A/N:  This was written for the May Teitho Challenge “Capture,” where it placed first.  It is unbetaed.  Warnings for violence, depiction of battle, dark themes.  Complete in two parts.

The Tolkien estate owns Aragorn, Denethor, and Ecthelion.  All other characters are OCs.

Aragorn twisted as the ground rushed up at him.  But, not enough.  Pain exploded across his face from the sharp rocks.  He rolled quickly to the side, dodging a spear thrust and scrambling to his feet.  If he didn’t deal with the spearman, and quickly, he’d have more than a split lip to worry about.

“Thorongil!”

One of his men was in trouble.  Over the din of battle, it was impossible to tell which.  Aragorn’s cowled opponent advanced, his spear pointed at the ground in an effective guard position.  Aragorn feigned a stumble, watched for the coming spear thrust . . . and then he was inside his attacker’s guard, driving his sword deep into the Easterling’s belly.  The other man gave a grunt that was more of a gurgle.  Without pausing to think, Aragorn wrenched his sword free and decapitated the man.

Momentarily free of attackers, Aragorn scanned the impromptu battlefield.  The raiders—Men of Rhûn if he read their gear and garb correctly—had chosen their ambush site well.  Aragorn’s patrol was spread out along the rocky slopes, and their armor was a disadvantage, as it made them more prone to turn an ankle on the uneven ground.  Still, his men were rallying well.  It was clear the Easterlings had underestimated them, as the ambusher’s numbers barely exceeded the eight in Aragorn’s patrol.  With the spearman’s demise, they were evenly matched.

There.  A man named Meneldir was fending off two Easterlings who tried, again and again, to flank him, their short swords flashing.  As he watched, Meneldir lost his footing and crashed to the ground, his head making a sickening crunch as it connected with a rocky outcrop.  Aragorn ran in his direction, his sword raised.  He’d hoped to cut down one of the Easterlings before either realized he was there, but the clatter of disrupted stones gave him away.  Both turned and the taller of the two caught Aragorn’s downward cut near the hilt of his own sword.  Aragorn was gratified to see the man stumble a little under the force of the blow, but he had no chance to capitalize on his opponent’s loss of balance.  The other swordsman was advancing on his flank.

Blocking a clumsy sweep from his first opponent, Aragorn suddenly turned and kicked out, catching the second in the belly.  The would-be attacker flew away—almost literally; the Men of Rhûn tended to be shorter than the Dúnedain, and this one was particularly slight.  A distant fraction of Aragorn’s mind noticed that Meneldir was sitting up, looking dazed but very much alive.  There was no time to consider him further.  Aragorn parried his attacker’s next strike and killed the man with one swift thrust to the torso.  Vaguely, he noticed his men also winning their battles.  The Easterlings’ numbers were dwindling rapidly, though for some strange reason, they did not turn and run.

Aragorn turned and set himself between Meneldir and the second swordsman.  He saw the raider take a deep breath . . . saw him gather himself . . . the Easterling sprang at Aragorn with a war cry, but Aragorn was ready for him.  He knocked the short sword from the man’s hands with a single stinging blow.  His opponent stumbled and dove for his dropped sword.  Aragorn swept his blade down for one last strike . . .

But, the Easterling’s dark cowl had come loose when he fell, and as Aragorn’s sword descended, he turned to look up at him with eyes that were fierce, but hopeless.

Aragorn saw the rage in his face.

And the youth in his face.

At the last moment, he twisted his wrist, turning a sweep that would have decapitated the Easterling into merely a hard strike.  The flat of his blade caught his opponent just above his ear.  The raider fell back, but scrambled to his feet almost as fast and pulled a dagger from his belt.  Aragorn moved to follow, but lost his footing once more on the uneven ground.  His enemy advanced, knife raised.

A bow twanged.  The Easterling cried out, his pained voice the only sound in the suddenly-still air.  Focused on his foes, Aragorn had not even noticed that they were the last ones still fighting.

The young Man of Rhûn sank slowly to his knees, an arrow sticking out of his side.  From thirty paces away, another of Aragorn’s men—a grizzled veteran named Sarn—lowered his short bow just as slowly.

Aragorn stood, panting from the exertion.  His sword dropped until the tip was only inches from the ground.  He studied his last living attacker.  On his knees, half-curled in on himself from pain, the Easterling seemed even smaller than he had before.  Sweat dripped from a face that still held some of childhood’s softness and rolled down a chin still too young to grow a beard.

Fifteen, Aragorn thought, Certainly no older.

The boy—to call him a Man of Rhûn was certainly an exaggeration—locked eyes with Aragorn, his face defiant despite the obvious pain.

Nevertheless, he was trembling, his olive skin blanched pale.

Aragorn stood still, as did most of his men.  With a quick glance, he took them in; all but Meneldir were on their feet, and he saw no grievous wounds.  Only Sarn moved, though, crossing the battlefield with an unconcerned, loping stride to approach the boy.  The older man’s sharp gray eyes took in the young raider’s defiance and lingered for a moment on the arrow protruding from his side.

Sarn drew his dagger.

Slowly, the boy released his grip on his own knife.  Keeping his dark eyes fixed on Sarn, he deliberately tilted his chin back, baring his throat.

It was an obvious invitation.

His face inscrutable, Sarn approached and kicked the Easterling’s dagger away.  He knelt behind the boy and took hold of his hair firmly, but not roughly.  The only sound was the youth’s ragged breaths as Sarn brought the tip of his dagger to his neck, preparing to give the wounded boy a nearly painless death.

Aragorn remembered himself quite suddenly.  “Wait!”

Sarn froze for half a heartbeat.  Then, quick as a flash, he turned the tip of his dagger aside and instead pressed the flat of the blade against the boy’s throat.  Aragorn approached, sheathing his sword and drawing his own belt knife.  As he drew near, the boy went rigid.  Violent tremors traveled up his body.  Sarn was forced to loosen his grip to avoid cutting the young Easterling’s throat accidentally.

Crouching beside Sarn, Aragorn used his knife to cut open the boy’s dark tunic where it clung, blood-sticky, to his side.  The arrow had pierced his back just a few inches from his spine, but at an angle.  It had glanced off a rib and emerged from his side.  Aragorn probed the wound lightly.  Yes, he could feel the shaft of the arrow buried in the meat of the boy’s back, just under his skin.  The arrow itself had no iron head—only a tapered, fire-blackened tip.  Sarn used that bow mostly to hunt deer.  Only the vagaries of battle had turned it into a weapon against Men.

Aragorn met Sarn’s questioning gaze.  Realizing what he intended, the Man of Gondor sighed, but nodded.  Tossing his knife aside, he replaced it with a forearm held like a bar across the boy’s neck.  With his other arm, he braced his shoulders.

Gripping the arrow just below the fletching, Aragorn gave it a hard, twisting jerk.  The boy screamed—a cry that echoed off of the surrounding cliff faces—and thrashed in Sarn’s arms, but the arrow was out before his struggles could do any more harm.  Once it was done, the young Easterling twisted as much as Sarn would let him and fixed Aragorn with a look of utter betrayal.  Aragorn did not react.  He knew how this must seem to the boy.  To him, Aragorn was the cruel enemy captain who denied him Sarn’s mercy stroke and kept him alive only for further torment.  “Easy, lad,” he murmured, though he was not yet sure whether the boy spoke Westron.

Aragorn tried to examine the boy’s side as gently as he could, but there was no painless way to explore an arrow wound.  It bled sluggishly, but the blood flow slowed as Aragorn held a rag to it.  He probed the surrounding skin lightly, feeling almost constant tremors under his fingers.

After a moment, he breathed again and nodded to Sarn.  “This wound is not mortal, I think.  The arrow has not pierced the belly.”

Aragorn’s subordinate did not seem to share his relief.  His face darkened, but his arm shifted to grip the boy by the shoulders instead of across his neck.  “I await your orders, Captain Thorongil,” Sarn said shortly.

Aragorn frowned.  He’d known Sarn for only a few short weeks—long enough to know plenty of his reticent nature, but little of his heart.  Still, this terse, almost angry response was . . . troubling.  He knew that some career soldiers could become overly-vengeful, but he’d not expected that sort of anger directed at one so obviously young and inexperienced.  Especially since, as he could now plainly see, none of their soldiers had taken wounds more serious than Meneldir’s knock to the head.

“Search him for weapons and bind his hands,” Aragorn ordered at last, “We’ll take him as far as the garrison at Osgiliath.”

Sarn’s scowl grew, but Aragorn scarcely noticed it because the boy’s eyes had flown wide.  “No!”  He gasped.  A moment later, he was twisting and flailing in Sarn’s grip like a cornered cat.  Well, Aragorn reflected, At least that answers the question of whether he speaks the Common Tongue.  His struggles were fierce but brief; Sarn was nearly as tall as Aragorn and somewhat broader in the shoulder.  He easily subdued the boy, even before two more men could approach to search and bind him. 

Aragorn stepped away, trusting his men to handle one small prisoner of war.  He went to check on Meneldir, who was standing, if rather shakily.  “How do you feel, my friend?”  He asked the young soldier.

The man managed a smile that was only a little weak.  “Much better than I did five minutes past, Captain.”

Aragorn lifted a fresh rag to the gash on Meneldir’s forehead.  It was bleeding profusely, but that was to be expected with that sort of wound.  “Did you lose consciousness?”

“Perhaps for a moment.  I thank you for the rescue.”

“Think nothing of it.”  Aragorn tilted the man’s chin to inspect his pupils more closely.

“Still,” Meneldir said a bit ruefully, “It is somewhat of an embarrassment to so nearly be undone by one so young.”

“Again I say:  think nothing of it.”  Aragorn probed his skull gently, feeling for cracks and finding none, “I’ve found that steel does not much care how young the arm that wields it may be.”

Meneldir grunted, but he was watching Sarn and the boy with a troubled expression.  “Thorongil,” he said suddenly, “We don’t have to do this.  We can execute the boy right now and everyone will put it down to a battlefield mercy killing.”

Aragorn blinked in surprise.  Meneldir was not an unknown quantity like Sarn; the younger man had been under his command for almost the entire year he’d spent in Gondor.  There were few men less prone to cruelty than he.  “Mercy strokes are for the dying,” he said, letting a trace of sternness enter his voice.  “This boy will recover.”

Meneldir quickly looked at his feet and nodded.

Aragorn felt a sneaking suspicion that Meneldir—and perhaps Sarn as well—knew more than he did.

He shook the feeling off, telling himself they were merely rattled by the sudden ambush.

Turning back to watch their captive, Aragorn found Sarn giving the boy a drink of water, having already bound his hands and bandaged his side.  Aragorn caught his gaze and nodded his approval, though he’d never known Sarn to care what Aragorn thought of him.  Sure enough, the man did not react.  His hands, though, were strangely gentle as he pulled the boy to his feet and steadied him.  Without a word, Aragorn signaled for his men to move out.  Having been once ambushed, he was not willing to tarry here even long enough to question their captive; it could wait until they reached safer lands.

Far above, a carrion bird cried.  Aragorn felt his gaze drawn, irresistibly, to the nine bodies that lay scattered like drift wood among the stones.  His mouth tightened.  Loath though he was to leave even an enemy to rot, there was nothing they could do here.  Even if they’d not had to worry for their own safety, the soil was too rocky to dig graves and there was no firewood for a pyre.

He paused to straighten the limbs of the body nearest him.  This one, like all the others, wore a mask of dark cloth, concealing all but his sightless eyes.  For a moment, Aragorn’s fingers hovered over the fabric, torn between drawing away and pulling the cloth aside.  He wondered, bleakly, whether their young prisoner was the only child Rhûn had sent against them.

He pulled his hand away, afraid of what he might find behind that innocuous-looking cowl.

Without a word, he turned and led eight men and one boy away down the barren slopes, seeking friendlier ground.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

They made camp that night in a small ravine.  Tucked away with stone on two sides and a rocky outcropping over their heads, Aragorn decided to risk a fire.  His men—at least the five who were not on watch—spread their bedrolls around the small blaze gratefully.  They traveled light for this patrol, carrying only a single tent for emergency use as a shelter for the wounded.

Or, in a pinch, as a prison for the captured.

Aragorn paused before the tent.  They had pitched it at the rear of an alcove, positioned a guard in front, and bound the boy within by tying his hands to one of the tent stakes with a length of rope.  Then, at Aragorn’s orders, they had let him be for a time.  The boy had been utterly unresponsive to questioning, even to questions as innocuous as “what is your name?” or “would you like some water?”  Still, he had not fought them and had accepted some food, both of which Aragorn chose to interpret as encouraging signs.

But now that he was alone, soft, pathetic noises were emanating from the tent.  The other men likely could not hear them, stifled as they were, but Aragorn’s ears were sharper than most.

He sighed.

You must be cruel to be kind.  That was among the first lessons any healer learned and one Aragorn had been taught at his foster father’s knee.  The harder a dislocated joint is wrenched, the greater the chance it will slip back into place.  The agony of having a wound stitched can save a man from the agony of seeing it turn gangrenous.  It was a simple concept, in theory, but far harder to see through in practice.

“You’re acting the fool.”  A quiet voice put a halt to any further musing.  Aragorn turned.  Sarn, who was on watch, had turned to spit Aragorn with a hard look, though he pitched his voice too low for the others to hear.

“Eyes front, Sarn,” Aragorn said sternly.  He did not get particularly riled by insubordination—so long as it occurred in private—but no soldier under his command would put his comrades at risk by neglecting his watch.  As Sarn turned his steely gaze back to the shadowed ravine, Aragorn approached to stand beside him.  “Say what you’ve come to say.”  He pitched his own voice low, but allowed an edge to enter it.  “You’re angry that I spared the boy.”

Sarn snorted.  “Of course not.”  The flicker of the campfire threw his face into shadow.  “I am angry that you didn’t.”

Aragorn blinked.  “What are you talking about?”

“That child deserved a quick, battlefield death dealt before he’d had a chance to agonize over it.”

“’That child’ deserves not to die at all by our hand if we can avoid it.  Young as he is, you must that see he is redeemable.”

Sarn gave Aragorn a startled glance.  Aragorn thought he saw his eyes widen before he remembered himself and turned them back to the wilds.  “You don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”  Sarn was silent, though his jaw worked.  Aragorn frowned.  “Out with it,” he ordered somewhat testily, “I would know why you and Meneldir are acting as if I mean to cook and eat this boy when all I’ve done is treat his wounds.”

“He will be executed.”  Sarn’s face was hard, but his voice was bleak.

Aragorn swallowed.  “What?”

“Rhûn does not negotiate for the return of prisoners.  When our men are captured by them, we get them back in a dozen pieces.”

“So, Ecthelion simply responds in kind?”  Aragorn did not bother trying to keep the disapproval out of his voice.

“What would you have him do?  The Men of Rhûn are fanatics.  They care nothing for their own lives and they strike at us any way they can.  To imprison them would simply put the other prisoners at risk, and to release them is to invite them to strike at us again.”

“This is a frightened child.  The Steward will have to see reason.”

“The Steward will protect the people of Gondor first.”

Aragorn had nothing to say to that.  He wanted to refute Sarn’s words, but the man spoke with such matter-of-fact certainty.  He had known Ecthelion far longer than Aragorn had—had served in his household even.  He had experience on his side and simple logic as well.  Aragorn had only his threadbare convictions.

“We will speak on this later,” he said at last, “Keep your eyes to the wilds.”  He turned away and walked back toward the camp with leaden steps.  At least now he knew.

He paused again beside the tent without meeting the eyes of the man assigned to guard it.  Yes, he could still make out the quiet sounds of despair from within.

You must be cruel to be kind.  But, it was so hard, sometimes, to know which cruelties would lead to a greater kindness and which simply to more suffering.  Would his act of mercy come to mean nothing in the end?  Had he spared this boy only to prolong his fear and pain?

With a quiet sigh, Aragorn turned and picked his way back to the fire.  His own watch would be starting ere long.  He should at least try to sleep.

You must be cruel to be kind.  He didn’t know what the future would hold for the wounded boy of Rhûn. 

All he knew was that at that moment, the kindest thing he could do was to pretend he did not hear the muffled sounds of his weeping.

TBC

A/N:  I will post the conclusion tomorrow.  Reviews are wonderful.  All reviews are wonderful.  Concrit reviews are the best.

The sun rose on a rather irritable Dúnadan who had slept not a wink.  His troubling conversation with Sarn had kept Aragorn awake through the first watch.  After a mere two hours, he had abandoned his bedroll to stand guard until morning—covering both his own watch and Meneldir’s.

They had a bit of firewood left, so the men lit it and built a blaze just large enough to warm their breakfast and brew Aragorn a much-needed cup of tea.  Sarn brought their young captive out of the tent, sat him before the fire, and pressed some bread and cheese into his hands.  While the man set about dismantling the tent and folding up the canvas, the boy sat perfectly straight with his feet folded under him, staring at nothing as he nibbled on the bread.

Aragorn sat on a convenient boulder not far away, enjoying his rare luxury and pondering their next course of action.  Were it not for their captive, this patrol would have lasted another week, at least.  As it was, they would have to either retrace their steps or cut across country to reach Osgiliath to the south.  It would mean leaving this stretch of forest unprotected, a prospect that worried Aragorn, given the ease with which the Men of Rhûn had ambushed them.  For a moment, he considered splitting his patrol and sending . . . perhaps Sarn and Meneldir to shepherd the boy to Osgiliath while Aragorn continued on with the rest of the patrol.  But, no, they could not risk reducing their strength if more hidden foes might be abroad.  Had this been a patrol of his own Rangers in Eriador, he might have risked it, but the Gondorians were not as skilled at stealth and woodcraft, and he was responsible for their lives.  And, besides, Denethor was at Osgiliath, and he was not known for his mercy.  Aragorn needed to be present when they handed the boy over . . . for whatever might come next.

He was weary.  He was distracted.  Neither was an adequate excuse for failing to foresee what was about to happen.

Sarn was returning to the fire with the disassembled tent in his arms, when the boy reached out and tugged on the hem of his tunic.  The man paused.  He squatted beside the child and leaned close to hear what he whispered.

Then the boy moved.  He sprang up, quick as a bobcat, and jerked Sarn’s knife from his belt while the man’s hands were still tangled in the tent.  As canvas and tent poles clattered to the ground, the Easterling threw his bound hands around Sarn’s neck and brought the dagger to his throat, just as it had been at his own throat less than a day before.  The other men cried out and leapt to their feet, dropping plates and canteens to draw swords.

Aragorn stood, too, but left his sword in its sheath.  The boy whirled to face him, dragging Sarn back with him, his hostage still in a half-crouch.  The child’s eyes were wide.

Sarn’s eyes were not.  He seemed startled, but that emotion passed as quickly as it appeared, to be replaced by something like mild irritation.  Knife or no knife, Sarn weighed twice what the boy did and was one of the most experienced soldiers under Aragorn’s command.  Aragorn saw him gather himself, preparing to throw the boy forward over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

Aragorn caught his eye and gave a minute shake of his head.  Sarn gave him a disbelieving look, but Aragorn held his gaze, his own face firm and calm.  Slowly, the other man relaxed, though he shot Aragorn a baleful glare.  It was a look that said “You’d best know what you’re doing.”

Aragorn hoped he did.

He advanced with small steps, holding his hands out to his sides.  The rest of the patrol closed in, forming a ring of swords, but stayed a few paces back.  The young Easterling stiffened and retreated a step, stopping only when he felt the heat of the campfire. 

“There’s no need for this.”  Aragorn pitched his voice low, using the steady tone he’d learned from working with half-wild horses.

The whites showed all the way around the boy’s eyes, and his breath came in quick, nervous gasps.  “I’ll kill him,” he panted, “I swear, I will!”

Aragorn held his gaze and breathed slowly and evenly, willing the boy to do the same.  He thought he saw the panic in the youth’s eyes dull just a little.  “And what would you do then?” he asked quietly, “You cannot defeat us all.”

“I don’t have to!”  The dagger was trembling in the boy’s hand.  From the way Sarn grimaced, Aragorn suspected he’d felt its edge once or twice.  “If I kill him, you’ll have to kill me!  That’s how it works, right?”  He looked up at Aragorn with eyes that were almost beseeching.  “I don’t want to go to the Lower Circles!”

Aragorn filled his lungs slowly.  The boy matched his breath without seeming to be aware of it.  “His name is Sarn.”  Confusion flashed across the boy’s face.  Aragorn glanced down at the Easterling’s hostage and then back up at him.  The knife trembled more violently in the boy’s hand.  “Mine is Thorongil,” he continued, “What’s yours?”

“What do you care?” the boy spat.

“Well, if we’re all going to be killing each other,” Aragorn replied with a calm he did not feel, “What is the harm in knowing each other’s names first?”

The young Easterling stared at Aragorn, perhaps wondering if he was mad.  But, every moment he spent questioning Aragorn’s sanity was a moment when he was not weighing the worth of his own life against the cost of taking Sarn’s.  “It’s Qara,” he said at last.

Aragorn tried to step closer, but stopped when the boy tensed.  “Have you ever killed a man, Qara?”  The flicker of fear in his eyes was all the answer Aragorn needed.  “It is not so easy as you’ve been told.”  The boy swallowed hard, but clutched the dagger all the tighter.  It seemed a more direct approach might be called for.  “Why are you so anxious to die?”

Qara lifted his chin proudly.  “We are Ghosts,” he said, “We are dead already.”

Aragorn did not respond to that.  Whatever indoctrination the boy had received, he could not hope to undo it just now.  He suspected, though, that it was not ideology that drove him now.

The Boy of Rhûn withstood Aragorn’s silent, expectant gaze for a moment longer before he looked away.  “You would have to do it quickly,” he said, his voice quiet, cracking with a combination of fear and youth.  Aragorn heard in that voice his deep-seated terror bound up in ragged scraps of control.  “Out here in the open . . . you wouldn’t risk me screaming and giving away your position.  But, if you take me back to your city . . .”  He trailed off.

“What?” Aragorn prompted gently, “What do you think will happen?”

Qara looked at him as if he’d decided that Aragorn must be mentally deficient.  “You’ll torture me.”  His voice was suddenly calm and matter-of-fact.  He might as well have said ‘the grass is green’ or ‘the sun rises in the east.’  “You’ll torture me.”

“No one’s going to torture you,” Aragorn said soothingly.

“Right,” the boy snapped, his tone acerbic, “I’m sure I’ll be greeted with nothing but love and forgiveness.”

“We are not the monsters you have been told of.”

“You shouldn’t lie to the dead, Thorongil,” he said harshly, “And I’m dead either way, aren’t I?  Don’t lie!  I can see it in your eyes.  Like I saw it in his.”  He indicated Sarn with a jerk of his head.

Now Aragorn was the one swallowing hard as his earlier conversation with Sarn rang hauntingly through his mind.  Still, he kept his face calm.  “You don’t know that,” he told Qara, “How could you?  I don’t know that.”

“But, it’s what you expect, isn’t it?  No quarter for the barbarians, isn’t that what your Steward commands?”  Aragorn didn’t respond.  The young Easterling looked down at Sarn.  “You tried to be merciful,” he told him, “I am sorry.”

Sarn’s eyes widened and his hands flew up.

“We hang the condemned.”  Aragorn blurted the words out, half on instinct.  Perhaps a brutal truth would succeed where his reassurances had failed.  The boy hesitated.  He watched Aragorn searchingly.  “The gallows are tall,” Aragorn continued, “The Steward decreed that they measure such that when a man is dropped from them, he breaks his neck at once.  No pain.  No screams.  It is quick.”

And it was this—not the words of comfort, but the promise of a noose—that finally calmed the boy’s wild panic.  Slowly, his fingers relaxed and the knife dropped from his hands.

Sarn moved.  In one fluid motion, he rose to his full height, bent at the waist, and pitched the Easterling forward over his head.  He did not put his full strength into the throw, so the boy landed relatively lightly, but still with enough force to drive the air from his lungs.  Aragorn crossed the distance between them and knelt at Qara’s side.  He seemed dazed but unhurt, so Aragorn turned to Sarn as the other picked up his belt knife.  “How do you fare?”

The veteran rubbed his neck, where the dagger had left a half dozen small scratches.  “I’ll live,” he grunted.  He looked down at the young Easterling with much frustration, but no malice.

Keeping a restraining hand on Qara’s shoulder, Aragorn turned to the rest of his patrol.  “We’ve tarried too long.  Finish breaking camp.  We must be off.”  Slowly, but obediently, the men sheathed their swords and returned to folding bedrolls and tying packs shut.  Aragorn worked free the knots that still bound Qara, gently turned him over, and retied his hands behind his back.  He could feel far too many of the bones in the boy’s wrists; he seemed half-starved.  “Don’t fret,” he murmured, “Everything will be alright.  No one is going to hurt you.”

The boy trembled.  Aragorn could tell he did not believe him.

And Aragorn wasn’t sure he believed himself.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

They marched through midday, eating as they walked.  The Men of Gondor might not be as skilled at stealth and forestry as Aragorn would like, but they were more than capable of spending the whole day on the move with little rest.  Yet, as the afternoon wore on, Aragorn noticed that Meneldir’s steps began to drag.  His head wound was likely the cause, though he never complained.  Aragorn worried, as well, about Qara.  After his frenzy that morning, the boy had lapsed back into silence.  He trudged along with his jaw clenched and his eyes on his feet.  Aragorn couldn’t say whether the boy was weary or whether his wound was troubling him, for he would not answer even simple questions.

So, when they reached a sheltered glen in the early afternoon, Aragorn called for a brief rest.  While the men sat with their backs against trees or boulders, sipping from their waterskins and nibbling on crusts of bread, Aragorn approached Qara and crouched silently before him.  The boy stared back steadily, his eyes flat and expressionless.  Sarn had tied him to the bole of a gnarled old willow tree, with a folded blanket and a rolled cloak to cushion his wounded back.  Aragorn’s lieutenant seemed to be developing a soft spot for the Easterling boy, despite the child’s murder attempt.

“We’ve not been getting along so well,” Aragorn said at last, keeping his tone light.  Qara did not respond except to give him a disparaging look.  Aragorn pulled the cork from his waterskin and lifted it.  “Here . . .”  His captive drew back.  Dark eyes flitted suspiciously from the offered skin to the man who held it.  Aragorn remained still, his face calm as he waited the boy out.  At last, Qara seemed to decide that there was nothing overtly malevolent about the offer of water.  He relaxed and allowed Aragorn to raise the skin to his lips.  After taking a few swigs, though, he pulled away, causing water to splash down his front.  Unperturbed, Aragorn took a quick drink himself before stoppering the skin.  “I was only a little older than you, the first time I accompanied an armed patrol,” he said in a conversational tone, “For the first few leagues, I thought the very trees would reach out and seize me . . . and that was before I’d even left my father’s lands.”  He smiled, inviting the boy to share in a joke at his expense.  The boy did not laugh, but the guarded expression in his eyes seemed to fade slightly.  Aragorn sobered.  “Was this your first time away from your homeland, Qara?”

The boy looked away.  He opened his mouth as if to reply . . . and then closed it again.  A sudden scowl flashed across his face.  “I am a Ghost,” he said at last, “We only get one time.”

“A Ghost?”

He lifted his chin and all but glared at Aragorn.  “It is a great honor.”

“Yes, it must be,” Aragorn said soothingly, “I can tell by the way you speak of it.  But, that does not help me know what it means.”

Qara’s jaw clenched.  “We are the bravest.  Everyone says so.  Back—” his throat caught on a word that sounded like ‘home.’  He swallowed.  “They’ll tell stories of us forever.  They are telling them already.”

“How?  They cannot know what you’ve done here, yet.”

The boy stared at him wordlessly, and one more piece fell into place in Aragorn’s mind.  Ghosts.  Dead Men, still bound to this world.

He answered his own question.  “They know that you did not intend to come home.”  He carefully kept all traces of pity out of his voice.  The desperate flicker in Qara’s eyes told him he’d guessed rightly.  He frowned.  “You truly wished to die in that skirmish?”

The boy sagged against the tree trunk.  Doubt and fear warred across his face.  It was strange to see such conflict in one so young.  “They said we just had to be brave enough,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, “That if we were, it would be quick.  That we wouldn’t have to go to the Lower Circles.”

“The Lower Circles?”

Qara’s eyes flashed.  He was definitely glaring at Aragorn now.  “Don’t pretend you don’t know.  Everyone knows about the Circles.”

“Well, I am only an ignorant West-Man.  I’m often a little behind on what ‘everyone’ knows.”

“Liar!”  Qara spat.  “You serve Gondor.  You must have seen them.”

“Perhaps you can tell me what they are and then I’ll judge whether or not I’ve seen them.”

The boy stared at him hard for a few more seconds, then sighed.  Bowing his head, he murmured something in a strange tongue.  It sounded like a children’s rhyme.  Aragorn waited patiently as the boy fell silent.  After a moment, he spoke again, in the Common Tongue this time.  “Seven Circles under sky for the heathens . . . . Seven Circles under stone for the faithful ones . . . It doesn’t rhyme in Westron.”

Aragorn pursed his lips.  “Seven Circles?  The rhyme is about Minas Tirith?”

The boy gave him a look that mixed relief and exasperation, like a schoolmaster whose recalcitrant pupil has finally mastered some simple concept.  “Seven Circles.  Fourteen, in all.  The Upper Circles where you live and the Lower Circles where prisoners are taken for torment.”  He spoke in the same matter-of-fact tone he’d used to say “You’ll torture me.”

Aragorn blinked.  He had expected some indoctrination—had suspected that the boy had been told the Gondorim were monsters who brutalized their foes—but this . . . He shook his head slowly.  “There are no such Circles,” he said, praying the boy would believe him, but knowing he wouldn’t.  Sure enough, Qara gave him a scornful look.  Aragorn arched an eyebrow.  “A seven-tiered dungeon the equal of the city itself?  The Dwarven lords of old could not build such a thing.  The stone would never support it.”  The boy’s face was skeptical.  Aragorn sighed.  “I’ve told you already that we do not torture our prisoners.”  He knew how futile his words most likely were; Qara had apparently been taught the opposite since he was still learning in rhyme.

But, Aragorn had one last card to play.  “They told you those things so that you would kill for them.”

Something flashed across the boy’s eyes.  He’d been stalwart and resolved on the question of dying, but the thought of killing seemed to give him pause.  “That doesn’t make it a lie,” he said at last.

“But, do you want to kill, Qara?  For them?”  The boy didn’t respond.  His hands curled into fists where they rested against his thighs.  With a sudden movement, Aragorn drew his belt knife and cut through the ropes that bound Qara.  Every eye in camp was on them in an instant, as even the men who’d begun to doze snapped back to alertness.  Aragorn pulled the Easterling to his feet and pressed the knife into his hand.  Qara stared at it, like he’d never seen such a thing before. 

Aragorn fell back a half step and spread his arms slightly.  “Go on,” he said, “Do what you came here to do.”

Behind him, eight men grasped the hilts of eight swords.  Qara’s eyes darted from Aragorn to the others.  “Or, perhaps death does not hold the appeal it did this morning?” Aragorn suggested.  “Perhaps what you really want is to go home?”  He glanced behind him.  “Lay down arms,” he barked, “All of you.  No one is to draw sword, whatever happens.”  The men slowly took their hands away from their weapons, though from their faces, they were not at all happy about it.  Sarn, in particular, gave Aragorn a look that suggested that if Qara didn’t manage to kill him, he would be happy to finish the job.

Aragorn took no notice.  He focused all his attention on the boy and prayed he’d read him correctly.  The knife trembled in Qara’s hand.  His face was stricken.  “What’s stopping you?” Aragorn asked quietly.

Qara bit his lip.  “It would not be honorable,” he said, after a pause.

“Killing never is,” Aragorn countered, his voice even.

The boy raised the knife and stared at it.  “You aren’t what they said you’d be.”

“No,” Aragorn agreed, “Are you?” 

Still, the boy did not move.  Aragorn stepped close and gently took hold of his wrist.  The knife still lay between them, the tip level with Aragorn’s breast.  Qara looked up at him through eyes that shone with tears.  “I’m a coward,” he whispered.

His hand loosened on the dagger.

It dropped to land, point first, in the forest floor.

“No,” Aragorn said quietly, “You’re not.”

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

In the end, the solution was all too easy.

They made camp that night in a slight hollow within the forest.  Aragorn again insisted that the tent be erected to contain the boy, though they had no natural wall to pitch it against.  When Sarn expressed doubts about the security of the arrangement, Aragorn dismissed his concerns, making sure to do so within Qara’s hearing.  Meneldir proved easy to recruit as a co-conspirator.  Together, they staged a loud conversation about the geography of the region and how a clever woodsman could easily ford the Great River at a particular point a league to the north, and so slip into empty Ithilien.

Aragorn tied Qara’s hands to the tent stake like the night before, but with a knot that would slip under enough pressure.   It would seem like a careless mistake.  He considered leaving a loaf of bread by the tent’s door, decided that would be too obvious, and settled for letting his pack sit, unattended and slightly open, at the edge of their camp.  A few eyebrows were raised at his apparent carelessness, but the men soon guessed what he was about.

He took the first watch and pretended not to notice when a small figure slipped away into the night.

When his watch was over, he went to his bedroll and slept soundly.

A few hours later, he surveyed the empty tent with satisfaction.

“’Tis unfortunate,” he told the men.  To their credit, they almost hid their rueful snorts.  “Nevertheless, we’ve a patrol to complete.  One small Easterling cannot be allowed to turn us aside from that mission.”  They exchanged knowing looks as they broke camp.

But, Sarn cornered Aragorn in private, before they could move out.

“You think you’ve saved him?” the older Man hissed, “He will only return to his masters.”

“You don’t know that,” Aragorn replied evenly, “I think Qara has begun to realize he was lied to.  And regardless, he finds the life of a raider distasteful.”

“And if you’re wrong?” Sarn countered, “What if we have to fight the same Easterling again in a month or a year?”

“Then we will defeat him again!” Aragorn snapped, losing his patience at last, “And as many times as it takes until . . .” He fell silent and drew a slow breath to calm himself.  He was angry, but not at Sarn.  No, his anger was for the nine faceless bodies that dotted a distant hillside.  When he closed his eyes, he could see them again.  In his mind, each one had Qara’s face.  “They sent children against us.”  He spoke softly.  Sarn did not reply, nor would he meet Aragorn’s eyes.  Slowly, Aragorn pushed his raging emotions aside.  “We cannot become what they think we are,” he said at last, “If we do, we could subdue all the world and still we would have lost.”

Sarn stared at his feet.  “What are you going to tell the Steward?” he asked.

“The truth.”

“And if he has you court martialed?”

“Then he is not as worthy of my loyalty as I believe him to be.”

Sarn snorted.  “Do you ever get tired of taking foolish risks, Thorongil?”

“Do you truly think them foolish?”

He looked away.  “No, I suppose not.”

“Then let us waste no more time.”  Aragorn shouldered his much lighter pack.  “We have a long way yet to go.”

Fin

A/N:  I hope you enjoyed!  As always, reviews and concrit are much appreciated.