1. A Mission Abroad.  

Minas Tirith, Spring 2979.

“The Steward sent for me.”

“No word reached me.”

“Ask.”

“I cannot see why I would.”

It was no use arguing. Those wearing the black and silver of the Tower were not allowed to leave their post without the lord’s permission. The guard would not budge and it was clear that he was drawing a special pleasure from hindering his passage.

Stomping on the cold flagstones for warmth and wrapping his cloak tighter around his tall frame, the annoyed officer seeking entrance in the Citadel tried a different course. “I was having a great time at the common mess when that fat sergeant bellowed me into this unforgiving cold wind. Do you think I would be here were it not on orders?”

“Your doings are not my concern…”

“Then I might give you something to worry over…”

“What is this racket about?”

The guard bowed briefly to the newcomer. “Lord Galdor…” he said stiffly. “He tried to break into the Tower, claiming that the Steward had sent for him.”

“So he did. Follow me, Captain Thorongil. That foolish sergeant surely forgot to warn the guards…”

With a mocking bow to the vexed guard, the man known as Thorongil followed the Warden of the Keys into the dark passages of the Citadel.

“My lord is overtaxing himself these days,” the Warden commented lightly over his shoulder. “Even for one of his vigour and Westernesse blood I fear he is overestimating his strength. He should let go…” The light of the torch he carried on his raised arm played strange shadows on his unusually tense, worried face.

Lord Galdor was leading him to Ecthelion’s private office, Aragorn noticed with mild surprise as they crossed empty corridors and climbed flights of stairs away from the Great Hall. Stranger than the fact that the haughty Warden of the Keys was actually leading him anywhere - rather than deferring to a squire or a simple errand-runner-  were his weak attempts at small conversation with someone he would usually ignore openly. Something must be very wrong indeed, he told himself warily as they entered the Steward’s family quarters. With a sweeping glance he took stock of the squire standing before a door he guessed led to Denethor’s chambers and the two guards posted at the other end of the large hall, before what had to be the Steward’s office.

“The Steward will see Captain Thorongil now,” Lord Galdor said. Aragorn flinched. It was the second time the Warden addressed him using a rank beloved by his troops and carefully avoided by most of the high ranking officers and nobility.

“This way,” one of the guards said curtly. He rapped firmly, then opened the heavy door and stood aside. With a last glance at Lord Galdor’s unusually strained face, Aragorn stepped into the torch lit office.

“Thorongil! I did not drag you from your bed, I expect? Raise, man, there is no need for that now,” the old man sitting by the fireplace waved him impatiently from his bow and towards another chair. “White, from Belfalas,” he added, pointing at the glass decanter set on a side table.

“You know me well, my lord,” Aragorn smiled, pouring himself a glass and refilling the Steward’s. “What can I do for you?”

“Ah, the enthusiasm of youth,” the Steward chuckled, savouring the wine. “Let’s enjoy our company for a while, my friend…”

Aragorn studied the Steward as he too sipped his wine. Ecthelion looked tired. Worse, he looked drawn, as one whose life was being sucked out of him. His face was deeply lined and his beard was snowy white. But he still carried himself with the air of authority and nobility that befitted the Steward of Gondor, even if the shoulders sagged a bit and the hands shook around the cup. But then, the man was close to his nineties, Aragorn reminded himself, and his life had not been an easy one.

“I insist that it tastes of apples, and Adrahil names me an ignorant,” the old Steward interrupted his musings at long last, swirling the amber wine in the shapely glass. “What do you think?”

“I could not say…”

“Since they do not grow apples down there I tell Adrahil that he must be using apple-flavoured barrels to season his wine and then poke at him and ask him where he gets them…The Bay of Belfalas is such a dangerous place for cargo and we have lost so many ships lately…”

At this, Aragorn tensed. The Steward let escape a deep breath and shifted on his chair.

“One day long ago I saw a couple of orchard hands hacking wildly at my apple trees. I called the Tower Guard and almost had them flogged, you know how I love my cider…” The words were innocent enough, but the Steward cast him a shrewd, meaningful look that told otherwise.

Aragorn only nodded and watched the play of flames in the hearth.

“Since they claimed that they were only following instructions, I requested the presence of the orchard master and asked him why he had ordered my apple trees to be cut down,” the Steward continued in a thoughtful tone. “And what did he say? “You must trim down the weak, and the rotten, and at times also the good branches, almost to the point of breaking the tree yet not enough, so it will grow even stronger and yield better fruit next year, your lordship. I call that pruning,” he told me. And he wasn’t in the least afraid or sad…because it was necessary. Can you believe that?”

“It is a well-known fact, my lord,” Aragorn smiled, allowing himself a brief memory of Elrond’s apple orchard in Imladris and the joys he had found there in his childhood.

“Oh, is it? I did not know back then. But it really struck me how similar to apple trees men are, Thorongil, don’t you think? Also apple tree wood burns with an exquisite fragrance…”

Aragorn nodded guardedly, then shivered as a sudden wave of cold ran down his back. Ecthelion studied the glass at the firelight.

“Pruning” the Steward mused. “So that the new yield is stronger and more plentiful. It is an interesting concept, I find. But I have not dragged you from your rest to discuss orchard lore, my friend. I have finally decided to heed your wise advice and tackle the matter of Umbar…”

“My lord?”

“The council was not the greatest impediment, though. Of course you will be in command, and the best of Gondor will be at your disposal: ship and men. I expect you will find no cause to complain…”

“I am yours to command...”

“I know, my friend, and rest assured that I really appreciate your loyalty for all it’s worth. Picking out bad fruit from the good is a tiring, depressing task. And there was also the delicate matter of finding the right people with the needed knowledge of the lands and the peoples, and the timing and routes of the corsair fleet…A most annoying task, but Morlum outdid himself, pursuing every hint and thread of information or suspicion to its source...I believe that the group we have put together for you will prove useful in the attack…see,” the Steward said in a sarcastic, bitter voice, handing him a rolled parchment. “Most of them have strong ties down there…of the kind that matters. What do you think?”

Aragorn scanned a list and gasped. He handed back the parchment with a worried look on his face. “My… my lord, but these names…are you… are you…sure?”

“About the first six, absolutely. Confessed traitors. The following… seem just likely. The last one… there is just a slim chance…” he grimaced, leaning forth to lit the parchment on the fireplace and watching as it twirled into ashes. “But at times you must trim down the good branches together with the bad…and smoke the hole so the rats disband…I am old, Thorongil,” the Steward said in a sad, tired voice. “I was a child during the Fell Winter, but I have seen the Shadow grow and gain strength before my very eyes. I was there when Mount Doom burst in flames and Sauron declared himself, and when we had to abandon even our last outposts in Ithilien… I do not deceive myself. The shadow grows stronger each day all around us while our power declines. Soon there will be no free men left to whom we can call for help, and only Rohan stands by our side… What kind of Steward would I be if I did not make sure that I pruned the right branches properly so the city grows stronger as well?” he left the question lingering between them, pain ringing clearly beneath ruthless determination in Aragorn’s ears.

“Fear and despair weaken us,” the Steward continued after a deep sigh, “and lead us to unwise decisions. The Enemy is not only in the East: it looms from the South, as you well signalled long ago, and lies also within us…it might be that it hides even within our walls…” He cast a quick glance around and Aragorn understood that he feared their conversation might be overhead. “It is my duty to shake the tree, and smash the rotten fruit pitilessly and clip weak branches short so they grow stronger next year, and make a fire that is seen from a distance, no matter the price, or whether I take some healthy ones along. Will you help me, Thorongil? Will you be my shears?”

“I…” Aragorn hesitated briefly, weighing each word carefully. “I will lead your troops to Umbar and destroy the Corsair fleet if you so command, my lord,” he said slowly.

The Steward grinned shrewdly. “How cautious,” he chuckled. “These are your orders,” he added, handing him a folded, sealed bundle of parchment. “You are expected to depart at dawn. The boats will lead you to Pelargir, where you will take command of the fleet and then follow my instructions. Those six…lords and noblemen of the realm,” he forced himself to say, referring to the first names in the list, “will go with you. They have all graciously “volunteered” to sacrifice their lives for the good of Gondor. Make sure that their promise is not in vain…”

Aragorn bristled at that. “My lord, I am not..”

“You are not a murderer, I know. And I would not ask that of you, Thorongil. I expected that you knew me better than that,” the Steward snapped dryly. “I am sending Morlum with you instead, with clear orders as well. You just have to make sure they do not shy from the heat of battle. There is no nobler death than that, and that is more than what they deserve,” he finished angrily.

“How am I to deal with them? Am I to keep them under watch?”

“No one knows of their crime, although some might suspect. But I cannot afford a long trial that would weaken us now and show how disunited we are. To all effects they are noblemen volunteering to serve the White City in a dangerous mission. Leave the matter to Morlum. I just wanted to inform you. The job is not easy, and it is made even more difficult by this circumstance, but I can see no other choice. Meanwhile, I will sit here and watch the remaining mice as they flee the smoke…Times are darkening indeed when Gondor has to prune her most gallant houses…” he finished in a sad murmur.

Silence stretched for longer than was comfortable as the Steward watched the fire, lost in glum thoughts. When Aragorn thought that he had fallen asleep and made as if to raise, though, Ecthelion jerked his head and fixed him in a sharp, alert gaze.

“I did not dismiss you yet…Did you think I had fallen asleep, a dotard who can no longer keep his attention focused?” But there was an amused gleam on his blue-grey eyes.

“It would be no wonder, my lord. I am almost asleep on my feet,” Aragorn chuckled, raising respectfully as the Steward did. With great effort Ecthelion hauled himself from his chair and dragged his feet to his desk, waving Aragorn’s strong arm away.

“You will go with the blessings of the Valar, Thorongil, for this is not an easy mission, nor one that will earn you the love of certain noble houses.” He shuffled parchments on his desk while he spoke until he found what he was looking for, then looked up with a knowing smile. “At least you will have my everlasting gratitude on behalf of the King whose kingdom I am sworn to preserve. Honours and rewards I will bestow upon you on your return, but for now let it suffice with this…”

This time Aragorn received two hastily scratched parchments. He scanned them quickly and then looked up to his chosen lord in awe and gratitude.

“You have served me faithfully for more than ten years, if my memory serves me well, Thorongil,” the Steward whispered in a tired voice. “Yet I have the feeling that you will one day slip away unnoticed, much as you came to us. So you are either free from my service as it suits you, or else a highest ranking officer of Gondor, answerable only to me, while you choose to remain…it is all in there,” said he, pointing at the two parchments.

“It’s an honour serving you, Ecthelion son of Turgon,” Aragorn replied in a grave voice, folding the parchments with great care and putting them away with the rest of his orders. “The White City is safe in your care. I will go and wipe away the Corsairs in your name, so no enemy threatens you from the south. And may we drink to our success on my return!”

“I will be looking forward to the white sails. Now go to your rest. Preparations have been undertaken, so all you need to care about is your own pack. May the Valar keep your path safe, Thorongil, wherever it leads you.”

“May they keep you too, my lord.” And with that, and a heartfelt quick embrace, Aragorn took leave from Ecthelion.

Lost in deep pondering he crossed the wide anteroom and walked past the door to Denethor’s quarters distractedly, barely noting that the squire was not in his post.

“Thorongil.”

“Lord Denethor…” Startled by the sudden way in which the door opened at his passage, he bowed courteously, studying the other carefully. Denethor cast nervous glances around and looked strangely hesitant, another unsettling piece of news in that night full of surprises.

“A word with you, Thorongil,” the heir finally said, standing aside and waving for Aragorn to follow him into his chambers. “You are leaving at dawn,” he stated without preamble even as he closed the large wooden door, fixing Aragorn in his hawk-like gaze.

Aragorn only nodded.

“To Pelargir?”

“I am not allowed to discuss my orders, lord,” Aragorn whispered. Warily, he wondered whether Denethor knew of that list…or suspected that his name might be on it and was trying to dig out the truth. He steeled himself and looked the other in the eye, waiting.

“Of course…” Denethor raked a hand over his unusually dishevelled hair and let escape a deep sigh, his eyes straying to the rolled parchment that Aragorn still held in his hand. With plain effort he tore his gaze away and waved around with strained warmth. “A seat? Some wine?”

Aragorn looked around. They were in a wide entrance-hall, most probably used to deal with servants, squires and errand-runners, since the only seats visible were long wooden benches lining one of the walls. A heavily draped curtain hid the arch that surely led to the family quarters. He shook his head. “Thank you for your hospitality, but I must be on my way soon…if you would have nothing else of me.”

As if forcing himself to keep his calm, Denethor grimaced and took a deep breathe, then held Aragorn’s arm and pushed him against the wall. “Darkness clouds all minds, Thorongil, and danger and despair are the enemies of even the stoutest man...to the point that he will doubt and distrust even those closest to him, mistaking friend and foe,” the heir whispered sombrely in his ear. Aragorn only nodded and waited. “Let not your legendary eagle-keen sight be confounded by other feelings,” Denethor added in an overtly menacing whisper. “The Steward is old and wise, but he may be misguided –innocently or otherwise…”

“I take my orders from the Steward, Lord Denethor…”

“That you do. But make sure others do not overreach, while claiming that they also obey our lord…”

Aragorn met the deep eyes that blazed under the torches and shivered at the knowledge that sparkled in them and illuminated the thinly carved features of that shrewd face. “Speak plainly,” he demanded harshly.

“Says who?” the heir chuckled mirthlessly. “But let me give you some useful piece of advice, mysterious Thorongil.  Húrin is a loyal officer, and should anything happen to him you will feel…”

“Denethor? Oh, is it you, Thorongil? See, Boromir, the Captain is here…”

“Lady Finduilas…Master Boromir!” With a swift move Aragorn freed his arm from Denethor’s bruising grip and bowed courteously to the beautiful lady and the sleepy-looking baby in her arms. The boy greeted him with a drowsy smile.

“Shouldn’t he be in bed?” Denethor asked, and his voice sounded so impossibly affectionate all of a sudden that Aragorn cast him a quick, surprised glance. “You will fall asleep tomorrow while the Steward presents you to the court, my big boy,” the heir added in a loving whisper, extending his arms to his son, a tender smile softening his usually set, stern countenance. With an excited gurgle the child wriggled and struggled in her mother’s hold, eager to jump into his father’s welcoming embrace.

“Wait, my Boromir,” Finduilas protested, smiling indulgently as she did. “He is as impatient as his father,” she informed Thorongil with a bright smile that lightened up her sweet face, half-hidden by her son’s twisting body. “Just a moment, child...careful!” A glass flask she was holding slipped from her closed fist as she delivered the child into his father’s care, and it hit the flagstones with a clear clank. “Oh, no!”

“Allow me, my lady…” Swift as lightning, Aragorn crouched and fingered the fragments of a swan-like glass bottle, while its contents spread on the floor. The sweet scent of southern flowers hit him full as he knelt there. It was jasmine and cinnamon and sweet desert roses, a mix no longer available in Gondor, not since commerce with Harad was banned a few years ago.

“How unfortunate!” the lady complained, kneeling by his side. “My uncle had it sent to me last year, after Boromir’s birth… it used to be my mother’s favourite fragrance and Boromir loved to play with the bottle…”

Aragorn felt the weight of Denethor’s gaze boring into him even without looking up. Composing a neutral expression, he helped Finduilas pick up the pieces and then raised her to her feet, still carefully avoiding Denethor.

“See what happened, Boromir? You must learn patience, my son! Now it is broken,” the lady chided. Seeing the broken flask, the toddler pouted and threw himself at his mother’s arms again. “Easy, easy! You are not a bird, my son, you will fall one of these days…Will you send for a maid, Denethor?” she asked, laughing at the child’s antics as he burrowed back into her embrace. “I fear the scent will cling to the hall for ever!” Aragorn finally met Denethor’s eyes and was shocked to find alarm and then fear in them.

“Presently, my love. But who did you say that sent you that fragrance?” Denethor asked with forced calm.

“Uncle Iôrhil sent it with the coral brooch and that beautiful small dagger for Boromir…I had not yet used that perfume because for some reason I now find the scent too strong, but Boromir loved the flask…” she mourned, then shrugged. “Will you be with us tomorrow, Thorongil?”

“I fear not, my lady. I wish you all the best, Master Boromir, on your naming day,” he answered stiffly, still shocked by what had just happened.

“My father is sending him south,” Denethor suddenly chimed in, and a swift, knowing glance that Aragorn could not understand passed between husband and wife. “Perhaps he will be able to replace that perfume…”

“Oh, I doubt it!” She shook her head, but a wide, hopeful smile had now settled on her sweet face. “I am told that it is most difficult to obtain. But if you go to Dol Amroth on the Steward’s businesses perhaps you could send greeting to my father… We will miss you, Thorongil, may the Valar protect you. Say good night, Boromir! Tarry not, husband!” she chirped, taking Boromir’s small chubby hand in her white, slender one and waving goodbye to Thorongil.

“I am retiring with you, my lady,” Denethor replied warmly, encircling her waist as she stretched to kiss his cheek and dragging her to him. “Tread carefully, Thorongil,” he warned in a voice that managed to convey admonition and threat at the same time. “You are dismissed. Come, lady, let us put this little warrior to sleep…”

Instead of insulted, as he always felt whenever Denethor pulled rank and station on him rudely with the only aim of reminding him of his lower place in the order of the world, Aragorn stood there bowed as one stricken by a sudden grief, while the echoes of the woman’s clear laughter and the man’s soft endearments faded all around him. The wave of longing and tiredness that suddenly washed over him was so abrupt and unexpected that left him breathless.

Bitter will my days be and I will walk in the wild alone. Unbidden, his own words spoken in youthful determination came to him. And his mother’s dry retort followed, hurting in a way it had not back then.

Alone in that torch-lit hall he would have given away heritage, duty and fate –exchanged them for a brief scrap of the joy and peace Denethor obviously had in his family. Suddenly all the toils and long leagues of his wandering life, fuelled by a vain hope that might as well be unattainable, seemed futile to him. With a great effort of will he wiped away sad thoughts and looked for strength in the memory of the Evenstar and her beautiful, serene face. Wearily, he made for the door and walked away, barely noticing that the squire had not yet returned and that Ecthelion’s guards acknowledged him with respectful nods.

He was not so deep in glum thoughts as to miss the sound of rushed footsteps straining to be unheard, though. With easy casualness he hurried round a corner and then pressed against the wall in the pool of darkness between two torches, waiting. Then faster than a viper bites, he grabbed the stalker as it stepped cautiously into the corridor and placed a dagger on his thick neck.

“What can I do for you?”

“Leave me be!” the squeak came undoubtedly from Lord Galdor’s terrified plump form, as Aragorn already knew. Pretending surprise, he let go of the outraged Warden.

“Lord Galdor! What are you doing wandering the corridors this late?” He almost chuckled as the man scurried along the wall until he reached the comforting safety of the torch light.

“I was waiting to escort you outside!” Galdor claimed in a shrill voice that failed to sound stern and dignified. His face looked drawn and frightened in the trembling light. “Who do you think you are, unsheathing your weapons inside the citadel? I could have you put in chains…”

“The Steward would not like it, I have to be on my way tomorrow at dawn –as you no doubt know...But I appreciate the gesture, Lord Warden, and I apologize for so frightening you. Now, by your leave, I can find my way…” with a mocking bow he sheathed his dagger and turned his back on the man. His mood was black enough without being forced to share the burden that he now knew weighed the Warden down.

“Thorongil…” the voice was a strangled whisper, but he did not stop. “Thorongil!” the Warden insisted more loudly, almost running behind him. “My son…”

“I will give him fond regards from his father,” he called over his shoulder, fleeing the anguish and fear that seeped from Galdor’s strained voice.

“You don’t understand!” with a last effort, the older man caught up with him and clung to his arm. “Denethor said… I… Listen to me!” he pleaded.

“I follow orders, Lord Galdor, there is nothing I can do,” he said softly, disentangling himself from the other’s convulse hold and pushing him away almost gently. He did not want to hear anymore.

“But he knew not!” the Warden almost sobbed after him. “Húrin is a good lad! His mother’s kin… he did not know, Thorongil, nor did I, the Valar help me! What have I done!”

Aragorn took another turn through echoing passages and almost ran from the desperate Warden. What a night! he thought as he hurried past the sullen guard out into the cold night wind. The full moon pooled on the wide yard and lined the ghastly skeleton of the White Tree. Pruning, indeed! he told himself, patting the rolled parchment containing his orders. He crossed the arch at a more composed pace and walked down steep stone stairs to the barracks of his company, still shaken by the night’s revelations and the discovery of the dense, tight net that had been woven under his almost oblivious eyes.

“What else can happen tonight?” he wondered tiredly, holding the lamp up to better study the door to his chamber once he reached the officers’ quarters. The splinter he always thrust between the door and the frame was not in place, meaning that someone had sneaked in while he was away…and might still be hiding in. Carefully, he put the lamp forward to blind a possible assailant and unsheathed his dagger, then pushed the door open.

TBC.

 A/N

Adrahil was Imrahil and Finduilas’ father, and the current Prince of Dol Amroth at the time this story takes place.  

Bitter will my days be and I will walk in the wild alone. From the Tale of Aragorn and Arwen, in the Appendixes. That will indeed be your fate was Gilraen’s answer.

Húrin the Tall was the Warden of the Keys at the time of the War of the Ring, so I am assuming that Húrin's father would have been the warden in Ecthelion’s time.

The story is not yet finished, but I will try to work on it during the summer vacation. 

Chapter 2. In Dangerous Company.

“I should have known,” he sighed with a rueful smile. Placing the candle on the table and the dagger in its sheath, he took two strides and squatted by the breathing lump that lay before the hearth. “Hirgon,” he said softly, shaking the sleeping form. The boy was deep in slumber, wrapped in a tattered cloak and with his head on a pack, and did not move. Shaking his head, Aragorn unfastened his own cloak and extended it over the boy, checked the dying fire and then went to sit on a chair beside the window, forsaking his bed.

“Let’s see,” he murmured, unrolling the different parchments that contained his orders and studying them carefully.

For a long time after he finished reading he remained still, his gaze lost. Treason, extortion, smuggling, plain theft…how could Gondor’s lords have fallen so low? he wondered aghast, and could not find an answer. Ecthelion was concise, but the crimes were easily deduced from cold, raw facts. His mind flew back to the dangerous, loyal lives of his Dúnedain of the North, with little comfort and much hardship, short-lived joys and enduring hopes, and he had to scowl. Were men really so frail and fickle, was the nobility of the West so thinned out that greed and treachery took the place of the steadfastness of old so easily? Would this ever be a kingdom deserving of the beauty and the wisdom of the Evenstar? What was there worth saving, he thought bitterly, if the guiding branches were so twisted and crooked by darkness?

On its own accord, his left hand rose to finger the soft pouch that dangled from his neck. The Ring of Barahir. The Ring of Beren. Beren, who braved the utmost darkness for his heart’s desire…and who had his treasure with him most of the time. “I am a fool,” he whispered. Almost thirty years of wandering with only a few glances, a handful of stolen smiles and several brief and awkward conversations to hold on to. A yearling shoot beside a young birch of many summers. Well, no longer, he told himself, his face still burning hot, despite the years, as he remembered Elrond’s gentle rebuke back in his bold youth. “And even if I am doomed to fall into darkness with all that is left of my kin, at least it will be with a bright hope in my heart, that all this will not be in vain,” he reminded himself stubbornly, for the years of his wanderings grew longer and darker and yet he could not see an end ahead.

He drove the stars and the moon out of the night sky while he kept watch over his own thoughts, feeding himself a strength of purpose stored deep in his soul; strength and wisdom gained after the long years of learning under Elrond’s kind tutelage and steeled and shaped along the endless leagues of labour. “I’ll do what is needful for the sake of duty,” he finally vowed, as dawn’s first shafts scaled the ramparts and burnished the sparkling flanks of the Tower. He stretched out stiff limbs and stood up, greeting the new day. Even as he did, he felt a surge of resolution course through him; a sense of direction that fuelled him when all struggle seemed vain. With renewed joy he pressed the leather pouch and pushed it under his shirt, against his heart. 

“Hirgon, get up! Where is breakfast, you cheeky brat?” he called out cheerfully. A knock on the door sent the child scrambling drowsily out from under the cloaks and up on his feet.  

“Easy, lad,” Aragorn chuckled as he pulled the door open…and ducked, out of sheer instinct, as a large fist was shoved against his face.

“You foreign rabble, I’ll have your hide!” a bearded bear roared, bursting into the chamber.

His head ringing, because the heavy hand had grazed his temple with strength enough to send him tripping backwards, Aragorn fought to regain his balance. Uselessly, for soon he found himself gagging with his back against the stone wall, pinned there by the strong arm of young Forlong of Lossarnach, who had powerful, cord-like fingers coiled around Aragorn’s throat. “My father hanged himself!” the young man half sobbed half growled. “Because of a bunch of lies that you and that dirty black snake whispered in my lord’s ear! But I will not go in his place to get myself killed together with that gang of traitors!” he shouted, a demented look on his blue eyes as he tightened his hold. Aragorn struggled against the pressure, but the hand would not budge. “My father was not a conspirator, you treacherous usurper! He was a good man who rent his warehouses to traitors and merchants! I will kill you if I must, before I allow his name to be slandered, or his House besmirched by the likes of you, ungrateful upstart…”  

“Leave him!” The boy’s voice was high-pitched but his hand did not tremble as he lay Aragorn’s sword against Forlong’s bull-like neck. “Leave him alone!”

“You will hurt yourself with that, little horse-dung,” the huge man growled, barely looking down at Hirgon. He released his prey quick enough, though, when the sword nicked his taut neck and drew blood.

“Enough, Hirgon. Give me the sword,” Aragorn rasped, freeing himself from Forlong’s suddenly slack grasp. “Hold still, Forlong. I would sorely regret to be forced to cut you down,” he warned. As if all strength had left him, the young man stood there with his branch-like arms limp along his body, his gaze lowered. With a sigh, Aragorn retrieved his blade and sheathed it carefully, while Hirgon watched with wide open eyes. “Now tell me, what is this news about Forvenil?”

The big man sagged. “They came in the third hour after midnight, a patrol of Tower Guards and that cursed Morlŷg spy…strutting and shouting and pounding on our doors….They stomped into our house with drawn swords and threatened my father in his own halls, and then handed him a parchment with the Steward’s seal…” A deep sob shook the big frame. The giant rubbed a hand over his face and barely regained his composure. “My father told them to wait as he readied himself to fulfil the Steward’s orders and asked my mother and I to stay there and offer mulled wine to them as if they were welcome guests …When he would not come down I went upstairs…” he lifted pained eyes in a face contorted by rage and impotence. Aragorn met his gaze without flinching. “The parchment was on the floor. It said by the Steward’s command that my father was to join your force today at dawn by the quay in a suicidal mission against the Corsairs, under charges of treason against the Lord of the City and against the realm. It is untrue, and I will kill anyone who says otherwise!” he growled, defiance again seeping through rage and pain.

Aragorn shook his head and studied the young man through narrowed eyes, thinking furiously. “I am grieved, Forlong,” he finally whispered. It was true. He had been sadly surprised to see Forvenil’s name on that list. He had fought alongside the old lord in his first years in the White City and had come to appreciate his strength and good humour, and steadfast devotion to the realm. “But this I know: that the Steward intended to give your father a clean way out. No one was meant to know about this, nor did he want Forvenil’s name or that of his House soiled in any manner. If you would heed my advice, go now to the Steward and pledge fealty to him as the new lord of Lossarnach. I am sure that in his generosity the Lord of the City will keep this sorrowful matter between you... And I will tell no one.”

“He spoke highly of you,” the young man grunted accusingly after a tense silence, but his clear gaze wavered.

Aragorn nodded sadly. “I did not betray him, Forlong, you have my word…”

“For all that is worth,” Forlong spat, but there was sheer defeat on the set of his huge frame as he finally shook his head and turned to the door. “May the Corsairs take you with them, Thorongil,” he spat bitterly as he walked away, his heavy footsteps beating on the creaking stairs.

“That was close,” Aragorn whispered as the footsteps faded away, massaging his throat. “And it seems I owe you my neck, Hirgon, but what were you doing here?”

The boy lifted a hopeful face, eyes still dripping sleep, to him. “I came to pack… I heard that you were to depart early today…Will you take me with you, Thorongil? To the sea and the city of the Corsairs?”

“I will take you back to the stable master by your ear, you rascal!” Aragorn grunted in fake annoyance. The boy had actually packed for him and got everything ready. Well, almost everything, he noticed as he scanned his surroundings. He touched the right side of his head gingerly, where Forlong’s fist had hit him, and winced. “Go and fetch some water,” he grunted, handing him a big clay jar. “I need to wash, and to clean this cut… And then fish some breakfast from the kitchens. I have no time to lose…”

Soon they walked deserted stone passages towards the stables, Aragorn carrying his saddlebags and equipment and the boy jumping and running to keep up with his strides. His own, painfully small pack thumped rhythmically against his bony back.

“You cannot leave me here, Thorongil,” the boy coaxed. “Forlong might take it ill that I know about his father!”  

Aragorn whirled and grabbed the boy by the neck of his tunic. “Do not ever again talk about that, not even to me, are we clear?” he hissed, shoving his face into the boy’s and snarling for greater impact. Satisfied with the frightened expression he got in return, he let go of the rumpled tunic and started walking again, now wearing a worried frown. By the time they reached the stables he had made his mind up.

“Thorongil! I heard you were due on a fishing trip early this morning!” the stable master greeted him good-naturedly as he led Aragorn’s patient bay outside. “And word has it that young Forlong of Lossarnach did not like the news!” he chuckled, pointing at the too obvious mark on Thorongil’s face.

“You hear too much, Haldan,” he grunted, annoyed by how quickly word spread in the inner circles of the city. “Find a horse, lad, we do not have all morning!” he called out, and had to smother a grin at the boy’s delighted cry.

“Thorongil…”

“You can have it back from the Harlond together with mine, Haldan, it is just a loan. We are almost late, and the boy cannot run all the way down to the river…”

“You are taking Hirgon with you?”

Aragorn shrugged. “He wants to be a squire, not one of your little horse-dungs.”

“It is said that you are in a dangerous mission down the river…”

“I will find someone willing to take him home up to Morthond valley before things get murky.”

“I see. Easy, boy, she is not a mule!” the stable master called out harshly as the boy dragged a nervous mare out of the stables. “We are going to miss you, Hirgon,” he said more softly then. “You have been a dutiful hand here. See that you obey Captain Thorongil and follow his orders faithfully, that your father might be proud of you. Will you?” he added, ruffling the boy’s head fondly.

“Of course I will,” Hirgon replied after he calmed his mare. “And I thank you deeply for your generosity, Master Haldan,” he added, bowing with a dignity that belied his twelve summers. “I am indebted with you…”

“Are you, now?” the stable master could not help laughing at the serious boy. “Well, I owe you too, it seems, for all the time that you helped here without wages… So take this at least, and may it keep you warm,” he offered, placing his heavy cloak over the boy’s frayed one. “And now, let’s not make your captain here wait. Up with you lad!” he said, helping the boy up the tall mare. “May the Valar go with you, Thorongil!”

With a grateful nod and a brief glance around, Aragorn urged his bay on and rode slowly down the twisting path that crossed the city. Apart from the clatter of their horses’ hooves and Hirgon’s excited chirping, nothing stirred yet in the White City. Banners and garlands danced lazily over their heads on the morning breeze, and up in the King’s court, Aragorn knew, hurried hands were surely giving the last touches for the day’s ceremony, the naming of Boromir son of Denethor, heir of the House of the Stewards.

It had been a shrewd choice for Ecthelion’s swift blow, he reflected, as most nobles of the realm flocked to the City to see and be seen pledging their loyalty to the House of Húrin. He had only needed to send his guards by night and make sure that there was no fussing...or as little fussing as was possible. If all went as planned, they would be well down the river before the parade began and gossip spread like a canopy fire. Forvenil had chosen to leave the game, and Aragorn had made sure that Forlong understood the need for discretion for his own good, but still he wondered how many of the others in Ecthelion’s list would rather choose to play a last hand, in the hopes that they might yet escape fate through a stroke of luck. “I will know soon,” he shrugged. He saluted the guards at the mighty doors and urged his horse on a mild gallop down towards the river, followed by a delighted Hirgon, while the clear trumpets officially greeted the much-expected day.

All of them, Aragorn thought later as he counted tall, grim silhouettes surrounded by armed guards and mourning relatives standing on the pier while mules and horses grazed in disconcerted freedom around hastily abandoned carriages. He reined in his horse at a distance and studied his surroundings, looking for the well-known emblem of Gondor’s foot troops. Down in the calm river, two large boats pitched peacefully while sailors hurried with the last cargo, following the Harbourmaster’s shouted commands.

“Morning, Captain, I thought the celebrations would take place in the Citadel?” a merry voice greeted him. He turned on his seat and smiled widely.

“Baranor, what are you doing here?” he asked in genuine surprise, dismounting quickly and clasping the other’s arm affectionately.

“Attending a funeral, apparently,” the officer scowled, nodding to the grim group assembled by the plank and returning the greeting warmly. “The Steward said he was sending you on a special mission and I did not hesitate.”

“But your wife… and how’s your son?”

“She was tired of having me around, Thorongil,” the man shrugged. “And little Beregond is Denethor’s Boromir’s age, so he still much prefers to clutch at his mother’s skirts than playing with the bow I made for him… I craved action, and you never disappoint.”

“This is going to be a dangerous trip, my friend.”

“I would storm the Morannon with you, Captain,” Baranor said seriously. “There is no other officer I would follow into a dangerous mission…or in such a dangerous company,” he murmured, casting a brief glance towards the subdued crowd. “But you have a talent for bringing your men back and generally in one piece, so I am not worried! What are you doing up there, Hirgon? Haldan must be frothing, looking for that beautiful lady,” he chuckled, extending long arms to help the boy dismount.

“She is returning with Captain Thorongil’s bay…I’m coming too!” the boy explained excitedly. “I am the Captain’s squire now…”

Ignoring the questioning glance that Baranor cast his way, Aragorn continued searching the area. “Where are your men, and how many are you bringing with you, Baranor?”

“They are already on board, getting sick,” the other explained with a wicked smile. “I bring ten of my best swordsmen. I was told that we would get reinforcements in Dol Amroth; that this is going to be a swift blow…”

“In and out, yes…And what is he doing here?” he asked softly, pointing at the nimble silhouette of Denethor’s squire, who had just stepped on deck of the closest boat, followed by a stern-looking, sun-tanned man who carried himself as if he owned the river.

“One would guess that he is on Lord Denethor’s orders, don’t you think?” a soft, oily, thickly accented voice observed behind them. Suppressing a grimace, Aragorn turned to acknowledge the slim, dark, threatening presence of Ecthelion’s chief spy, Morlum.

“I do not like to be sneaked upon, Master Morlum,” he snapped. “Be warned that I might react badly next time.”

“That is a useful piece of information, Captain,” the dark man nodded, sketching an unimpressed swift bow. “Is that your baggage? I expect that you are not carrying your horse with you? You!” he called out to a sailor lounging lazily against a bollard. “Bring the captain’s pack to the Seagull and stove it in the appointed cabin.” His voice had not risen, yet the cold tone of command sent a shiver down Aragorn’s spine, and set the surly-looking sailor in obedient motion as well. “I was not informed that you would bring a squire with you,” he said, his thick brows raised in surprise at the sight of Hirgon struggling with the stocky sailor for the custody of Aragorn’s pack.

“You need not be informed of everything, Morlum. I am in command of this mission. The boy will lodge in my cabin. Find someone to take care of our horses. We will board now if you are ready, Captain?” he retorted harshly, nodding to Baranor and Hirgon and starting towards the packed pier in the sure, unhurried pace of one who thinks himself in command.

“Wait, no, Captain! A moment, if you…Let me pass, you fool!”

Aragorn needed not look back to know that Baranor had wedged his broad shoulders between them, preventing the eager, bossy spy to annoy him any further. As he got closer to the assembled crowd, a sudden movement rippled through the group and they hushed all as one. Slowly they parted, yet all heads were turned from him and bent towards the plank that led to the boats, much to Aragorn’s confusion. As he got closer, he could finally see at the other end of the narrow line the wild, startled eyes of the Harbourmaster, escorted by four guards in the livery of the Citadel.

“If you just listened…”

Aragorn barely heard the muffled reproach of Ecthelion’s chief informant. The Harbourmaster was well down in the list he had read, among those considered to be only marginally suspicious. By the looks on the faces of the lords waiting to board, suspicions were now confirmed. A deep hole opened then in his stomach. The Harbourmaster, whom he had known and trusted for years, could not meet his eyes and lowered his head in shame as he walked past the tense lines of onlookers.

“If it has to be this way…” Struggling around Baranor’s imposing frame, the lithe spy stepped forth and signalled the guards leading the Harbourmaster to stand aside and wait. With studied ceremony he produced a parchment stuck on his belt, unrolled it, and began to read. “Lord Hador of Pinnath Gelin! Lord Gerion of Lebennin! Lord Taranor of Ithilien! Tarlang of Anfalas! Hallas of Linhir!” he called in his toneless, accented southern voice. The men stepped up unwillingly as they heard their names, until they were all lined together, waiting. “Lord Forvenil of Lossarnach!” Aragorn fought the urge of attacking him as Morlum cast a couple of mockingly inquiring glances around. “Oh, I forgot. He will not be able to join us… You ready, gentlemen? Your boat is ready, adventure awaits you…”

If he had been trying to goad the assembly, Morlum had just gone over the brim, Aragorn admitted. A woman cried, another fainted, a couple of youngsters started shouting threats and throwing stones while others struggled for daggers against restraining arms of servants. One of the accused, Gerion of Lebennin, turned an withering glare to Aragorn.

“Are we, lords and noblemen of the realm, to be insulted by this snake as a parting ceremony?”

At the same time, Lord Taranor’s elderly wife grabbed his hand. “Stop this, Thorongil,” she pleaded, “this is no manner of dealing justice!”

“Nobody said this was justice,” Morlum chuckled bitterly, rubbing his arm where a well-aimed stone had just hit him. Seeing him stumble, the throng pressed with harsher words and raised fists. “Stay back, or I may yet set the guard upon you…” the spy shrilled, taking a couple of steps back, all his defiance suddenly lost.

“First I’ll rid Gondor of your southern filth!”

Aragorn was quicker and unsheathed in one fluid motion, thwarting the falling blow of a dagger with his own sword. Unbalanced, the attacker, a youth apparently not yet of age, fell to the ground at his feet and lay there panting, raising to Aragorn pain-laden eyes that reminded him too much of Forlong’s.

“My grandson, no!” the lady cried.

“Enough!” Aragorn cried in a loud voice, restraining the lady with his free arm and urging Baranor with a quick glance to take care of the nervous guards, who now loomed eagerly over the misguided youngster. “By the Steward’s orders no one else will unsheathe here! And I will not have a servant of the Citadel threatened or injured!” he added, casting defiant looks around while he kept his sword protectively crossed before Ecthelion’s man.

“Free them, Captain!” Taranor’s wife insisted. “They are innocent, no matter what the Snake says!”

“That I know not, my lady,” he said softly, lowering the arm that restrained her and nodding to the kneeling boy to get away. “But they are given a chance to serve the city and the realm nobly.”

“They are sent to sure death!” she cried, and others joined while the condemned men stood there motionless, too stunned to do anything but hope.

“That is the lot of all of us sworn to serve the city, my lady. Yet it is also a reward in itself…”

“Please, Thorongil! Let them go see the Steward! I am sure we will find a way to arrange matters…”

“Hush, woman!” Lord Taranor finally said imperiously, taking a step to his wife and reaching out for her, not unkindly. “I do not fear death in battle, nobler than any other…”

But she stepped back, an expression of deep disgust on her noble, beautiful face. “So be it, my lord, if it comes to this,” she spat, studying him through narrowed eyes. With a sudden gesture she pulled at the costly necklace on her throat and cast it at the feet of the lord, the clasp broken and the stones scattering on the pier. “I do not fear truth,” she whispered spitefully, freezing her husband with her contempt. “Even if it will bring dishonour. It is better than being lied to. May the Valar grant you what you deserve, lord… Go and do your duty, Thorongil,” she said, and with imposing grace she turned around and walked away to her carriage, followed by her retinue of daughters and grandsons, not even noticing how the crowd parted to make room for her wounded dignity.

With a quick glance Aragorn checked that his back was covered and Hirgon safe. Seeing Baranor’s nod he turned then to his forced guests. “Lords and noblemen of the realm, you once swore fealty to the lord of the City, and he now demands that you fulfil your oaths. Prove yourself worthy of Gondor!”

He had not expected his words to sink in. They had come to his lips unbidden, out of bitter contempt, and they rang defiantly in the charged, unwelcoming silence, almost out of place. But they worked. One by one, the doomed lords straightened up, squared jaws, tensed shoulders, raised bowed heads and shamed, resentful eyes and nodded. “For Gondor!” they whispered, tightly closed fists hitting proud chests, and the crowd answered with a single voice, as a sudden sense of acceptance settled on them. Tears glistened on taut cheeks as fierce embraces and tender kisses were exchanged one last time, but those were tears of renewed strength and resolution. The traitors then walked the plank to the waiting boat wrapped in what last dignity the White City could still offer to them while Aragorn watched thoughtfully.

“Lad!”

The hoarse voice jolted him from his contemplation, as the crowd dispersed silently to gain a better sight of the departing boats, and the last oarsmen hurried to their posts.

“You, lad!”

He had to smother a grin. Morlum really had nerve if he dared “ladding” Dirluin, Denethor’s snooty squire. But apparently, the youth was familiar with the kind of power the dark man wielded, for he came to attention meekly enough. “Take Captain Thorongil’s horse, and his squire’s, and return them to the stables of his company on your way back. I’d say you are already late,” Morlum spat. “When you are ready, Captain.”

Aragorn fixed the lad in a stern, searching look. The boy was nervous, and did not dare meet his eyes for longer than a flicker. It was obvious that he would rather be elsewhere. “Go,” he growled finally, and smiled when the squire scampered away. He then turned his attention to the spy. “You set up this farce, Master Morlum?”

“With the Steward’s approval.”

“I will have none of this mockery from now on. They are lords and noblemen, and they will be treated as such.”

“They deserve respect, now? After their deeds?”

“It is not my lot to judge them for their deeds. If they do not deserve respect, at least Gondor does. They are men of arms, in the service of the city and the realm. Have I made myself clear, Master Morlum? Now board before me, I will not trust you with my back…

The small man cast him a strange look as he walked past and down the plank. He turned at the bottom. “If you so dislike me, why did you defend me back there?” he asked softly.

“We both serve the same lord,” Aragorn spat curtly, and then pushed him on board unceremoniously and climbed after him. “Ready to sail, Captain!” he thundered. Then heedless of Morlum’s curious, thoughtful glance, he walked astern, grabbed the rigging and jumped on the gunwale. He stood there, watching, until what was still visible of the White City disappeared behind a bend of Anduin.

A/N

Hirgon will grow to be the errand-runner who brings the Red Arrow to Théoden in ROTK.

Forlong of Lossarnach will perish in the battle of Pelennor.

A yearling shoot beside a young birch of many summers. Elrond words to Aragorn from “The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen.”

Baranor is Beregond’s canon father.

Morlum means “dark shadow”. Forlong calls him Morlŷg as an insult. That would mean “black snake”.

Chapter 3. Pelargir.

By the time the great city and haven of Pelargir opened before their eyes, Aragorn had managed to temporarily alienate Morlum, gauge the mood of each of his forced guests as they paced restlessly –or remained still- aboard the other boat, provoke Baranor’s curiosity by unsettling the captain of their small fleet with several intense glances and earn Hirgon’s approval – and the crew’s- by shooting a fat duck with an arrow that trailed a long thin fishing line, and dragging it on board in time to serve as welcome dinner. He had then stood watch for most of the night, pondering what he knew, until Baranor came to relieve him.

“The current is strong,” he warned his companion. “We will reach Pelargir by noon. I will explain it all to you tomorrow.”

“It will cost you a jar of good white. Now go and get some sleep.”

And there they were and it was noon, the bell in the shipyards let them know as they approached the harbour mouth. The docks were barely visible amidst a forest of naked masts sticking out from deserted decks of graceful brigs, large barks and tall galleons crowding the waterfront, yet the hustle and bustle was distinctly lesser than what one would expect in Gondor’s busiest and most populated port.

“Odd!” the captain spat. “The spring market should be booming… Watch out, now!” he warned as the oarsmen sighed with the last effort. “The channel is traitorous even in high tide!”

“Trade has been quite unsafe for the last year,” Baranor explained, joining them on the prow. “Merchants won’t risk the Bay of Belfalas unless… Watch out!”

The boat groaned and shook violently, sweeping them all off their feet.

“Hirgon!” Aragorn shouted, flailing at the dangling rigging as he struggled to stand and keep an eye on the other boat, which glided smoothly into the narrow channel.

“Fine, Captain! I can see the castle! And the mountains to the north!” the boy returned merrily from somewhere up the main mast.

“What’s wrong with your eyes, you blind gull!” the captain thundered to the pilot. “I’ll tear them out and spit in the holes, since you don’t seem to have much use for them! That was a sandbar if I ever felt one! Cursed horseman! Unsafe, eh? Been ferrying supplies from Cair Andros to Ithilien and back for the last two years,” he said brusquely, turning his attention back to Baranor. “How would I know? No market, then?  Damn!”

“You will have your chance for business, I am sure, unless you intend to anchor us here in the middle on the harbour mouth,” Morlum interjected in his soft, subtly threatening manner. The captain frowned at the sudden apparition and spat again over the board.

“To the outer breakwater and the docks is it, then?”

“The citadel’s jetty, for now. The Steward will have undoubtedly sent word of our arrival in advance,” the spy added in his unctuous manner, turning a quick glance to Aragorn. “But surely Captain Baranor would like to oversee the disembarking of our priso…our guests?”

Barely managing to conceal his disgust at the little man, Aragorn nodded at his friend and pointed at Hirgon, then stepped aside so as not to interfere in the manoeuvring.

“A dark viper you are saddled with!” the captain sputtered, then catching Aragorn’s cold glance he shrugged and went to vent his annoyance on the oarsmen and the sailors, while the boat slid ungraciously among tall hulls and past the fishermen’s wharf towards the interior basin.

A patrol of city guards were already standing by a plank, signalling the berth for the two boats to moor.  Aragorn observed with satisfaction that aboard the other boat each of the noblemen was followed by a couple of Baranor’s men.

“Isolated, Baranor. I will need to talk to them separately,” he whispered as his friend stumbled past him in a hurry to reach his men as they disembarked. “Follow Captain Baranor, Hirgon,” he added with a nod. The boy had dragged his saddlebags from the cabin and awaited instructions in an unobtrusive manner.  “I will join you shortly…”

“You will find your quarry at the shipyards, Captain.”

“And you may find yourself spying on the fish in the bottom of the river if you do not keep your distance, Master Morlum,” he retorted harshly. “Stick to your orders, and I will stick to mine. The commander of the garrison will surely expect to be informed of our arrival,” he added in a more conciliatory manner, waving for the spy to move along. He, in turn, leaned against the mast with arms crossed over his chest and waited. He had a matter he needed to settle before anything else. While the crew in the two boats and the people at the quay watched in fascination as the heavily guarded noblemen disembarked, heads high and eyes fixed in the distance, Aragorn dragged the captain aside.

“You carry something you shouldn’t be carrying.”

The man did not even try to pretend. He twisted his long moustache and cast him an insolent, smug grin. Aragorn held his glance until the other began to squirm. “I have done nothing!” the mariner whinged. “You cannot threaten me!”

“I can. But I am not. Not yet…”

“I’m in private business for Lord Denethor, the Steward’s heir-”

“And I am in command of a mission appointed by the Steward, and I answer to him alone. Now, unless you want a permanent commission ferrying supplies from Osgiliath to the other shore of Anduin, you will surrender whatever Lord Denethor’s squire delivered to you: parcels, messages, instructions, whatever…and right now, Gorlim!” he snarled, shoving his face into the captain’s.

“You are overstepping your authority, Thorongil; this is the heir’s personal correspondence... he will have your hide!”

“I cannot see him around to make your life –or mine- difficult right now… Do you want to take a risk with me?”

With a last enraged glance the man searched his sagging trousers and after some mumbling produced a leather container like the ones the messengers used, sealed with Denethor’s own sigil.

“Is that all? Whom are you supposed to deliver this to?”

The man gritted his teeth and growled menacingly, but finally spat out a name. “Húrin. Húrin son of Galdor.”

Aragorn managed to keep an impassive face. “I will make sure that he receives it. My thanks, Captain. Your orders are to remain here and wait until we are back. They say nothing about what you can or cannot do in the meantime.”

“You wouldn’t mind if I send a message to Denethor, then?” Gorlim called out nastily to his retreating back.

Shrugging and waving a hand in dismissal, Aragorn tucked the still-sealed message inside his tunic, stepped onto the bowsprit, ran lightly along its length and jumped to the wharf, then disappeared into the crowd of men-at-arms, sailors and citadel servants gathered around the boats. He walked at a fast pace towards the market and the old town, then stopped to ponder his way. It was three no, four years since he had last been in Pelargir, and there had been a different Harbourmaster then. He wondered briefly where the current one would be more likely to be found at this time. Surely not at “The Ship and the Maid,” he hoped, recalling how fond the former Harbourmaster had been of the most renowned tavern in the old town. He shook his head. The current one had not been raised to look for entertainment in taverns, he was quite sure, so he finally chose the city shipyards over the citadel’s to start his search.

His course decided, he turned his steps even further from the citadel and into the maze of narrow streets and alleys shadowed by three-storey wooden houses leaning on one another and brightened up by colourful booths and stalls offering everything; from fishing lines to brass pots to coloured ceramics to bright silks to assorted vegetables to fresh fish starting to reek. After taking a wrong turn twice in the tangled web of passages and alleyways, he finally found the arch he had been looking for, a passage leading to a wide, open yard where sailors and fishermen obtained most of their supplies and then discussed them around pitchers of good ale at the wooden benches of “The Sea-maiden,” the second most frequented tavern in the old city.

On the farthest corner of the sunny and unexpectedly quiet square, a narrow street -almost too narrow for two men to walk abreast- twisted its way down the hill straight into the city’s shipyards. Absurdly proud of himself for having remembered that shortcut, Aragorn crossed the square at a fast pace, walked past the half hidden workshop that sold the best hand-woven sails in all of Lebennin and the dingy pub in which sailors who would never set foot in the other two gathered at sundown to mumble about sea monsters and pirates and dark affairs. Jumping lightly, he descended several mossy steps and walked around warehouses to find himself, unannounced, right into the dry dock.

A group of men busied themselves around a graceful vessel that looked naked and vulnerable without her sails and mizzenmast, and chattered animatedly as they worked.

“I saw them!” one of the men said, then let escape a bitter chuckle. “Taken to the citadel, our good lords were! And little Morlum was with them, but also soldiers from the City!”

“Sure?”

“As sure as you owe me half your wages!”

“And the Master?”

“He was not there…but surely Gorlim can tell us more…”

Well, apparently the news had taken a boat across the haven from the citadel’s docks while he stumbled his way across the old town, Aragorn admitted worriedly, searching the surroundings. He really didn’t want to think that the Harbourmaster had fled before him.

“Enough. There is still much work to do!” a dry voice interjected. The tall man Aragorn had been looking for stepped from the other side of the hull and levelled a hard look on the workers. “Leave your gossiping for the tavern! You heard me, Gorsad… We’ll need more planks up there.”

The man looked rebellious for a moment then shrugged in reluctant acquiescence, picked up an axe and walked towards one of the workshops. Aragorn chose that moment to step closer to the gathered workers.

“Harbourmaster…”

The men turned to him as one, but the tall one seemed unsurprised, or at least did not let surprise show on his youthful face, Aragorn noticed. Instead, he gave a wide, honest smile. “Captain Thorongil! I didn’t know you were coming! Did you arrive with the Seagull?”

Aragorn grimaced. He had expected fear, not open welcome. It made his task more difficult. “At noon,” he confirmed vaguely. “Is there a place where we can talk, Harbourmaster? I bring news…” He caught the quick, worried glances exchanged by the workers as Húrin hesitated and then pointed to a shed not for from where they stand.

“My headquarters,” he said with a wry smile, leading the way calmly and standing aside as he allowed Aragorn to enter the place.

“Good to see you, Captain, how long it’s been, three, four years?” he asked cordially, offering Aragorn a battered chair and settling himself on another behind a very old- looking desk.

“Four,” Aragorn said, then let escape a deep sigh. “Old Gaenir was still Harbourmaster and he didn’t relish the fact that he had been sent a replacement, and such a green one, but you seem to have fit in,” he added, casting a look around and studying the austere place before meeting the serious, thoughtful glance.

“And what brings you here now, Captain? I assume that this is not just a visit…”

“Sharp as always,” he commented, rummaging in his belt. “I bring orders from the Steward, Harbourmaster,” he said awkwardly, handing the sealed parchment to the young man, who still kept an impassive, polite face. Relaxing against the hard chair, Aragorn braced for what would come next, as the other studied the sigils then tore open the parchment and proceeded to read carefully. And then his composed front slipped away.

“But this… this is madness!” he blurted, lifting angry, questioning eyes to Aragorn.

“Madness, Harbourmaster? You are questioning the Steward’s sanity?”

Húrin scowled at him. “Of course I am not,” he said angrily. “You know what…”

“What I do know is that you are an educated man,” Aragorn snapped in his coldest, most official voice. “One among the few able to read without moving their lips and still understand what is written, so, tell me again, what part of your orders you do not understand?”

Húrin took a deep breath and even close his eyes briefly, but managed to rein in his temper. He glanced again at the long parchment and then lifted grey eyes to Aragorn. “Ships and shipyards are under your command, no cargo enters or departs without your authorization, and I am to provide whatever you might need for your unspecified mission,” he pronounced slowly, thoughtfully, as if trying to read between the lines. “Am I under arrest, then?” he asked levelly.

“Why would you?” Aragorn retorted, as relieved by the fact as he had felt since reading his orders two nights ago. “But you are under my orders and strict supervision, Harbourmaster. For now I require that you give me all the logs and records of the ships that were attacked in the past three years...”

“My lord?” There was sincere confusion on the serious face now. “I sent all those to Minas Tirith months ago, by the Stewards’ request…”

Aragorn nodded. “But I am sure that you at least keep a list of vessels, freights and how much those were worth… that will suffice. I will also need the scheduled freights for the next weeks, incoming and outbound, with cargos, owners and destinations… and one, no, two of your best trading ships, you know, I want those with the extra secret hold space and the double bilges…Do not play innocent with me, lad!” he snapped menacingly, seeing the questioning expression on the young man’s face. “I heard your men gossiping, you were all expecting this to happen, I want a couple of those ships that have been used to smuggle goods everywhere and avoid taxes under your very nose, and I want them tomorrow!”

He leaned forth over the table, closing in the distance between the two and studying the young man’s face intently. There was genuine surprise there, which shifted quickly to worry, before the blank mask of an officer being seriously reprimanded took hold of Húrin’s face.

“I will do my best to comply, Captain,” he said woodenly, his eyes fixed on a point to Aragorn’s left.

“Good!” he said angrily. “And get ready for a trip. We will be departing in three or four days…”

“May I ask where for, Captain?” Húrin asked in the same tight voice. Aragorn sighed and stood, bringing the young Harbourmaster to his feet in stiff respect.

“To Dol Amroth, and then to Umbar. Have all those reports sent to the citadel to my attention.” He turned at the door and then relented at the genuine worry painted all over the young man’s face. “Your father sent fond regards,” he added softly. And then there was fear, plain in the quick glance that searched his face pleadingly.

“My father? How is he?”

Aragorn sighed, and leaned against the doorframe. “Worried, Húrin. He is very worried.”And with that he stomped away, not really wanting to see what Húrin –no, the Harbourmaster, it hurt less that way- would do next. He nodded briefly to the workers, who had stopped pretending they were busy around the ship and watched him with frowning curiosity and took the same way back through the dusty alley into the sunny square, wondering furiously why all this dark mess really did not seem to fit.

Restless, he let his feet guide him along the winding streets, barely noticing that there were indeed far less people around than what he remembered, while puzzling about the confounding affair he had in his hands. Húrin had seemed honestly clueless, and he still did not want to believe that the intelligent, brave youngster he had seen grow into a reliable officer was trapped in that obscure net of betrayal and dishonesty. And then, there was Denethor’s message still hidden in his tunic pocket…

“Yarrow! Willow! Willow bark for the fever! Potions! Potions for the lovesick and the love-bereft… Love potions, brave captain?”

The accented voice of the woman jolted him from his musings. Looking around he found out that his wandering feet had led him up the hill where the oldest part of the ancient city still stood after more than three thousand years. Up there, he knew, cluttered the traders of rarest merchandise and those less favoured by the city authorities, or those who had less coin to pay for stalls downhill, closer to the haven and the docks. A good place, Aragorn suddenly thought, to find out about trade on difficult-to-find goods and less-than-legal trade with neighbouring regions. So he turned his attention to the woman’s booth, and studied her well arranged supply of dried and fresh herbs.

“And what would you suggest, mother, as a love potion?” he asked.

“Rosemary, thyme, mint, with a touch of lemon,” the old woman answered primly, winking mischievously at him. “Why would a fine lord as yourself would need anything else?”

He shook his head and let escape a rueful, embarrassed laugh. “That will not work. The wise women in Minas Tirith already gave me that, but an old one I know told me about some southern potion with other ingredients…”

“Wise women in Minas Tirith?” the old woman scoffed. “Yes, and sweet smelling Mumakil! What would they know?” she stopped at Aragorn’s suddenly amused expression and shook her head. “Nutmeg, mumakil-horn powder and just a pinch of cinnamon would do it,” she told him with a lively wink that suddenly brightened her wrinkled, tired face. “But I cannot prepare that,” she hurried to warn, casting worried glances around. “No nutmeg or mumakil-horn available, no commerce with Harondor. I only trade in honest goods…”

“I see, I see. But I could do with some yarrow, and comfrey and …catnip,” he decided, guessing he could as well replenish his healer bags.

The woman gave him curious looks while she chose the herbs and packed them neatly in square, clean pieces of cloth. “You a healer?” she asked.

“A soldier,” he shrugged. “But better to be prepared. Would you ready that potion for me, if I somehow manage to lay hands on those ingredients?” he asked as nonchalantly as he could manage while he rummaged in his belt for the coin.

“There,” she said harshly, handing him the parcels and not answering his question on purpose. “You might find what you’re looking for in the old market at the other side of the river, right beside the doors,” she whispered hurriedly instead, not meeting his eyes as she did.  As soon as she counted the money she turned her back on him and pretended to be busy. But Aragorn still had another pressing question on his mind.

“One more thing, if you would,” he asked. “Is there anyone from Morthond Valley around here?”

The woman huffed, scowled, and then shrugged. “Not here,” she finally said with the kind of contempt the simply poor reserve for the utterly destitute. “Try the other side of the hill, on the tanners’ road. Not sure they are still there, though, they had little to barter with this time…”

He found them easily, beyond the end of the old town and at the beginning of the stinking line of the tanners’ workshops. Aragorn watched the shut, distrustful faces, the tattered cloaks covering rags and the dirty, sullen children sitting on the ground under half-empty stalls playing with dirt, and could not hold back a scowl. When had the people from Morthond and Lamedon become this dour, and grim and… ugly? He had ridden often across those harsh, unforgiving lands, and come to appreciate their beauty, and the austerity of their people, and the beautiful voices of its many singing waters; had fought alongside stern warriors who spoke little but sung as they went, and had learnt to respect them and even befriended some of them. But here, in the outskirts of the kingly oldtown, these people from the Uplands just looked like unsavoury beggars, the offspring of the dark lords who once betrayed Isildur and had since then been doomed to wander the many caves of the mountains Until the King returns, he thought with a shiver.

He shuffled around the stalls uneasily, picking up and discarding a dagger sheath here, a pair of woollen socks there, while searching for a friendly face with which to strike up conversation.

“Is this goatskin?” he finally asked a thin, wiry man who had the straight posture of a former soldier, lifting a backpack.

“Waterproof, too,” the man grunted after he nodded. He fixed his eyes briefly in Aragorn’s and then looked away, resuming his bored expression.

Aragorn noticed that the man missed a hand. He cringed inside. At least he is alive, he told himself, suddenly reminded of his friend Horngar, Hirgon’s father, who had been killed less than a year ago and not a month after the boy arrived in the White City. “How much?”

“Three.” 

Aragorn didn’t even think of bargaining. “And when are you going back to Morthond?” he asked conversationally as the man pointed in dismayed hope at water skins, quivers or wrist guards.  As it happened, a large group was departing in two or three days, so he spent some time convincing them to take Hirgon up with them and to his remaining family. The price they requested was so outrageously low that he had already decided to raise it before the two women entered the negotiation whining about dearth and bad crops and low prices for wool… He paid the price in advance and arranged with them the date and hour of departure, and offered to add some more money when the day came, then walked away without looking back, disgusted by the greed and necessity in those people’s faces as they counted the money over again.

He took a different way down the hill, Weaver’s street, apparently, judging by the frantic rattle of wood on wood –and the looms are not idle. The wool price was low, he remembered the women saying with sad resignation. But not the cloaks, he smirked, suddenly wondering whether this was the best course for Hirgon, or even what Horngar would have wanted for his young son. After all, he had sent for the child even before the age in which young squires started their training, so perhaps he knew there was not much for the boy in the uplands? He reasoned his way darkly as he walked past busy workshops, arguing with himself. What, if not Morthond? he wondered. Ecthelion’s stables? Or, worse, the city infantry as a common man at arms, without career or patronage now that his father was dead?

Mulling his gloomy thoughts, he almost walked past the open door of “The Sleepy Swan,” the place where people from Dor-en-Ernil met when in town. Almost, though, because a stream of exquisitely pronounced Sindarin punctuated by swift, sweetly plucked chords caught his attention and made him smile and shed the worries of the day as he plunged into the cool dark of the tavern, in time with the beginning of a new song.

Silver flow the streams from Celos to Erui
In the green fields of Lebennin!

Tall grows the grass there. In the wind of the Sea

The white lilies sway…

He knew that voice well, a voice that led men to battle and women to wishful sighs, a voice that managed to sound charmingly composed even while opposing the Steward or trying to appease Ossë out at high sea. The man it belonged to, the youngest brother of the current Prince, lifted clear green eyes from the lute he was plucking with concentration and grinned wickedly when he saw Aragorn standing at the door.

“Why look at that! The Eagle that became a seagull! Come in, man, I was expecting to be invited to the citadel, but since you are here…” the singer called out good naturedly, waving for him to move in.

Aragorn obliged, immediately returning the contagious smile and sketching a bow as he made his way across half empty tables. “Your Highness…”

“Nay, Lord Captain, I am here in my capacity as Dol Amroth’s Captain of Sea and River!”

“And guest bard, Captain, don’t forget that!” crowed the innkeeper, while the patrons hit their mugs on the wooden tables and laughed along.

“I always stand by my word, my highly respected host! Two more songs and then we’ll try your renowned cauldron! Take seat, my friend,” he said to Aragorn, ”unless you want to delight us with northern, melancholy, soul-tearing lays…”

Shaking his head, Aragorn declined and sat down at an empty table, nodding briefly to a solitary figure that leaned on the wall not far from the stand where the singer now provoked the amused audience with a well-known song that recounted the numerous qualities of the southern women.  A maid brought him a mug of foamy beer and a plate with olives and bread and Aragorn waited patiently, with still a ghost of a smile on his face, while his friend finished his singing, returned compliments here and there and finally managed to get seat before him.

“To this meeting, Thorongil! Didn’t I tell you that we would still fight together again? When do we set sail?” he chuckled, hitting Aragorn’s mug with his and swallowing with a bark of laughter.

Aragorn drank to buy time. The fact that Iôrhil knew in advance that they were supposed to sail together confirmed his earlier suspicions: Everybody knew much more than himself about what was going on. He wiped his mouth and eyed the other curiously. “You surprise me, my lord… How do you know that we are sailing together?” he asked in a lowered voice.

“How do I know? You forget who I am, Thorongil?”

“I do not, Your Highness,” he repeated tensely.

The green eyes sparkled after a brief cloud of anger. “Wrong,” said Iôrhil with a twisted smile. “Not the Prince’s brother, but the man who has been pestering the Steward of Gondor for years uncounted to turn his stiff neck down south and have a good long look at the bottom of his stewardom…before it is gnawed out from under his feet! What would the King say, you deem, were he to suddenly return and find that the Stewards have managed to lose all that land? Oh, but we still hold Minas Tirith, your Majesty! Umbar, Thorongil,” Iôrhil said in a softer, expectant voice. “The great haven of Númenor, the place where Sauron submitted and was humiliated, the foothold towards new realms…the place where Gondor once was great and where it could be again! You did not think I would stay behind if the Steward finally decided to fulfil his duty to this part of the realm, did you?”

“I only learnt of this yesterday… nay, the night before. I didn't have much time to think,” Aragorn answered slowly, puzzled. Perhaps it made sense, that Ecthelion would check with the main lord of the realm and ensured his support for that bold move against some of his lords while keeping his most trusted captain in the dark about his intentions… Iôrhil seemed to think the same.

“I know not when Adrahil got word, but I have been here for three days, supplying the ship and waiting for you…”

“But I have messages for the Prince…”

“We will find a messenger, then…but first we must celebrate! Wine here, and food! I earned it!” The irrepressible prince called out to the innkeeper, then turned again his attention to Aragorn. “Tell me, Thorongil, what made the Steward move in the end?”

Aragorn kept his silence while the serving girl placed an earthen jar and two glasses before them, and then brought spoons and smoking bowls full of a dense fish soup that was the speciality of the house. Leaning to blow on the steaming concoction he lifted worried eyes to his friend, wondering how much he would dare let go. But before he could start skirting around the fact that he was bringing five lords of the realm, most of them southern lords, to their sure death in Umbar, the prince poured the amber wine for them and tried his.

“Apples,” he spat with a scowl. He waved for the innkeeper and growled. “Ossë’s beard, Angbor! Take this Anfalas’ piss back to Master Tarlang! I only drink Dol Amroth’s white!” He turned to Aragorn. “Don’t you think it tastes like apples?”

That gave Aragorn’s pause, as he remembered Ecthelion’s puzzling conversation about apples, and apple trees, and wine tasting of apples. He savoured it briefly and nodded.

“And why would it taste of apples?” he asked cautiously.

“It’s a long story,” the prince chuckled evilly. “Come, Gram, and eat with us!” he waved to the man Aragorn had greeted earlier, the prince’s bodyguard. “I’ve already stopped singing, no one will feel tempted to knife me now… Well, Thorongil, the thing goes as follows: The Steward sends his ships down Anduin and across the Bay of Belfalas with the few morsels he can spare from his war to trade with his distant southern subjects, who live in leisurely peace and abundance. And lo! The Corsairs, those renegades, dare stalk and pounce on his ships and steal the cargo and then sell it in Harad and even South Gondor across the River Harnen! Worst, cunning traders as Tarlang of Anfalas, on their own or through third parties, keep trade beyond the ban, and sell and buy at more convenient prices and with no taxes, and thus the Steward’s own apple-flavoured barrels are used to aging that damnable stuff Tarlang dares call wine and send up the river to the Steward’s table, if you would believe it!” he hooted.

Aragorn gave him a tight smile. “Well… there you have your answer, Iôrhil…why the Steward was prompted to act…”

“The wine?”

“Trade. Taxes uncollected. Smuggling. Extortion. Theft…”

Iôrhil snorted in a quite unprincely manner. “Of course. Taxes.” He spooned down a few mouthfuls without speaking then shook his head sadly. “Those lands are Gondor too, Thorongil, for good and for bad,” he said hoarsely, a steely glint in his green eyes. “They are our people, they have always been, and we have abandoned them, no, alienated them for too long. We have a duty towards them, a duty beyond taxes…”

Aragorn nodded in concerned sympathy. He was about to express his worries about the true scope of their mission when a sudden clangour filled the streets. Silence blanketed the common room at the inn briefly, hairs tilted in sharp attention -then chaos exploded.

“The citadel!” some patrons called out.

“The bells in the citadel! Alert, Alert!” others cried as everyone scrambled to their feet and shoved in confusion to the doors. The bells rang urgently, insistently, and Aragorn tried to elbow his way, when someone grabbed him in a firm grip and dragged him towards the counter.

“The back yard,” Iorhil’s guard whispered. “We have horses there.”

TBC

Apologies for the delay. Holidays are a busy time.