more children.  She had imagined a little boy toddling after Aragorn, looking up to his big brother like a flower to the sun.  She had dreamed of a small girl who could wear all those little dresses Ivorwen kept tucked away, a daughter to whom she could tell her mother’s stories and share her own dreams—her own little piece of immortality.  She had imagined herself an old woman living in Arathorn’s house with a large brood around her—sons and daughters with their wives and husbands and children and grandchildren.  Gilraen had envisioned the chieftain’s empty house packed to the brim with life and hope.

Instead, it was a smoldering pile of ashes.

Gilraen stared at her empty hands.  She was only twenty-six years old.  Most of the Dúnedain women her age were not even married yet.  She had thought herself lucky to be so young and marrying such a great and loving man.  She had imagined a century of health and happiness with the love of her life.  Instead, everything was stolen after a mere four years.

And, she had squandered those years.  Gilraen stared at Aragorn’s sleeping form.  Her son.  Her only child.  There would be no more.  Only a week ago, she’d had everything:  a perfect son, a loving husband, the promise of a full and beautiful life among her people.  Now, she was a homeless refugee, fleeing for her life, trying to protect her child from demons who would slay a toddler for fear of an ancestor three thousand years dead. 

The cabin was empty.  Arandur and Malphor had gone to meet Maldir’s patrol.  Thorondir was in the stables with his beloved horses.  The only sound was Aragorn’s soft breathing.  It was the perfect place—the perfect time—to fall apart.  The scarred and pitted tabletop blurred.  Gilraen had not wept when her brother held out her slain husband’s blood-stained cloak.  Her tears had not blessed the earth of the Field of Remembrance where Arathorn was memorialized.  She had not cried when her home and all her worldly possessions burned, when Aragorn called out for his papa in sleep, when she’d left her own mother to the mercy of orcs.  Here, in the musty cabin, surrounded by her own impotence, Gilraen finally allowed herself to weep.

Sobs wracked her young, soft, wasted body.  She mourned the death of her husband and her village, her past and her future, her child’s innocence, her own lost optimism.  The laughter in her little brother’s eyes.  She stared at her son’s form, now distorted by tears.  Is it possible to start again?  When everything is lost, can anything be reclaimed?  She didn’t know.  But, she did know that she could not raise her child, her only child, amid the broken shards of the life she once had.

Gilraen felt a sudden, desperate need to not be alone.  Brushing her tears away as best she could, she rose and stepped through the door into the stable.  In the dim light, she could just make out the shadowed form of Thorondir.  The young man stood by Begilaith’s head, rubbing down the little mare.  From her soft whickering, it seemed the filly was quite enjoying the experience.  The Ranger murmured softly as he worked.   "Sîdh si, lasto nin; pân mae...estelio nin..."*

Gilraen sat on an overturned bucket to watch him work.  After a moment, he said, “Come.”  Gilraen walked over and took Begilaith’s halter from her brother.  As Thorondir turned his attention to the horse’s hooves, the filly whuffed softly and lipped Gilraen’s tunic, looking for treats.  Suddenly, the horse head-butted the woman playfully, taking Gilraen off-guard.  Thorondir laughed and pulled the mare’s head up.  “This one’s still more puppy than steed.”  He scratched affectionately behind her ears.  The horse sighed contentedly.

Gilraen again took hold of the halter as Thorondir knelt and went to work with a hoof pick.  “How is the little chieftain?” he asked after a moment.

The woman stroked the horse’s head absently.  “He sleeps.”

“And his mother?”

Gilraen sighed.  “Sleep holds no comfort for me.”  She rested her forehead against Begilaith’s russet neck.  “How do you keep going?”

Thorondir looked up at her with a twinkle in his eye.  “Many strong cups of tea.”  Gilraen laughed, and for a moment they were once more just brother and sister—two children enjoying one another’s company.  All too soon, Thorondir sobered.  “I come out here and let this little puppy cheer me up.  I remember Father’s stories about his own days in the Wild, and his father’s before him.  Mostly, I remind myself why we fight.”

“Because we are hunted.”

“No.”  The man’s voice was firm, “It is the other way around.  We are a race of Kings—in exile, but Kings nonetheless.  We fight because we are Dunedain, the one race that has never bowed to nor hidden from the Shadow.  That is why the Enemy hunts us and why we must always oppose him.”  Thorondir paused to brush a fleck of straw from Begilaith’s coat.  “That is why they hunt Aragorn; because he will be a great man.  He could never be anything else.”

Gilraen swallowed hard.  “So, you agree with the peredhil.  You think the Enemy seeks him specifically.”

Thorondir hesitated.  “After what I’ve seen these past days, no other explanation seems plausible.  The orcs somehow knew that Rangers dwelt at Fornost-Eden.  What we’ve faced has been more than random raids.  Perhaps they are after the child.  Perhaps they merely want to kill us all.  Your son is in danger either way.”

The woman closed her eyes.  “Was I wrong to refuse Lord Elladan?  Elrond could have kept us safe, surely . . .”

“Do not trouble yourself,” he interrupted firmly but gently, “You will find that in the Wilds there is little time to second-guess.  Who can say whether choosing to leave would not cause more grief?  It matters not.  All that matters is the next path, the next foe, the next choice.”

Gilraen smiled a little.  “When did you get so wise, muindor dithen?”

The man’s smile was a little sad.  “I really don’t remember, sister.”

~

Arandur sat on his haunches, staring blankly into the small campfire.  Around him, the ten men of Maldir’s patrol were similarly quiescent.  None could find the words to respond to Arandur’s tale.  After long moments had passed, Maldir spoke, his deep voice hoarser than usual.  “We guessed at some of this tale.  The Elrondionnath passed through last night and told of Arathorn’s fall.  They suggested that some fell captain was directing the orcs and warned of a larger attack.  But an assault on Fornost Eden itself . . .” the man trailed off.  After a pause, he tried for a brusque tone.  “So you are to be chieftain until the child comes of age?”

Arandur bristled slightly at his tone.  “The elders and those captains present all agreed.  If you have a grievance, you can raise it when next the council meets.”

Maldir raised his grizzled hands in a placating gesture.  “I am not disputing your appointment.  Everyone knows you were as a brother to Arathorn, and finer captains are few.  I was merely going to say that we must communicate with the other villages and patrols, let them know what has befallen us.”

Arandur sighed.  “Riders would have been sent out yesterday . . . had we not had the fire to contend with.  Now it seems we may have to call back our other patrols just to summon aid from our sister-villages in the north.  Some greater evil will come of this.”

Two sharp whistles preceded the clop, clop of approaching hooves.  Arandur rose.  “That will be the messenger.”  Malphor came into view, leading another Ranger and a rough-haired horse.  “Belegion, what news from Fornost Eden?”

The newcomer clasped his hands behind his back as he faced the acting-chieftain.  “Not all goes ill, sir.  The attackers have been repelled from the village.  They fled towards the northern hills.  Scouts suggest that about twenty are regrouping a few miles south of here.  A mounted unit is being sent to track their movements.  Celevegil has taken command and requests the support of this patrol in stamping out the last of them.”

Arandur nodded.  “What of the village?”

“Casualties were high, but structures remain intact.  We’ve tripled the guard on the bluff and set a few archers on the heights.  Celevegil believes we can hold it against further attack.”

“Casualties?”

The other man swallowed.  “Twenty-three dead, thirty wounded, five missing.”  A ripple ran through the gathered men.  For such a small village, those were grievous losses indeed.

“What about the sentries?”

“Sarnbarad was found in the guardhouse with a knot on his head.  His parents are very relieved.”  Belegion’s voice suddenly caught.  He swallowed hard, and when he spoke again his tone was steady, “The other youth was Halpharn, my brother’s son.  He is among the missing.  It’s possible the orcs dragged him away.”

Arandur’s face hardened.  “Then let’s repay them for their troubles.”  The man pulled out a scrap of parchment and began sketching the outlines of hills with a stick from the fire.  “Celevegil sends a dozen riders?”  Belegion nodded.  “Then they will come at the orcs from the south and drive them into the hills.  The enemy’s movement will be limited, strung out between the hills.  We can be there in an hour’s time.  If we post a half dozen archers on the heights—“ He marked spots on the map with small X’s, “And a few spearmen in this gap, we can take the beasts by surprise and destroy them before they realize what they face.”

A young Ranger from Maldir’s patrol spoke up, “We need not return to the safe house; there’s a cache en route to the hills.”

“Very well.  We leave within the hour.”

Belegion cleared his throat.  “Sir?  Might I have a private word?”

Arandur’s face froze.  “Of course.”  He followed the man a few paces away from the others.  “You have word of my family?”

“Yes, my lord.”  Belegion inspected his boots.  Arandur fought to clamp down on his growing dread.  “Your mother lives,” the other Ranger said at last, “She was badly wounded but is expected to recover.  And, your father escaped serious injury.”

Arandur nodded, still waiting for the hammer to fall.  “And Rían?”

Belegion swallowed.  “Your wife fled towards the river with a large group of women and children.  They were waylaid by the rear guard of the orc contingent.  There were . . . casualties.  Your wife lives,” though Arandur could see that it cost him dearly, Belegion lifted his head to meet Arandur’s gaze, “But your son did not survive.”

The hammer fell and Arandur shattered.  Dirveleg . . . In all his fears he had not allowed himself to imagine this scenario.  My son . . . Only four years old . . . No.  There was no time for this.  He would mourn later.  Now, his child’s memory called him to vengeance.  His face hardened like earth before a frost.  Turning, he strode back to the encampment without a word.

“Let us waste no more time.”  Stooping, Arandur scribbled a few instructions on the map and handed it to Belegion.  “Give this to Celevegil.  We’ll be ready to move when we hear the signal.”  Belegion turned, mounted quickly, and rode away without a word.  Arandur straightened, brushing charcoal from his hands.  A fierce light was in his eyes.  “Let’s hunt some orc.”

~

Malphor drew a steadying breath.  No matter how many of these ambushes he took part in, the icy tingle of fear never really went away.  He crouched alone on a narrow shelf overlooking the hills.  His sword was loosened in its scabbard, but if all went well, he shouldn’t need it.  The smooth oak of his longbow was cool in his hand.  The other hand held an arrow, loosely nocked on the string.  The quiver on his back held three dozen more—not his usual light hunting arrows, but heavy shafts tipped with iron, armor-piercing heads.

Though he couldn’t see them all, he knew five more of his kin knelt on similar ledges on either side of the ravine.  Twelve feet below him, another half-dozen men including Maldir and Arandur lurked behind a boulder, long spears and pikes in their hands.  A high warbling cry, too loud to be a birdsong, reached his ears, and Malphor’s hand tightened on the string. 

The next sound was the low rumbling of many running feet.  Malphor rose to one knee and squinted to the south.  There.  A dust cloud resolved itself into a moving mass of dark bodies a hundred yards away.  The bow creaked as Malphor slowly drew the string.  He could easily make the shot from this distance, but if their ambush was to succeed, he must not fire until the last possible moment.

At seventy yards, he could make out the details of each approaching foe.  He counted fifteen—about the right number if the mounted patrol had picked off a few in their first pass.  At fifty yards, he could see clearly the weapons and armor of each orc.  Their naked blades were crusted with blood, black and brown.  The rough plate armor clanged with every step they took.  At forty yards he could see their gleaming fangs . . . at thirty, their bloodshot eyes . . .

When the mob was less than twenty yards away, Malphor released an arrow, reloaded in a flash, and released another.  The first shaft glanced off the shoulder of the lead orc, barely slowing it, but the second buried itself in the exposed neck of the second beast.  Even as he again reloaded, other arrows flew from nooks and crannies on both sides of the trail.  Orcs began to fall.  There was a moment’s confusion as the company realized it was under attack, then those orcs that still stood began a mad charge towards the rock formation and the safety that they believed lay in Arandur’s hiding place. 

Malphor fired several more times, felling two more orcs.  He hurried to release as many arrows as possible before the enemy entered close combat.  Still, eight orcs remained when Maldir, Arandur, and four more of their kinsmen sprang out of hiding to impale two more on their spears.  Malphor lowered his bow.  He couldn’t fire now for fear of hitting one of his own men.  The spearmen dropped their pole arms and drew swords.  Malphor kept his eyes fixed on the whipping mane of brown hair that was Maldir.  His older brother was fighting back-to-back with Arandur against the two largest orcs.  Both men were quick and skilled, but the brutes were pressing them back by sheer force.  Another few steps and they’d be cornered against the cliff face.  Malphor’s fingers tightened on the bowstring.  He might have to chance a shot after all . . .

But, no, there came a sudden thunder of hooves through the ravine.  Celevegil and his horsemen had arrived.  The remaining orcs fell before the mounted Rangers like saplings before an avalanche.  As quickly as it had started, the battle was over.  Not one Ranger had fallen.  Malphor unstrung his bow, strapped it to his back, and swung himself to the ground.  As he was collecting himself, Belegion rode up—the rear guard.  Malphor caught the tail end of his report.  “. . . and smoke from the hilltops to the east.  I think they might have an encampment there.”

Arandur nodded.  “That area is too rough for horses.  Celevegil, take your men south out of the hills.  Take Belegion’s horse; he’ll have to direct us to this camp.  The rest of us are taking a little hike.  Malphor, you know the terrain.  Take point with Belegion.”  Nodding his acknowledgement, Malphor loped towards a narrow trail that led up into the eastern hills, Belegion a step behind him.  With the ease of long practice, Arandur, Maldir, and the rest of the force fell in step a few yards behind him.  Though the ground rose and fell sharply, with many treacherous drops and sliding shale banks, the Rangers made good time.

Before long, Malphor no longer needed to rely on Belegion’s murmured directions; a thin plume of gray smoke rose into the sky—a sure sign of a dying fire.  Malphor strung his bow.  As they approached a ridge, the Ranger dropped into a crouch and ran ahead, falling flat to his belly at the crest of the hill.  After a moment, Maldir joined him wordlessly.

As they’d suspected, the hilltop housed the remnants of an orc camp.  A few filthy and ragged tents were pitched.  The smoke rose from a large, ashy pit surrounded by bread crusts and splintered bones.  The whole area reeked.  Malphor wrinkled his nose against the stench.  A single orc squatted by the dying embers.  A stray bit of wind wafted past Malphor’s ear, and the beast raised its head to sniff the air.  If the orc smelled the Rangers, it never got a chance to act on the information; Malphor’s bow sang once, and the creature fell with an arrow in its eye.

Soft though it was, the sound had the potential to rouse other creatures.  Malphor froze when a dirty mound he’d taken for a pile of rags suddenly moved.  In an instant, the archer had another arrow on the string, but his brother pushed the weapon down with a hiss.  “That’s no orc.”  It seemed Maldir was right; a human face appeared from under the ragged cloth.  For an instant, the roused sleeper stared at the men.  Then, in a desperate flurry of motion, the lump of rags uncoiled into a slender human form and began running full out in the opposite direction.  Maldir sprang to his feet.  “Get him!”

Malphor was after the fleeing form in an instant.  The chase was short but brutal.  His quarry darted and dodged, but Malphor’s longer legs ate up the distance between them.  They hadn’t gone far when Malphor reached his prey and tackled him to the ground.  There was a sickening crunch, the white-hot pain of stones in his kneecaps, and the dull thud of a skull hitting the bedrock.  Malphor’s target went limp beneath him.  Malphor swallowed.  Even under layers of dirt, there was no mistaking the green, woolen cloak the figure was swathed in.  Dreading what he would find, he carefully turned the form. 

A Dúnadan boy, still too young to shave, lay beneath him.  The noble lines of the boy’s face were obscured by dirt, ash, and what looked suspiciously like tear tracks.  The copper star securing his cloak proclaimed him to be a Ranger-in-training.  A long sword and a small horn were belted at the boy’s waist.  The youth’s chest rose and fell steadily, Though, it might be better for him if it didn’t, Malphor reflected grimly.  The Ranger stood slowly.

Maldir was approaching, with Belegion hot on his heels.  When the latter saw the supine form, all color drained from his face.  Maldir was the first to find his voice.   “Halpharn.”  His tone rang with fury.

Belegion glanced about wildly, “What new devilry is this?”

“Devilry?” The ringing voice belonged to Arandur who had approached without any of them realizing it, “Is it? Or is this the answer to all the riddles?”

Belegion’s mouth fell open.  “Sir, you can’t possibly think my nephew had anything to do with this!”

“Look at him, Belegion,” Arandur snapped, “They left him his sword.  He wasn’t bound.  He slumbered in this orc lair as if he belonged to it.”

Malphor took a closer look at the smooth, still face.  “Those bruises are fresh.  It looks like he was knocked unconscious.”

“And yet he was left armed.  Those orcs didn’t fear that he would wake and attack them.”  For a moment, no one spoke.  The rest of the patrol gathered near.  Arandur’s voice was almost reluctant.  “My sister proves wiser than all of us.  She suspected an assassination attempt in the fire two nights ago.  And last night, Halpharn was on duty.  At last, Sarnbarad’s fate makes sense:  the lad did not raise the alarm and was not slain in the attack because his fellow had already rendered him unconscious.  Perhaps the other boy tried to prevent this one from meeting with his new master . . .”

Belegion broke in, his voice panicked.  “Master?  This is a Dúnadan you speak of!  There is no reason to believe he led the orcs to us, when in all likelihood he was simply dragged away by the raiders.  And as for the fire you speak of, the boy’s own house burned!  His little brothers were nearly lost.  He wouldn’t do that.”

“Yet, he’s been different lately,” one older Ranger put in, “Ever since his sister was taken.  Distracted, like.  I’d come upon him out in the Wilds by himself, but if you asked he was always gathering firewood or berrying.  What berries are to be had in March?”

All eyes were on Arandur.  The man sighed and ran a weary hand through his hair.  “We gain nothing by debating here,” he said at last, “And while we tarry, our precious ones go unprotected.  We will take this youth to the safe house where Gilraen waits.  He has not been in those parts, to my knowledge; he will have a hard time fleeing if it comes to that.”

“It won’t come to that.” Belegion interjected.

Arandur took no note of him.  “Take the boy’s weapons.  He is our prisoner until he wakes.  Then, we’ll judge his story and hopefully make sense of this twisted tale.”

~

Herumor kept his horse moving at a brisk trot.  He was nearly free of the Dúnedain-infested lands.  The bundle behind him had whimpered at first, but a few slaps had silenced it.  Now, the little wretch lay nearly still.  Herumor was just as glad; he hadn’t yet decided what he would do with her when he got back to his own lands—she was too young and damaged to yield much profit on the slave markets—but he was relieved to be spared the mess and trouble of disciplining her.

The road before him bent slightly to follow the crest of a twisting ravine with a small creek running through it.  Herumor slowed his horse to a walk.  There was really no reason to rush; it wasn’t as if he was eager to report to his master that his task was still only half-complete.  A slight ripping sound reached his ears.  The man looked down to see if his tack was breaking.  While his attention was on his saddle horn, there was sudden movement behind him.  The little bundled urchin suddenly slid from the horse’s back, bringing most of Herumor’s supplies down with her.  With a grunt of surprise, Herumor turned his mount and swung a hand out to seize the child.  Somehow, she ducked back from his grasp.  Hissing in fury, the man moved to dismount and teach her a lesson, but before he was even half off his horse, the little ragamuffin took two stumbling steps and went rolling down the ravine.

Approaching the edge of the bluff cautiously, Herumor watched as the dust and rocks settled.  The canyon was almost fifteen feet deep, and the edge the little wretch had gone over was steep and covered in gravel and brush.  He couldn’t make out her body at the bottom . . . but Herumor would bet all of his considerable wealth that the urchin hadn’t survived the fall.  And really, what was the point of venturing all the way down there just to retrieve a corpse?

Herumor debated with himself for a moment then decided that it wasn’t worth the effort.  Collecting his saddlebags and cursing his bad luck, the man mounted his horse to continue on.  The girl was of minimal value anyway; her main purpose had been in keeping her kinsman in line.  And, if Herumor’s suspicions were correct, said kinsman would soon be dead at the hands of the Rangers.

A/N:  And on that lovely note, thanks for taking the time to read this chap!  More will be up soon.  Show the love and/or loathing by leaving a review.

*Sindarin.  “Peace now, listen to me; all is well . . . trust me . . .” Again, credit for the translation goes to Calenlass Greenleaf.

A/N:  I don’t own Gilraen or Aragorn (but if wishing made it so . . .).  All other characters in this chapter are mine, all mine, and I can abuse them as much as I want, he he.  No copyright infringement is intended, and I’m certainly not making money off of this.

Cairistiona and Calenlass Greenleaf are my awesome betas.

One quick note—this chapter contains some dark themes including elements of child abuse that IMO are more disturbing than the ones in the last chapter.  You’ve been warned.

As evening approached, Aragorn was up and toddling around the cabin.  Gilraen had bathed him and gotten him to eat some bacon and way bread.  Now the child scurried about, trying to inspect every corner of his new realm.  Gilraen stumbled after him, frequently pulling little hands away from live coals and razor edged bodkin arrows.  Thorondir watched from his seat at the long table, absently repairing a damaged bridle as he waited for Arandur to return.  Gilraen had pleaded with him to sleep, but Thorondir knew he couldn’t while the patrol was out; someone had to keep watch over Gilraen and the little one.

There came a soft sound from outside—the distant crunching of boots over dry leaves.  Thorondir rose and moved to peer out the narrow window.  Gilraen, seeing his motion, came to stand by his side, a squirming toddler resting on her hip.  The woman moved to open the heavy oak door, but Thorondir stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.  Pursing his lips, he let out a careful whistle.  After a moment, he heard two short answering whistles.  Still, Thorondir was cautious, cracking the door and checking before he let his older sister step outside.

Maldir’s patrol emerged from the forest in a ragged line.  Arandur walked at the front with the patrol leader.  A step behind him came Belegion, a member of Arathorn’s patrol.  For a moment, Thorondir wondered at his presence then he realized that Fornost-Eden must have sent a messenger with tidings of the battle.  Behind him came two more men bearing a limp form between them.  Thorondir’s eyes narrowed.  He could not fail to recognize the green cloak and copper star of a young Ranger.

As Thorondir approached, Arandur turned to the men supporting the boy.  “Take him to the stables and bind him.  I don’t want him near the child.”

Thorondir’s eyes flashed with confusion.  “What’s wrong, Arandur?  Is the boy hurt?”

The leader of the Dunedain spared his brother a quick glance.  “Yes, but that’s far from his chief concern.  He was found armed and unbound in the middle of an orc encampment—and he tried to flee from us.”

The younger Ranger’s face paled.  “Then you think he . . .”

“I don’t know what to think, Thor.  We’ll know when he wakes.”

Gilraen watched the exchange, her face stricken.  Arandur forced a smile for her sake.  “Let’s get our little chieftain inside.”  Arandur stayed in the cabin only long enough to direct Gilraen to the store of tea leaves and grab a hunk of way bread for himself.  He paused by the fire to fill a mug with water from the large basin before stepping through the door into the stable.  Thorondir followed in his wake.

The three horses whickered a greeting, and Thorondir spared a quick pat for each before following his brother to the fourth stall.  There, two Rangers stood, their hands resting on their sword hilts.  The still form of the boy was stretched out on the straw between them.  The youth’s hands were bound in front of him with coarse rope.  That same rope stretched down to encircle his ankles.  The boy’s face was pale and dirty, but Thorondir felt a shock run through him; he knew this child.  “Halpharn,” he whispered.

Arandur nodded grimly.  “Lothiriel’s son.  As though the woman has not experienced enough tragedy.”  The man knelt by the youth’s side and drew a dried leaf from the herb pouch at his belt.  Crushing it between his fingers, Arandur sprinkled the herbs into the cup he held.  Thorondir crouched by the boy’s other side and gently raised his head off the straw so that Arandur could lift the cup to his still lips.  The older Ranger carefully tipped half of the mug’s contents down the boy’s throat.

After a moment, the youth stirred and coughed.  Thorondir sprang back as Halpharn turned his head and began to retch.  He needn’t have worried; though the boy hacked and coughed, nothing came up from his empty stomach.  “Be still.”  Arandur’s tone was cool, but his hand was gentle as it lifted the boy’s head and raised the cup again to his lips.  “You’ve two large knocks on your head.  Drink this.”  The boy downed the draught thirstily.  As the herbs took effect, he seemed to become more alert.  His eyes grew brighter and his hands twisted as he discovered the bonds.  Arandur kept him still with a firm hand on his thin shoulder.  “Now, Halpharn, perhaps you can explain to us what you were doing away from your post in the middle of an orc encampment just hours after Fornost-Eden was raided?”  The youth looked away.  Arandur placed a hand under his chin and forced the child to meet his gaze.  “Do not think to lie to me, son of Balarion.  You know it will do you no good.”

The boy seemed to wither under Arandur’s keen gaze.  His voice was almost too low to hear.  “He just wanted the Heirs.”

Arandur’s gaze sharpened further.  “Arathorn and Aragorn?”  The boy’s silence was confession enough.  “Who wanted the Heirs?  Answer me!”

Halpharn swallowed.  “I never saw his face.  He wore a mask.  I just know that it was a man.  The orcs listened to him.”

For long moments, the only sound was Arandur’s carefully measured breathing.  “So, this man set out to destroy the line of Isildur.  What did he need you for?”

The boy’s voice was panicked.  “I didn’t want to help him, but he would have killed her—“

“That may be an answer to some question,” Arandur interrupted over Belegion’s startled gasp, “But not the question I asked.  What service did you do for this commander that he allowed you to stay in his camp and retain your weapons?”

Halpharn looked away.  “I told him which patrol the Chieftain rode with.  I . . . I described Lord Arathorn’s horse, so he’d know him when he saw him.”

A ripple ran through the assembled Rangers, but they were too well-trained to respond aloud.  Halpharn squirmed, pinned by Arandur’s fierce gray eyes.  “What about the fire?”

Though he made no sound, a tear ran a grimy track from the corner of the boy’s eye.  “He made me set that fire.  He said . . . he said it was the only way he’d leave without destroying the whole village—if Arathorn’s son died in the fire.  I didn’t want to hurt him, but . . . I didn’t want my mother and brothers to die.”

“But it didn’t work, did it?”

Halpharn shook his head.  “Lady Gilraen wasn’t home.  And Mama’s house caught fire too, and my little brothers almost got caught.  He was so angry . . .”

“Tell me about the night of the attack.”

“He’d ordered me to meet him at the camp, but I had guard duty and Sarnbarad wouldn’t let me go.  So when his back was turned, I hit Sarnbarad with a rock and put him in the guard house.”  The boy’s voice caught.  “The man . . . he said I’d failed.  I tried to reason with him, but . . . he made me stay while most of the orcs marched on the village.  Something went wrong, and he left for a while.  Then he came and took . . . he took . . .” The boy’s face threatened to crumple, but he swallowed his tears and closed his eyes.  “I’ve said too much.  He’ll kill her.”  And the boy could not be convinced to speak again.

“Sir, that’s all we’ll get for now,” Maldir said at last, “Perhaps he will speak more once he’s rested.”

Arandur looked up at the older Ranger.  “Who will decide his fate?”

Maldir’s face was sympathetic.  “Justice has ever been the province of the Chieftain.  We will respect your decision.”

The acting-chieftain sighed.  “Feed him and treat his wounds.  After that, he’ll have to sleep for a while.  As must I.”

~

It was after midnight, and the cabin was filled with snores and gentle stirrings.  Every bed was full.  Belegion stood watch at the door, Malphor in the stables, but even so, there were not enough cots to accommodate the full company.  Thorondir and an even younger Ranger slept on the floor in their bedrolls. 

The Rangers were a weary lot.  Some, like Arandur, had not slept in as much as five days.  Even so, when a piercing whistle reached their ears, every eye was open in an instant.

Gilraen sat up and pulled Aragorn closer.  She was suddenly surrounded by a forest of tall men.  The safe house rang with the distinctive scrape of steel against leather, and many swords gleamed in the low light of the dying hearth.  For a moment, everyone held their breath, then another whistle reached them—this one more complicated with two high notes followed by a long, lower tone.  Blades were sheathed, and Maldir hurried to light a lantern.

He had barely sparked the wick when the cabin door burst open to admit Belegion followed by three more Rangers.  The tallest man had something draped in his arms.  Arandur stepped quickly to this man and began murmuring instructions.  “Take her to my cot.  Boil some water.  Where are those herbs?”

A flurry of movement followed.  The youngest Ranger hurried to the bed in the corner and pulled back the blanket and top sheet.  Thorondir hastily poked up a fire while Maldir filled a large pot with water.  Aragorn stirred and pressed himself against his mother.  Gilraen wrapped him in a blanket and stood, her child in her arms, to get a better look. 

One of the newcomers was speaking in a quick, low voice.  Gilraen had to strain her ears to hear him over the bustle.  “ . . . patrolling to the northeast when we came upon signs of a horseman passing with great speed over one of the old trails.  We followed the trail a few miles to where it turns south along a creek bed.  There, we found signs of a struggle and a small set of tracks leading off the edge of the ravine.  We found her unconscious at the bottom of the ditch.”

“Did she fall or was she thrown?”  Arandur’s voice was taut with tension.

“We can’t know for sure.  We found large boot prints at the same sight—probably the rider’s—and then hoof prints continuing south.  Whoever it was, he left her there.”

“How long?”

“The trail was maybe a few hours old.  We found her at sunset and came here as quick as we could.  But, we did not look to find you here, Arandur.”  Gilraen could hear the question in the Ranger’s voice, but Arandur merely grunted.

The woman tried to edge around the taller men with little success.  Then, the crowd parted briefly, and Gilraen caught a glimpse of the newcomer as he carefully laid his burden down on the low cot.  To her horror, she could make out the battered form of a child.  Filthy, bare feet and bruised, swollen legs stuck out from beneath a ragged dress.  The dress itself was so dirty that its original color could only be guessed at.  It was caked in places with blood, ash, and worse.  A curtain of long, matted hair covered the little girl’s face. 

Arandur squatted by the child’s head and pulled out his belt knife.  As her brother carefully cut away the ruined dress, Gilraen swallowed a gasp and clutched her son tighter.  It seemed every inch of this child was bruised or bleeding.  Her legs were the worst; they ranged in color from angry red to muddy brown.  Unnoticed by the Rangers, Gilraen edged closer, even as she turned Aragorn’s head away from the grisly sight.  The men pressed close and seemed concerned.  Gilraen didn’t know why; surely this child could not still be alive . . .

As Arandur prodded the largest bruise, the child stirred and batted weakly at his hand.  The man murmured a comforting word and brushed a gentle hand over her brow, pushing back the hair.  For a moment, Gilraen stood stock still, gazing at the little face in disbelief.  The child was no older than six.  Her face was battered and bruised, with a black eye and swollen lip.  Yet, even these disfigurements, even with the soot that coated her face, Gilraen recognized her.

Laleth.

~

Dawn was still hours away.  The only light penetrating the darkness of the forest was a dim, orange band thrown through the window of the cabin to gently illuminate the darkened clearing.  Gilraen sat on a stump, her bundled child resting fitfully in her lap.  Maldir stood a few feet behind her, having replaced Belegion as sentry.  The woman ignored him.  Her shoulders were hunched against the chill.  She rocked Aragorn gently back and forth, singing softly.  The boy stirred in her lap as another hoarse scream drifted from the cabin, followed by the murmur of men’s voices.  Gilraen hunched closer and sang louder.

There was a soft rustle of leaves to her left.  Thorondir eased himself into a crouch beside her.  He kept his voice soft.  “Laleth’s legs were broken at least two weeks ago, and they’ve been healing wrong ever since.  If she is to run again, Arandur must reset the bone.”

Gilraen swallowed hard.  “She will live, then?”

“If she does not succumb to infection.”

“Lothiriel thought she was gone forever . . .” Gilraen trailed off, then sharpened, “Has Halpharn been told?”

“Belegion is with him now.  He’ll see her when Arandur is done.”

Gilraen stared off into the blackness.  “She loved flowers.  When the first lilies started to bloom, she begged Lothiriel to take her to the riverbank.  Her mother knew it was dangerous, but . . .” the woman shook her head, “It took them longer than they had thought to get back to the village.  Orcs came upon them in twilight.  They ran, but Lothiriel was carrying the twins, and Laleth couldn’t keep up . . .” Gilraen swiped at a rebel tear.  “That must be how they were controlling Halpharn.”

“Yes, but it will likely make no difference.”

“No difference!”  Gilraen’s head came up.  “He’s a child; he was frightened; he thought his sister would die!  Do none of those count for anything?”

“He’s a Ranger, Gil,” Thorondir’s voice was gentle, “He had a duty, like all of us do.”

“Duty!”  The woman spat the word.  “My husband is dead, my child is hunted, and all anyone speaks to me of is duty!  What about my child?  What about Lothiriel’s children?”  Thorondir didn’t respond.  Gilraen sighed.  “What’s the worst that can be done to Halpharn?”

Her brother hesitated.  “In Arador’s time, a man murdered his wife and younger daughter in a fit of rage.  Arador ordered him put to death.”

“To death?  Surely we’re not going to execute Halpharn?”  Thorondir didn’t respond.  “Thor, he didn’t kill anyone!”

“Didn’t he?”  For the first time, Thorondir’s voice flashed with anger.  “Twenty-four Dunedain are dead, Gilraen!  One of them, your husband.”

Lothiriel’s pale face flashed in Gilraen’s mind.  “He’s a child, Thor.  He didn’t know what he was doing.”

“Then that will be taken into account.”  Doubt still clouded Gilraen’s face.  Thorondir sighed.  “Arandur will make the final decision.  You know he’s not a cruel man.  Don’t fret so much.  The important thing is, Halpharn is no longer a threat to you or the child.”

The woman’s voice was almost inaudible.  “What kind of world is this, when even our children can be a threat?”

~

Halpharn sat by Laleth’s side as dawn crept through the windows.  Belegion stood behind him, one heavy hand on his shoulder.  The little girl slept, finally.  Halpharn had been given a few minutes to speak to her before Arandur fed her one of his sleeping draughts.  Her legs, tightly bound with splints, were raised a foot off the mattress by a system of makeshift pulleys.  Halpharn stared at the puffy red feet sticking out from the bandages, and wondered if his little sister would ever skip along the riverbank again.  He ran a hand over her brow as his eyes welled up.  He wished he could be here to find out.

The Rangers had bathed her as best they could and clothed her in one of Belegion’s old shirts.  The material swamped her and hid the worst of the injuries.  Still, Halpharn stared numbly at the bruises on her arms, some yellow and almost faded, some just now purpling.  Her wrists were bandaged where the orc shackles had cut into them.  Her fingers trembled slightly, and Halpharn gripped the hand closest to him.

They’d had to cut off all her pretty hair; it was too matted and filthy to work through.  Now, only a few dark tufts remained.  Her face seemed much smaller without the matted mane.  Lord Arandur had said that she would survive.  Halpharn had to believe him; he had to trust that Laleth’s days of suffering for her brother’s sins were over.  The acting-chieftain had not yet passed judgment on Halpharn, but the boy knew what it would be.  He had committed the worst crime possible of a Dúnadan:  treason and murder against the Chieftain himself.  The ultimate crime demanded the ultimate punishment.  Arandur’s sentence would be bloody, and it would come soon; there was little time for sentiment in the wild.  Halpharn stared at his sister, drinking in the lines of her face, trying to savor the moment forever.  His sister would live.  That was more mercy than he deserved. 

 “I didn’t understand, at first, how she could have escaped.”  Belegion’s voice broke through Halpharn’s reverie.  “Then, one of the men told me he found this.”  Halpharn turned to look.  His uncle held a naked dagger, its hilt wrapped in leather.

“They let me . . .” Halpharn’s voice was croaky.  He swallowed.  “They let me keep my sword and knife when I was in their camp.  When I knew they were heading for the village, I went to sit with her.  I slipped her the dagger when the guards weren’t looking—made her tie it under her dress.  After the man tied her to the horse, she must have cut through the rope.”

Belegion’s gaze was solemn.  “You saved her life, Hal.  Whatever happens, remember that.”  The boy nodded, choking back a sob.

“Halpharn,” The youth looked up.  Arandur stood silhouetted in the doorway, his face haggard.  “It is time.”  Halpharn swallowed and lowered his head to plant one last kiss on Laleth’s forehead.  Swallowing his tears, he stood.  He would accept his fate, as a Dúnadan.

Arandur led Halpharn out into the clearing, with Belegion trailing in his wake.  His hands were not bound, for which he was grateful.  An impromptu court had been assembled near the edge of the forest.  Grim faced Dúnedain stood in a wide half circle.  Arandur moved to the center of the arc, indicating that Halpharn should stand before them.  His uncle lingered, a few paces behind him.

Halpharn scanned the faces of those gathered.  He noticed Lady Gilraen among them, though the child was nowhere to be seen.  He looked away; if he had to look at his neighbor and think about the pain he had caused her, he would lose all control.  Instead, he forced himself to meet Arandur’s cold gaze unflinchingly.  After a moment, in which all the assembled held their breath, the acting-chieftain began to speak.

“Halpharn, son of Balarion, you are here to answer to the charges of abandoning your post, assaulting a fellow Dúnadan, consorting with the enemy, conspiring to murder, conspiring to assassinate a member of the royal line, and committing high treason.  These are serious charges, made all the more grievous because they were committed against your own kinsmen and neighbors.  We know of your guilt by confession of your own mouth.  Have you anything left to say in your defense?”

Halpharn’s mouth was a desert.  “No, my lord,” he managed to rasp.

At that, the lines in Lord Arandur’s face deepened.  A great sadness seemed to fall over him.  “Very well.  Halpharn son of Balarion, I, Arandur son of Dirhael acting in the stead of Aragorn son of Arathorn, heir of Isildur and Chieftain by right, find you guilty of all charges.  Of old, the penalty was death.”

A strangled gasp came from behind Halpharn.  He didn’t turn.  He couldn’t look at his uncle without losing all control.

After a pause felt by all, Arandur continued, “Yet, having taken into account your relative youth, I have chosen to spare you.  Of equal import, was the involvement of your sister as a hostage of the enemy.  She will recover and return to her people.  But, as for you, Halpharn, you are no longer the son of Balarion.  Your name will be struck from our records.  You must depart at once from all territories patrolled by the Dúnedain.  Should a patrol come across you in a month’s time, they will treat you as they would any wandering orc.  Malphor, hold him.”

Another Ranger approached and gripped Halpharn by the shoulders.  Malphor rolled up the boy’s right sleeve and extended his arm, palm down.  There came a sizzle from somewhere behind him, and Halpharn felt a sudden sense of foreboding.  Arandur spoke again, “To ensure that you will be recognized anywhere you stray in our lands, you are to be marked as a traitor.”  Maldir approached, holding a piece of metal still bright from the fire.  Halpharn paled and set his jaw.

He didn’t resist when the Ranger pressed the hot brand against his forearm.  He squeezed his eyes tight against the sudden, blinding pain.  Malphor’s iron grip kept his arm trapped.  His jaw locked.  A foul odor reached his nose—his own charred flesh.  His eyes watered.

Make it stop, make it stop, makeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstop . . .

 And a suddenly as it began, it was over.  The brand withdrew, and the pain receded to an almost tolerable throbbing.  Malphor loosened his grip, even as Halpharn relaxed his own clenched fist.  Though there were small red cuts where his fingernails dug into his palm, he had not cried out.

Maldir had set the brand aside and now approached with salve and a bandage.  Halpharn risked a glance at his own arm.  The burn was in the shape of a seven-pointed star—the emblem of the northern Dunedain—but angry red, instead of silver.  While Maldir applied the balm and bandaged the arm, Arandur spoke, as if he’d read Halpharn’s mind.  “It will fade to black in time, for you are but a shadow on our people.”

Halpharn looked away.  He refused to shame himself by weeping now.

Arandur approached slowly, holding out a pack.  “We give you a change of clothes, supplies for tending your arm, and three days’ provisions—enough to get you to the nearest village.”  Arandur took Halpharn’s dagger from Belegion and extended it to its original owner.  “This belongs to you.  Your sword we will keep, for it belonged to Balarion and should pass to his new heir.”

Halpharn took the knife with trembling fingers and slung the pack over his left shoulder.  Maldir put the finishing touches on the bandage.   His arm barely hurt now; Ranger salves worked fast.  Far more painful would be leaving his people behind.  Halpharn thought of the long road ahead and wondered if a death sentence might not have been more merciful after all.

Arandur stepped back.  Halpharn knew the moment had come.  “Go, Halpharn.”  With those simple words, he turned to stand like a statue, with his back to Halpharn.  The other Rangers, taking their signal from him, also turned away.  All but one.  Halpharn locked eyes with his uncle and shook his head slightly, trying to convey regret and resolve and sorrow and hope in one, all too brief, span of time.  After a moment, Belegion, too, turned to face away from Halpharn. 

The youth drew a deep breath.  There was no reason to linger; there could be no sentiment in the wild.  Steeling himself against the bitter years to come, Halpharn the disowned Ranger set his face to the woods and slowly walked away from everything and everyone he knew.  He didn’t linger to watch the Rangers disperse, a few to the north, a few to the east.  He didn’t see Lord Arandur slowly pick his way towards the cabin, moving as if he had aged a century.  He wasn’t there to see, finally, the young woman who stood alone in the clearing, her face as pale as death itself.

~

Thorondir stood by Begilaith’s head, his nephew in his arms.  Aragorn giggled as he ran his chubby fingers through the filly’s russet mane, trying in vain to braid the knotted tresses.  The stable door flew open with a slam.  Thorondir turned to look, but Aragorn was quicker.  “Mama!” The little boy cried, squirming energetically in his uncle’s arms.  Thorondir quickly set the toddler on his feet before he could drop him.  The child ran to his mother, who greeted him with a quick hug and a distant smile. 

Looking closer, Thorondir noted that his sister’s eyes were bright with tears.  He swallowed.  He could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen his sister cry.  Consulting with his brother earlier that day, Arandur had warned him that Gilraen might not react well to Halpharn’s sentencing.  Nevertheless, this was . . . disturbing.  He approached slowly.  “What’s wrong, Gil?”  Before he could finish the question, the woman was in motion.  As Thorondir stood bewildered in the middle of the stable, Gilraen grabbed a harness and bridle from the small storeroom and strode into Rohiridan’s stall.  The woman had the bridle over the startled gelding’s head and was adjusting the straps with quick, expert fingers before the young Ranger again found his voice.  “What are you doing?”

“What I should have done days ago,” his sister snapped.  Rohiridan shifted uneasily as Gilraen swung the saddle too quickly onto his back.  Thorondir instinctively reached out to calm him, even as the man struggled to calm himself.

“Gil,” he reached out to clasp his sister’s wrist only to have his hand slapped away as she tightened a girth strap.  “Gil, talk to me!  Where are you going?”  She pulled the girth tight and fastened it so quickly that Rohiridan turned to give her a disgruntled look.

“Away,” she responded shortly, “Riding hard, I may be able to overtake the Elrondionnath before they reach Bruinen.  If not, I’ll follow the river north until I find them.”

“You mean to take the child to Imladris—you’ve changed your mind, then?”

“What choice do I have?  Should I raise him here, being shuttled from outpost to outpost, leaving a trail of raided villages in his wake?  Or hide him in the hills, guarded night and day?  What kind of home is that for a child?”

“Gilraen, you’re distraught, you shouldn’t be making this decision now . . .” He placed his hands on her shoulders, trying to still her.

“No, Thor.”  She jerked back and met his gaze for the first time.  “I have to make this decision now while I still can—while I still have some semblance of reason.”  She slowly lowered herself to sit on a tool box, drew Aragorn to her, and began retying his shoes.  Her voice was soft.  “Today my brother gave the order for a child to be branded like a wayward steer and tossed out into the wilderness.  And, I don’t know if he was wrong.  My son looks to me to teach him what he needs to know about the world—about the Dúnedain—and I can’t even tell him whether branding a child is right or wrong.”  Aragorn looked up at her in confusion, clearly not following the conversation, and she pulled him to her.  Her words, though, were directed at Thorondir.  “You told me that there is little time in the Wild to second-guess.  But, more and more it seems to me that there is little room in the Wild for anything.  Dreams, justice, mercy, hope—it all gets left by the wayside so we can survive one more day.  I can’t raise my child like this.  I won’t.”

Thorondir sighed.  “You don’t mean for him to become a Ranger, then?”

Gilraen looked down at the child in her arms.  “The Dunedain of this kingdom have ever given their children in service of a cause.”  She glanced up at him.  “Mother gave you to defend our borders,” she gazed down, “And me, to carry on the line.”  She ran a gentle hand through Aragorn’s curls.  “I know I’m no different; someday, I’ll have to return this little one to lead his people.  But, not yet.  Let him be a child for a while longer.  Let him be raised in safety.”

“Tell Arandur.  Let him provide you with an escort.”

The woman shook her head.  “He won’t understand.  And . . . I fear being swayed by his counsel.”  She stood, her child on her hip, suddenly all business.  “It’s better this way.  I’ll send him a letter from Rivendell.  He’ll forgive me in time.  The patrols likely won’t notice a single rider slipping out of these realms, and Arandur desperately needs to rest.  Keep your peace, and it may be hours before he notices my absence.  You can tell him you only left me alone for a minute—that you don’t know where I’ve gone . . . Thorondir?”

The young Ranger had turned and was briskly leading Begilaith from her stall.  “A good plan, sister,” he said mildly, “But I’m afraid I won’t be able to cover your escape.”

Now it was his sister’s turn to be bewildered.  “Where are you going?”

“With you, of course.”

“But Thor, you’re on duty!  You can’t go without Arandur’s leave.  They’ll remove you from the patrols!”

“If you think that’s a punishment, you’re clearly unfamiliar with patrols.”  His tone was glib, but Gilraen saw through it.

“Thor . . .”

He stopped her with a gentle hand on her shoulder.  “Don’t ask me to turn my back on my duty, muinthel; it’s the only thing I’ve ever been sure of.”  He released her and turned his attention to his mount.  “We’ll need provisions.”

“It’s all still in the saddlebags:  three days’ rations, though the bread’s a bit stale now.  What about weapons?”

“Mine are inside, but your bow and Arathorn’s sword are with the rest of the gear; I meant to bring them in this afternoon.”

“Thank Eru for your irresponsibility.”

“You’re one to talk, sister.  Can you even still bend that bow?”

“A fair sight better than you can, little brother!  You’re welcome to the sword, though; I can barely lift it.”

Things moved quickly after that, and almost before Thorondir knew what he was doing he found himself slipping from the stables, leading two horses.  Inside the cabin, Arandur slumbered peacefully, unaware that his family was slipping away in the night.  There were a thousand things Thorondir wanted to say to his brother.  All of them remained unsaid.  He left a brief note tacked on the door to Begilaith’s empty stall.

Arandur,

We’re taking Aragorn to Imladris.  We are well supplied and expect to arrive in two day’s time.  Forgive me for the manner of our departure.  Valar willing, I’ll be back to face your judgment in a week or less.

Respectfully,

Thorondir

Twilight was falling, and the moon was rising in the murky east.  Thorondir closed his eyes and tried to imagine his reunion with Arandur.  He thought of his brother’s fierce anger, the endless lectures he could expect, the hours of punishment work cleaning tack or washing dishes or scouring the smithy.  He struggled to ignore the niggling voice in the back of his head that warned that he would never see his brother again.

A/N:  And I’ll leave you to stew on that for a while.  The fifth and final chapter should be up in a week or so.  In the meantime, please please please leave a review and tell me what I’m doing right *and* wrong.

A/N:  Nope, I still don’t own these characters.  Yep, Cairistiona and Calenlass Greenleaf are still betas extraordinaire.  Most of the credit for what I get right goes to them.

They were nearing the Bruinen.  Elladan closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, for the scent of those waters at the borders of his homeland never failed to lift his spirits.  His home was a balm for the deepest wounds, rest from the most profound weariness, hope against . . . he froze and his eyes flew open.  His hands acted almost of their own accord, reining his horse up sharply.  It took Elrohir a moment to realize his brother was no longer beside him.

“Elladan?” the younger Elf glanced over his shoulder, confusion in his eyes, “What’s wrong?” 

Elladan silenced him with a finger to his lips.  Locking eyes with his brother, he inhaled slowly and deliberately.  Taking the hint, Elrohir sniffed the air.  His face froze, and Elladan knew that what he had smelled his brother had also detected.  There was a foulness on the air—a stench that sullied the pure waters of the Bruinen.  Almost in unison, the brothers dismounted and looped their reins around a convenient tree branch.  Elrohir’s face had fallen into a watchful, predatory mask, and Elladan knew that the same gleam was reflected in his eyes.  Moving silently, as only Elves can, they darted to the top of a bluff.  Dark bodies dotted the bank below them.  Instantly, the peredhil dropped to conceal themselves in the underbrush and looked down on the Fords of Bruinen.

The brothers had crossed here only a month ago on their way to Fornost-Eden.  Then, the land had been silent and peaceful under the weakening grip of winter.  The sight now before them bore almost no resemblance to that quiet riverside.  Dozens of orcs dotted the near bank, though none ventured into the shallow water.  The company had clearly been there for some time.  Their filthy tents were falling into disrepair while their stinking fire pits grew ever deeper.  They had even felled some of the ancient trees that dotted the bluff, hewn them to pieces and left them to rot.  Elladan felt a rare spark of anger grow in his breast at the sight of these fell creatures, so brazen on the very doorstep of Lord Elrond’s land.

“They dare not enter the water,” Elrohir’s voice was a bare whisper in his ear, “If we can break their siege, they will not pursue us.”

Elladan almost smiled.  It would snow in the Cracks of Doom before Elrohir admitted fear in the face of orcs.  “Perhaps, but look at their archers.  Even Adar’s power cannot prevent their arrows from pursuing us.”

“So what would you have us do?  Ride around and cede this crossing to the yrch?”

Elladan shook his head.  “If I remember rightly, a patrol from Imladris will pass here in two days’ time.  If these beasts are still here at that time, they will meet a swift end.  Meanwhile, we’d best set a watch to ensure that no greater evil comes of their presence.”

Coming to an unspoken agreement, the two slipped back down the bluff, silent as shadows.

~

“What will become of Halpharn?”  It was the first time in several hours that Gilraen could summon the energy to speak.  Aragorn was nestled against her chest, lulled to sleep by Rohiridan’s steadily swaying pace.

Thorondir looked up sharply, as though startled out of some reverie.  “Nothing too dramatic,” he said at last, “He has the choice of either traveling north to settle in one of the isolated villages beyond our borders, or south to seek refuge in Gondor or Rohan.”

“But he’s only a boy.  How will he feed himself?”

“Children far younger than Halpharn have supported themselves.  He will find a station as a stable hand or an apprentice.”

The silence stretched between them, broken only by the steady clopping of hooves.  “How long until we reach Elrond’s lands?”

“We’re nearly there.  Another few minutes and we should reach the Fords of Bruinen.  Once we cross the river we’ll be under the Elven Lord’s protection.”

“Protection?” Gilraen’s eyes narrowed in confusion, “You think he’ll meet us there?”

“He doesn’t have to.  Now hush. Until we cross we’re still in dangerous territory and would do well not to draw attention to ourselves.”

Thorondir had turned to address his sister, which perhaps was why he did not immediately notice the tall, cloaked figure that materialized a mere two paces from his horse’s head.  Gilraen saw him first and let out her breath in a hiss.  Thorondir’s head snapped around, and his hand closed around Arathorn’s sword.  The newcomer made no move, though, except to raise two slim hands and lower his hood.

Gilraen breathed a sigh of relief as she recognized a son of Elrond—though she couldn’t be sure which one he was.  “My lord, we’d almost given up hope of finding you—“

He silenced her with a raised hand.  The Elf’s voice was a low hiss, “It’s not safe.”  Casting a furtive glance around them, he turned and stalked into the woods, gesturing for the riders to follow.  They did so slowly, their eyes flicking through the trees with a watchfulness that elsewhere would have been called paranoia.

Elladan or Elrohir—Gilraen still couldn’t tell which—led them back the way they came for about a hundred yards before turning off the road.  Perhaps sensing his mother’s sudden tension, Aragorn stirred and peered out inquisitively from under Gilraen’s cloak.

The Elf’s path took them down a gentle slope to a natural hollow, invisible in the trees.  Two tall horses without saddles stood tethered to a tree.  As the little company approached, a cloaked form rose from a crouch to greet them.

Thorondir dismounted and inclined his head courteously to the second Elf.  “Mae govannen, Lord Elladan.”  His voice was soft.  Gilraen stayed in the saddle; with Aragorn still half asleep in front of her, she couldn’t easily dismount.

Elladan’s guarded gaze flicked back and forth between the newcomers.  “Children of Dírhael,” Gilraen had to strain to hear him, “What brings you to this perilous road?”

Thorondir spared his sister the trouble of responding.  He kept his tone respectful, “Grief uncounted which we will not repeat here.  Suffice it to say that we travel without Lord Arandur’s leave so that my nephew may seek sanctuary in Imladris.”

The sons of Elrond seemed to notice Aragorn for the first time.  Four identical eyes darkened with anger.  Elladan turned to Gilraen.  “You bring a child—this child—along these roads with only one young Ranger to protect him?  Have you no sense?”

This was too much for Aragorn.  In under a week, he’d buried his father, seen his village burn, fled his home, and ridden for hours along these bumpy roads without sleep, and now this strange Elf was yelling at his mama.  He fought back one sniffle, then another, then cracked and let out a wail.

Gilraen pulled her son close and hurried to shush him, mindful of Elladan’s talk of danger.  The elder Elf’s eyes flashed and darted around the encampment, as though expecting enemies to spring out of the ground.  To Gilraen’s surprise, though, Elrohir’s stormy gaze softened.  He approached the mother and child slowly.  “Hush, all is well, little one,” his voice, which had been so fiery in debates, was suddenly soft and soothing, “My brother did not mean to scare you.”

Aragorn sniffed and peered at the strange being with the long dark hair.  Elrohir smiled encouragingly.  “Why don’t we take a walk, penneth.  While Elladan speaks with your naneth, I can introduce you to our horses.  Would you like that?”

Aragorn considered.  He nodded slowly.  Elrohir looked up at him.  “Very good, little one.  Only we must be very quiet.  Can you do that?”  Aragorn nodded more vigorously, perhaps offended by the implication.  Elrohir held out his arms, and to Gilraen’s shock, her son crawled into them after only a second’s hesitation.  As she dismounted, Gilraen wondered at the sight—the hot-tempered Elf gently cradling the exhausted toddler.  Aragorn’s tiny hands found the jeweled clasp of Elrohir’s cloak and promptly began playing with it.  The Elf smiled.  Shifting the boy to his hip, he walked away in the direction of the Elven horses, still murmuring softly to the child. 

Elladan watched his brother go and sighed heavily.  Turning back to Gilraen, he offered a short bow.  “I apologize, my lady, I fear the Wilds have left me short of temper.  We had hoped that you would reconsider your decision, but your sudden appearance with the child startled me.  And, I fear it is ill-timed; we keep watch on an encampment of orcs.  The enemy has surrounded the near bank of the Bruinen.  We dare not cross until reinforcements from Imladris arrive.”

Thorondir’s brow furrowed.  “How many?”

“We’ve counted almost two score orcs on this side of the Bruinen.  In another day and a half, twenty warriors from Imladris are due to pass here.  The orcs can be routed then, but not before.”

Thorondir sighed.  “We do not have two days.  Arandur may be no more than four hours behind us.”

Gilraen spoke up.  “Perhaps he can help us.  If he brings Maldir’s patrol . . .” She trailed off as her brother shot her an amused look.

His voice was gentle.  “Muinthel, if I know our brother he will be traveling alone.  Remember, we left only one horse at the safe house.  It would take time to assemble the patrol, and they would not be able to travel as quickly.  Besides which, he will most likely see this as a family issue—a simple matter of talking some sense into his wayward younger siblings.”

“Still,” Gilraen mused, “He could help protect Aragorn until the Elves arrive.  I think he would understand.”

“Gilraen, if Arandur even suspected that we had brought the child so near an orc encampment, he would gag us, tie us to our horses, and drag us straight back to the village.  And, he would be right to do so.”

The woman’s face hardened.  “The choice is mine.  He cannot compel me to stay.”

“No, but his duty to the Chieftain supersedes that concern.  He is Aragorn’s guardian and protector first, ruler of the Dúnedain second.  He will not allow us to bring the child into danger.”

Gilraen shook her head, wondering how the dynamics of her family could have shifted so completely in only a few days, with her barely aware of it.  “So, we go back; we find another crossing . . .”

Elladan was shaking his head.  “There are none within a day’s ride.  At best, Arandur would overtake us.  At worst, there may be other encampments.”

“So, what do we do?”  Elladan and Thorondir had locked eyes.  Gilraen looked back and forth between them.  “What do we do?”

Thorondir spoke at last.  “We must cross, and soon.”

~

Time was a cruel trickster.  In what seemed like no time at all, Elladan and Thorondir, with occasional contributions from Gilraen, had hammered out a plan so dangerous it made the woman’s head spin.  She barely had time to take a breath before Elladan was stalking over to his brother, murmuring a quick word in his ear.  The younger elf relinquished Aragorn, collected his pack, and slipped away to the north, silent as a shadow over the dry forest leaves.

Then, for a long time there was nothing to do.  Elladan carefully inspected the fletching on his arrows.  Thorondir checked and rechecked the horses’ tack.  Gilraen sat and pulled Aragorn close, wrapping his tiny cloak around him as if the flimsy cloth could protect him.  The minutes stretched like hours.  Elladan’s eyes darted continually around the hollow, as if he expected the very trees to rise up against them.  Thorondir sat with Arathorn’s naked sword across his knees.  Still, all of them started when Elrohir reappeared as suddenly as he’d left.  His voice was pitched to carry no farther than their clearing.

“All is ready.”

~

Gilraen shifted uneasily in her saddle.  Aragorn sat in front of her, trembling slightly.  The boy didn’t really understand what was about to happen, but Gilraen believed she had impressed on him the need to be very quiet.  Ropes wrapped securely around his waist bound the toddler to Rohiridan’s saddle as a precaution.  Gilraen gripped the reins with one sweaty hand.  Her other hand rested on the long knife strapped to the saddle.  Her bow and quiver, too, were in easy reach.  All this did little to assuage the woman’s fears; if circumstances forced her to actually use either weapon, they were probably doomed already.

To her left, Elrohir sat atop his gelding, his slim sword already drawn.  Both horse and rider were almost preternaturally still, and the Elf’s ageless gaze was intense.  The other Elven horse waited riderless on Gilraen’s other side.  Though no rein or hobble restrained the steed, the animal waited, as patient and alert as the Elves themselves.  Thorondir waited a pace behind.  Begilaith shook her head nervously, and Elrohir winced at the jingle of the harness.  Rohiridan’s ear twitched.  The gelding knew battle was coming.

Barely daring to breathe, Gilraen glanced up at the last member of their company.  Elladan perched high among the slender branches of a birch tree, his bow in hand, a flaming arrow nocked.  The Elf gripped two more identical arrows in his teeth, the small flames barely a foot from his face.  His position gave him a clear view of the orc-lined river.  The Elf sighted carefully, his sharp eyes picking out tiny cloth markers in the trees almost a half-mile away.  He drew one steadying breath.

Gilraen jumped slightly at the twang of the bowstring, causing Aragorn to stiffen in front of her.  The sound was followed almost immediately by two more twangs in quick succession.  There was a slight rustle as Elladan dropped from the tree, graceful as a falling leaf.  Moving soundlessly, the Elf swung himself onto his horse.  Another arrow, this one tipped with steel, was already on the string.  For long moments, the only sound in Gilraen’s ears was the desperate pounding of her own heart.  She swallowed against the sudden bitterness on her tongue. 

Finally, the guttural cry of an orc reached her ears.  Though the Elves gave no outward sign, their horses broke into a cautious walk almost simultaneously.  Gilraen quickly squeezed Rohiridan’s flanks, keeping the larger horse just a half pace behind the Elrondionnath.  As they neared the top of the ridge, the orcish cries grew in volume.  A booming horn split the air.  Gilraen pressed herself against her son, forcing Aragorn flat against the horse’s withers.  Her world narrowed to the short stretch of forest she could see between the gelding’s ears.  Through this narrow window, she caught sight of the valley below. 

A half mile away, three columns of black smoke rose into the air.  Elrohir had lined his firetraps with dry kindling, and stoked them with green, oily wood to release dark smoke.  They lit quickly at the northern edge of the orc encampment, sparking confusion and disorder among the fell beasts. 

Chaos spread quickly, as undisciplined sentries abandoned their posts and flocked towards the growing bonfires.  Ten feet from the first blaze, the ground suddenly dropped away, plunging three orcs into a concealed pit. 

Screams of rage rent the air, and even more orcs flooded to the northern edge, doubtless expecting a full scale assault.

Into this breach, the small company of riders sprang.  They moved in a backwards arrowhead formation, the two Elves ahead, Gilraen and Aragorn between them, and Thorondir bringing up the rear.  As orcish eyes moved north, they burst through the southern edge of the encampment.  One orc spotted them and let out a roar, only to be silenced as Elladan’s arrow buried itself in the creature’s throat.  A goblin, pale and sickly under the dim morning light, scurried into their path and fell under Elrohir’s blade.  Gilraen flattened herself against her son, trying to cover every inch of him like a living blanket—a breathing shield.  That was all any of them were in the end; man and woman, Elves and horses, serving as flesh and blood barriers to shield the tiny, precious cargo in Gilraen’s arms.

As the horses plunged to the base of the ridge, five or six orcs rallied to block their way.  The Elves veered to the right.  Rohiridan followed with little guidance from his rider.  Begilaith rushed past on their left in a blur of brown fur and green cloth.  Thorondir charged the small group, neatly decapitating the first orc and scattering the others.  The horses’ long legs ate up the ground.  Another few moments and they would reach the river . . .

A black arrow whizzed by over their heads.  “Bowmen!” Elladan cried, shooting an arrow of his own at the ragged line forming behind them.

“They’re mine!”  Thorondir wheeled his horse around and bore down on the new threat.  Gilraen heard orc screams and the clang of metal, then they reached the river, and the splash of water and clang of hooves over stone drowned out all else.  Though the Bruinen at its deepest point reached only to the horses’ knees, the spray of twelve hooves quickly soaked Gilraen.  Her breath came in ragged gasps, and she resisted the urge to squeeze her eyes shut.

Then, there was a quick rise, as Rohiridan strained to scale the far bank.  The sons of Elrond did not slow, but Gilraen pulled back on the reins, turning Rohiridan just as he reached the edge of the forest.

“Thor!” She nearly screamed the name, praying her voice would carry over the din of battle.  Amazingly, he turned.  The dozen orcs who had opposed him were all but decimated. 

Spinning Begilaith, he leaned forward, urging the sweat soaked filly into a break neck gallop. 

They crashed into the river . . . they were halfway through . . . Thorondir raised his head, a triumphant smile on his face.

It all happened so fast.  One moment Thor was thundering through the shallows, kicking up a glittering spray of foam, the next there came a distant thud, and a tremor ran through his body.  Though he made no sound, a sudden shock froze the youth’s face and he slowly tipped forward, revealing the black-shafted arrow protruding from his back.  A distant bow sang again, and another arrow buried itself in his neck, just above the shoulder, releasing a torrent of red.  Another twang, and this time Begilaith took the hit—the arrow drawing an angry red line across her flank.  The horse screamed in pain, but did not falter. 

“Thor!” she screamed in earnest this time.  Legs moving almost of their own accord, the woman squeezed Rohiridan’s flanks, urging the horse back towards the rushing river.  Aragorn screamed and buried his face in the horse’s mane, reminding Gilraen of her duty to the child before her.  Her knife clattered to the forest floor.  At the same moment, Arathorn’s sword slipped from Thorondir’s nerveless fingers and was swallowed by the river. 

Later, Gilraen was never aware of dropping the reins and drawing an arrow.  She recalled only the sharp snap of the bowstring and the bitter satisfaction of seeing her arrow disappear into the fanged maw of an orcish bowman, even as the beast was nocking a fourth arrow. 

Begilaith’s hooves pounded, and suddenly bleeding horse and dying rider were rushing up the riverbank, past Gilraen, and into the safety of the forest cover. 

The orcs clustered on the distant shoreline, never quite touching the feared waters, and screamed their fury against their escaped prey.

Begilaith raced a few yards into the forest, then slowed to a stop, trembling and panting for breath.  The sons of Elrond materialized from the gloom, their identical faces stricken.  Four strong hands gently lowered Thorondir to the ground.  Gilraen pulled Rohiridan up short and dismounted so quickly her knees buckled.  Leaving Aragorn tied to the saddle, she climbed to her feet and stumbled to where her little brother lay.

Dark blood pooled around him and over him.  Begilaith lowered her head to lip gently at his deathly pale face.  Blood ran down her side in slow rivulets to mingle with her rider’s.  The sons of Elrond stood to either side of the fallen Ranger, still and solemn as statues.  Their eyes met and a look of meaning passed between them. 

Gilraen approached on trembling legs.  Her eyes sought Elladan’s.  “Do something.”  He looked away.  She grabbed Elrohir’s collar and dragged the other Elf’s face to hers.  “Do something!”  He met her gaze, and she was shocked to see tears pooling in the ancient gray eyes.

“Gil . . .” The woman felt her fury fade, quelled by the faint voice.  She dropped to her knees at her brother’s side and felt the warm wetness immediately soak through the knees of her leggings.  Two pairs of eyes met, one clouded by pain, the other by tears.  Gilraen reached for the words—surely she should say something . . . anything . . . There were no words, so she merely took his hand in both of hers.  He tried to force a smile.  “Did . . . did we make it . . . muinthel?”  The woman nodded wordlessly, and the stiffness eased from the man’s smile.  “Gilraen,” he rasped, “Let me see him.”

Knowing what he wanted, Gilraen shifted slightly, so that Thorondir could see past her.  Just a few yards away, a tiny child sat trembling atop a great warhorse.  The dark curls were awry, the gray eyes wide and solemn in the tear-streaked face.  For long moments, Thorondir son of Dírhael gazed at his Chieftain, even as his lifeblood poured out with every beat of the great heart.  After a moment that could have spanned several eternities, the Ranger’s chest stuttered up once, twice, and then was still.

His gaze became fixed, and the expression of devotion froze, never to leave his face while the world lasted.

~

Moonlight drifted through the forests of Imladris, flowing like water as the wind ruffled the trees.  Aside from the faint whisper of leaves, all was silent in the sheltered glades surrounding the Last Homely House.  The woods were shrouded in a soft beauty that murmured of splendor long lost from Middle Earth.  It was the sort of peace one would expect in the Halls of Mandos, where departed souls awaited their final voyage.

How appropriate, Gilraen reflected.  Her silk gown whispered in the dark, but her leather slippers made no sound on the springy grass.

A week.  She could not quite believe that a full week had passed since her last tragedy along the banks of the Bruinen.  She had completed the journey to Imladris in a haze, clutching her child close at every opportunity, trying desperately not to look at the shrouded bundle strapped across Begilaith’s back.  After all she had seen and done, she was content just to flow with the tide, to put her trust in the Elven voices that murmured that all would be taken care of.

Aragorn seemed to be recovering from the ordeal.  In the aftermath of the Bruinen, he had latched onto Elrohir, toddling after the Elf on unsteady legs, holding up his tiny arms, begging to be swept up for a piggy-back ride.  Gilraen wasn’t sure which was the bigger surprise:  that her son could show such sudden affection for the fierce Elf or that Elrond’s son would respond in kind.  Though her arms ached with every second her son was not in them, she could see that Aragorn was healing, so she did not question the blessing.

Gilraen was an entirely different story.  She felt the absence of her family like a gaping wound; every new dawn brought a fresh sting like salt.  Sometimes in the night, she thought she felt her husband’s arms around her.  Walking through the stables by day, she found herself listening for her brother’s laugh.  Troubled dreams robbed her of sleep and drove her out of the house.  She wandered aimlessly among the spreading elms, looking to the swirling stars for explanation, for consolation, for a reason to go on.

She came upon a ridge overlooking the house.  It was beautiful in the moonlight—all sweeping arches and graceful pillars with soft light pouring from gabled windows and terraced balconies.  A slight breeze nipped at her dress, reminding Gilraen that spring had not yet come, even to this sheltered enclave.  She crossed her arms against the chill.

The woman nearly jumped out of her skin when a thick mantle settled over her shoulders.  Pulling away from the warm hands, she turned and found herself face to face with the master of the house.  Lord Elrond did not speak but let his hands drop.  Gilraen had to crane her neck to look into his face.  In the dim light, the peredhel’s gray eyes revealed nothing.  After a moment, the woman broke the silence.  “I did not think anyone would be here at such an hour.”

The Elven Lord’s gaze flickered slightly.  His voice was deep and melodious.  “That is understandable.  I also find this place conducive to solitude.”

Elrond’s eyes weighed on her.  Gilraen averted her gaze.  “What draws you here, my lord?” She spoke without thinking and then cringed at the personal nature of the question.

Lord Elrond, though, did not seem offended.  He walked past Gilraen and stepped to the very edge of the rocky ridge.  The lord stared up at the stars, seemingly unbothered by the sheer drop just inches beyond his feet.  Gilraen followed at a safer distance.  For a moment, she did not think he would answer.  Then Elrond nodded at the sky.  “I seek council from my father.”

Gilraen advanced one careful step, scanning the stars.  One, in particular, caught her gaze.  It far outshone the others, gleaming like a silver gem on the horizon.  Gilraen was reminded, achingly, of Arathorn’s eyes.  Half-forgotten childhood tales returned to her in fragments.  A mariner in the heavens, bearing the captured light of Two Trees upon his brow . . . “So it is true, then,” her voice was a mere whisper, but Elrond’s sharp ears caught it, “The stories they tell of Eärendil sailing through the stars.”

Lord Elrond looked back at her, his expression bemused.  “Yes, it is true.  As he is your forbearer as well as mine, I am surprised the history is not better preserved.”  His gentle tone removed all sting from his words.  Gilraen stared up at the distant orb.  Yes, the Star of Eärendil it was called, but it had another name as well.  If only she could recall what it was . . . Elrond’s voice cut through her muddled thoughts.  “I had hoped to meet you this night.  There is much we must discuss.  Will you sit?” Elrond gestured to a convenient boulder even as he lowered himself to sit on the edge of the ridge.  Gilraen slowly settled, drawing her knees up to wrap the mantle more fully around herself.

Elrond’s gaze was distant.  “Gilraen, I am prepared to honor the offer my son made.  Should you wish it, you and your child may stay here among my people until he reaches his majority.  Yet, Elladan tells me you were reluctant in coming here.  May I ask why?”

The woman stared at her knees, feeling very young and very small.  “It didn’t feel right,” she said at last, “Bringing him here to be reared among the Eldar with no others of his kind.”

“Yet the fostering of a child is an old tradition, dating back to the dawn of the friendship between Eldar and Edain in the First Age of this world.  Many of his ancestors have been raised here in Imladris, especially the Chieftains of your people until a few generations ago.”  Gilraen did not respond.  She looked away, studying the stars, wishing she could remember the other name of Eärendil.  Elrond’s voice was infinitely gentle.  “I understand your reluctance, daughter of Dírhael.  You have lost much in a very short span of time.  And it is true that we are not of your kind.  Yet, I hope you will believe me when I say that we are your kin.  I have sworn to protect the line of my brother Elros, your ancestor.  If you choose to stay, you and your son will be among family.”

A smaller star, bright in its own right, drifted towards Eärendil.  Gilraen wondered if this was Elwing Star-foam, who was said to fly out as a bird to greet her husband.  She thought of the grim morn when she ran out of the house expecting Arathorn’s return.  She thought of Thorondir’s red blood mingling with the silver foam of the Bruinen.

Finally, Elrond broke the silence once again.  “Yet, I do not want you to agree without a full understanding of the circumstances involved.  The Heir of Isildur will never be completely safe, even here.  Secrecy is ever the best defense against the Enemy we face.  If you choose to stay, your son will be raised as my son—and so he will be in all but blood.  His true father’s name—and even his own name—must be concealed from him.”

The stars were cold.  There was nothing left.  Gilraen was bereft of her husband, her family, her home. 

“Gilraen, will you stay?”

She nodded slowly, wishing she could remember the name of the star. 

“Gilraen?  What will you call your child?”

She stared at Eärendil as he slipped over the distant horizon, returning to Valinor, or so the story said. 

Gil-Estel . . .

The name of the star slipped into her mind, like a whisper pushing back the dark.  It was Eärendil who sailed to the end of the world to seek mercy for his people.  What did he find there?  What could Gilraen find here?  When everything is lost, can anything be regained?

“Hope.”  She said at last, her voice a frail murmur, nearly swallowed by the shadows.

Elrond tracked her gaze with his own.  He nodded solemnly in understanding.  “So be it.  He shall be called Estel Elrondion.”

Fin

A/N:  Yes, that’s it for this story.  I’d like to offer a huge thanks to everyone who has supported and encouraged me along the way.  I hope this ending seemed fitting to you.

I realize I’ve left a number of loose ends.  I didn’t see any way around this that didn’t leave the story feeling contrived.  Huge, life-shattering events like these can’t always be wrapped up and laid to rest in a week.  I will be returning to these characters, but at the moment, all plans are still on the story board.  I need to take a little break, write other things, and deal with RL while I wait for my muse to come back.

If you enjoyed this story or if you see ways to improve, please leave me a review.  Concrit is always welcome.

It’s been a long road.  Thanks to everyone who walked it with me.