Barliman Butterbur was in his downstairs room
struggling with the Inn accounts when the door slammed
open.

It was Beomann, his oldest boy, round eyed and
panting "Dad! the Rover just walked in." his father
dropped his pen and shot down the corridor to the
common room.

The Rover was sitting in the Rangers' usual corner
by the fireplace with the sparse handful of other
customers clustered around him, all talking at once.
The Innkeeper pushed his way through them to find the
Ranger looking a little bemused by this unaccustomedly
warm welcome. The first words out of Butterbur's mouth
sounded plaintive even to him. "Where did you go?"

"There was bad trouble away up north and in the
east." the Rover answered. "We had to go deal with it."

"We had some pretty bad trouble right here,"
Butterbur told him. "fighting even. Some people were
actually killed!"

"So I've gathered. I'm sorry."

The Innkeeper pulled out a chair and sat down.
Shaky with relief, and a little ashamed of himself for
being so. "The Road's not safe these days, we've got a
nest of brigands somewhere out there in the Wild -"

"Not any more." the Rover interupted quietly, grey
eyes suddenly very cold.

Butterbur stared at him, swallowed hard. "There's
other things too," he said a little huskily. "Wolves,
and ghosts or something like it gibbering around the
hedge at night."

"Wights." the Ranger said grimly. "That's bad. I'd
not have expected them to grow so bold. Don't worry,
we'll see to it."

Butterbur looked at him, really looked, and saw the
pallor beneath the grime and lines of strain and
control around mouth and eyes. "Are you all right?"

The question clearly startled the Rover and he
hesitated a little before answering. "Well enough."

"You don't look it." the Innkeeper said bluntly.
"You'd best stay here tonight. A hot meal and a good
sleep in a proper bed is what you need."

The steely grey gaze softened. "Thank you, I will."

Butterbur stood up, hesitated. "Rover, what's your
right name."

The other Man smiled, something Butterbur couldn't
remember ever seeing a Ranger do before, said gently.
"I am Gilvagor son of Armegil."

He should have known it'd be something outlandish.
The Rover read the thought in his nonplussed face and
laughed aloud. Another thing Butterbur couldn't
recall ever seeing a Ranger do. "Make it Gil. That
should come easier to your tongue."
***

Butterbur was yanked from his slumbers by a
pandemonium of voices floating up the main stair. He
rolled out of bed, pulled a dressing gown on over his
nighshirt and padded downstairs, his good wife at his
heels, to confront a passle of distraught townfolk
clustered around a hysterical, tearstained Woman
wrapped in homespun shawls.

"Here now, what's all this?" he demanded and the
Woman, The Widow Thistlewood from Alderedge Farm,
threw herself into Mrs. Butterbur's arms sobbing.

They're gone! They took them, they took them!"

"Took who?" his Missis asked, guiding the other
Woman to the settee before the hall fire.

"My babies!" the Widow wailed, "Tom and Daisy!
Skeletons, skeletons in white robes! They crawled
through the windows and dragged them out of their
beds!"

"When?" Gil's voice clove through the confusion like
a sword. Mrs. Thistlewood, struck silent, sat mouth
open staring at him. "When?"

"Just now." she answered, staring as if she
couldn't look away. "I ran after them but lost them in
the fog."

"I heard her wailing and calling and brought her
here." Will Rushlight, the west gatekeeper, put in.

"We may still be in time if we move fast." the
Ranger said, half to himself. His eyes swept the
assembled Men, bright with a strange silvery light.
"I will need help."
***

Barliman Butterbur never really understood exactly
how he came to find himself walking through a chilly,
eldritch fog towards the dreaded Barrow Downs with his
clothes pulled on anyhow, a torch in one hand and a
wood axe in the other, surrounded by a dozen or so
neighbors similiarly armed. The Rover strode at the
head of their ragged column, grim and purposeful, the
fog rolling aside before him.

The Breelanders found themselves following him,
against all reason, off the road right into the
sinister downs. It was bitter cold, unaturally so, and
shapes moved in the mist on either side. Steel
whispered as Gil drew his sword, the long bright blade
caught the starlight, glistening, and the shapes and
the fog that cloaked them seemed to draw away in fear.

They came at last to a long barrow hunched beneath
the steep face of a down, its dark door gaping open with
a cold, dead air flowing from it.

The Rover turned to face them. His eyes glistened
like his sword and power went out from him like heat
from a fire. "Fear is the Wights' chief weapon, so do
not fear! They fear the light and brave Men, so stand
firm and you will prevail. I count on you to keep them
from my back - for those two children's sake." He
turned, and ducking his head disappeared through
the black door.

The moment he vanished the fog, and the things in
it, drew closer encouraged. Panicked Butterbur thrust
his torch into a mowing skull-like face and it shrank
away. Geoff Heathertoes swung his scythe exactly as if
he were harvesting grain and a boney arm clattered to
the ground, wriggling in a tattered white sleeve. The
fog drew back.

Panting hard, the Men exchanged looks, spirits
rising. It was true then, they *could* do this - if
they kept their nerve and held their ground.

Beomann Butterbur was never able to adequately
explain to his father, to Gil, or even to himself, the
impulse that sent him into the barrow on the Ranger's
heels. How much help was a green boy clutching a
kitchen cleaver likely to be? and yet for all that it
stuck in his craw to let the Rover face whatever was
there under the earth alone.

Gil carried no torch and neither did Beomann, it
should have been black as pitch inside the barrow, but
it wasn't. A cold, unholy light burned in the burial
chamber and crept, sickly pale, up the passage.

And there were voices. Thin, cold, moaning voices
drearily chanting in a language Beomann couldn't
understand but which seemed to drain the warmth from
his body and hope from his soul.

And then Gil cried out a word that stopped the
chanters' tongues and shattered the spell like like a
dropped plate. Beomann gave a great gasp of relief and
crept closer to look in the burial chamber door.

The first thing he saw, with horror, was little Tom
and Daisy laid out on a slab of stone as if for burial
decked in cold, dead gold with a naked sword lying
across their throats.

The second was the three Wights, their white bones
clothed in rags of skin and tattered silk. And lastly,
facing them, the Ranger. Tall and terrible in worn
green leather, eyes and sword gleaming with a pure
silver light. He spoke again, clear ringing words that
fired Beomann's heart though he understood them no
better than the Wights' song.

The undead things shrank and gnashed their
fleshless jaws then, snarling, drew long greeny-white
swords and sprang at Gil. His blade flashed clean
silver flame as it cleaved the formost Wight from
skull to breast bone. It collapsed in a heap of
splintered bone and a cold wind rushed, wailing, past
Beomann and up the passage, fading into the distance.

He unscrewed his eyes and uncovered his ears in
time to see Gil slice the head from the shoulders of a
second Wight and had the sense to get quickly out of
the way of whatever it was that fled wailing into the
night. More Wights were coming out of gaping openings
to other chambers or passages, converging on the
Rover. Beomann launched himself at them with an
inarticulate cry.

Old dry bone splintered under his cleaver as he
hacked at limbs and rib cages. It caught on something
and was ripped out of his hand. Ducking under the
swing of a Barrow Wight's sword Beomann grabbed for a
blade lying on the floor, rolled onto his back and
skewered the Wight as it bent down to stab him. He
scrambled to his feet, swinging the sword inexpertly
with both hands as he charged back into the fray.

Suddenly the sickly light went out. Beomann
stumbled over a tangle of bone and fabric, fell and
lay still, panting, afraid to move in the blackness.

The Rover's voice, breathless but calm, came out of
the dark. "Who's there?"

"B-Beomann Butterbur."

A rustling and a warm strong hand clasped his arm.
"Are you hurt?"

"I don't think so."

"Well, Beomann, I don't know how you came to be
here but thank you for your help. Now let's get the
little ones out of here."
***

It turned out Beomann was hurt, a long gash along
his jaw, another running from shoulder to elbow on his
right arm, and a bloody hole through his left thigh.
But he didn't feel them until after they'd arrived safe
back at the Pony and his mother'd descended upon
him with a sharp cry of dismay.

The Widow Thistlewood hung, wringing her hands and
dripping tears, over the cold still bodies of her
children. "Are they dead?" she moaned, "are they
dead?"

"No," Gil answered her, "but their spirits are
lost, wandering in Shadow, and must be called home."

Little Tom and Daisy, still in their barrow jewels
and silken burial robes, had been laid out on a table
in the common room with what seemed like half of Bree
jostling and craning their necks for a look.

The Rover leaned over them and spoke commandingly in
the same strange language he'd used in the barrow.
"Lasto beth nîn, tolo dan na ngalad!" Silence fell
abruptly over the crowded room, but the children did
not stir.

Gil reached to take each by the hand. "In the name
of Elendil the King and of Hundeth the Chief I summon
thee. By the oath that binds thy kin to mine I bid
thee come back to the Light!"

And Tom gave a great gasp and opened his eyes. And
his sister uttered a long wail and held her arms out
to her mother. Gil stepped quickly back as the Widow
caught her children up in a tight embrace and the
crowd of Bree folk surged forward to congratulate and
exclaim. Came over to where Beomann sat on a stool
before the fire with his mother tending his wounds.

"You must watch for infection." the Ranger warned
her. "Wightish weapons are notoriously unclean."

"I can imagine." Mrs. Butterbur sniffed. "Nasty
undead things!" squinted up at him. "Are you hurt?"

"Not a scratch, though I might have been killed if
not for your son." and he gave Beomann a smile that
made him feel warm clear through and a good foot
taller. "That was brave, my friend. Not very
intelligent perhaps, but brave."

"I'm that proud of him." Mrs. Butterbur agreed and
threw her son a sharp look. "But if he ever does the
like again I'll kill him myself!"

"Yes, Mum. Sorry, Mum." Beomann said meekly. But in
his heart he wasn't sorry at all, and in the back of
his mind an idea was born to lie hidden, even from
himself, for a long while.

His mother was studying the Ranger again and
clearly not liking what she was seeing. "You look
like death," she told him. "and you say you're not
hurt?"

"Not by Wights." Gil answered, which was a mistake.
Ishbel Butterbur had raised four sons and three
daughters, she knew an evasion when she heard it.

"By something else then?" the flash of guilt in his
face was all the answer she needed. "Get up, Beomann."
she ordered. Then to the Ranger. "You, sit down." he
opened his mouth to protest. "I said sit down, young
man!"

The vivid laughter that briefly lit his face made
him look young indeed. Meekly he took Beomann's place
on the stool. Under jerkin and shirt was a bandage and
it had blood on it. The wound beneath, a nasty
diagonal gash across the ribs, had been neatly
stitched closed but oozed blood here and there where
it had broken open again.

"Taking on who knows how many of those horrid
Wights with a great gash like this in you," Mrs.
Butterbur scolded as she cleaned, salved and
rebandaged the wound. "have you no sense at all?"

"Not much." Gil admitted, smiling. Then more
seriously; "What else could I do, Mrs. Butterbur, with
two children gone?"

That silenced her, more or less. She grumbled to
herself as she finished her bandaging, then ordered
Gil upstairs to bed and to stay there until she said
he could get up!

That made him laugh again. "You sound just like my
old Nurse. Very well, Mrs. Butterbur, I know how to
follow orders. Good night."

Two more Rangers arrived early the next morning
asking for Gil. Butterbur directed them to his room
but Mrs. Butterbur blocked the stairs and gave them a
good tongue lashing for not looking after their
companion better.

They listened in patient silence, with perhaps a
trace of amusement, until she got to the Barrow
Wights. Then a flash of alarm crossed Treebole's face
(1) and he picked her right off the steps, set her
gently to one side and shot up the stairs with
Silverlock (2) right behind him and Mrs. Butterbur hot
on their heels as soon as she got her breath back.

Gil was either awake or wakened the moment they
entered and smiled at them. "What's all the noise?"

Treebole crossed the room in three long strides,
took his wrist in one large hand, studied his face,
then shook his head. "Didn't I say you were using
yourself to hard?"

"Mrs. Butterbur has already given me one good
scolding," Gil pleaded, eyes twinkling, "I don't need
another."

"Might as well save my breath for all the good it'll
do." Treebole agreed ruefully.

"Tackling Wights in your state," Silverlock shook
his head, "what were you thinking?"

"Of the two children they'd carried off." Gil
answered quietly.

The Rangers exchanged a glance and a sigh. "There
was no help for it then." Treebole said resignedly,
gently laying down his arm. "Very well then, Rover,
we'll spare you more reproaches."

"Thank you. Do one thing more for me, see the
Barrow is cleansed. I couldn't do it last night and
Mrs. Butterbur has forbidden me to get up without her
permission, which I fear will not be given just yet."
and he gave the hostess, hovering in the doorway, a
smile that made her blush like a girl.
***

Mr. Butterbur was waiting for them at the foot of
the stair. "Begging your pardon, but I wanted to ask;
what should we do about this?"

'This' was the golden jewelry that had adorned the
two children, piled neatly on the Rangers' corner
table with Beomann's sword lying beside it.

"Keep it if you like," Silverlock answered, fingers
brushing lightly over rings and chains, "There's no
taint on it that I can feel." then he picked up the
sword and stiffened, eyes flashing outrage. "Mandos
consign them to your deepest dungeons!" he whispered
with frightening venom. "That they would *dare* -"
looked at Treebole. "It was Aradan's tomb."

The other Ranger set his mouth in an even grimmer
line and nodded upward. "Does *he* know that?"

"I don't see how he couldn't."

"Aradan?" Butterbur echoed blankly. "You mean King
Aradan who was killed in the Witch Wars?"

Both Rangers turned to look at him in surprise.
"That's right," Silverlock said, "You know the name?"

The Innkeeper glared. "We remember the Kings, we
fought for them in those wars."

"Indeed you did," the Ranger agreed somberly, "and
bravely too." he looked down at the sword in his hand.
"Aradan and his sons fell before the gates of their
citadel and were buried together with the knights
who'd stood by them at the last." raised dark blue
eyes to Butterbur's. "Your kin as well as ours lie in
that barrow." suddenly he extended the sword, hilt
first to the Innkeeper. "Give this to your son. The
brave Man who bore it would be glad for him to have
it."

Butterbur took the sword automatically, eyes never
leaving Silverlock's. "The King's People," he breathed
wonderingly, "that's who you Rangers really are. You
didn't die or go to the Elves, you've been right here
all along."

"Where we belong." said Silverlock.
***

Several of the Men who'd followed the Rover out to
the Downs the night before, including Butterbur
himself, decided to go back with Treebole and
Silverlock.

Not that they could be of much help in finding the
barrow, what with the fog and the dark and all. Luckily
the Rangers didn't need assistance but followed a trail
the Breelanders couldn't even see, unerringly to the
long Barrow beneath the steep face of a down. The door
gaped blackly as ever by daylight and a slight chill
still hung about the place.

Treebole knelt down to cut a big square in the turf
and roll back the dry winter grass. Then he and
Silverlock went into the barrow to bring out the bones
and pile them on the bare earth.

It was a nasty job but Butterbur remembered what
Silverlock had said about some of those bones
belonging to his kin, gritted his teeth and pitched
in. And after some hesitation the other Breelanders
did too.

When they finished the bones, including some ten or
fifteen skulls, were in a big heap and the Breelanders
drew back a little, uncertainly, to see what the
Rangers would do next. First they covered the bones
with shreded silk and tufts of dry grass, then
Silverlock took a crystal from his coat and used it to
focus the sun's rays on the tinder. After a long
minute it began to smoke then caught little pale
flames running all over the pile.

Butterbur cleared his throat. "Why -?"

"Sunfire cleanses." Treebole explained quietly,
glanced at his troubled face and added: "If we just
buried the bones the Wights could reclaim them. This
is the only way to keep that from happening."

"Oh." There was something funny about the fire, the
flames were pale but burned very bright and hot -
almost like the sun.

Then Silverlock began to sing, a strange, slow song
in words Butterbur couldn't understand but which
filled his head with visions of high walled cities and
sceptered kings, a golden land patterned with
prosperous farms and towns and a darkness held
at bay by shining swords.

The song ended. Butterbur sniffed and rubbed away
the tears rolling down his cheeks with his sleeve. His
neighbors' faces were wet too, but none of them could
say why.

Silverlock and Treebole went back into the barrow
and came out carrying armloads of treasure; gold and
silver jewelry glittering with gems, swords and
daggers, and shields ensigned with stars and trees and
ships and other devices. This they spread on the grass
and invited the Bree Men to take whatever they fancied
and leave the rest lie in the clean sunlight, free to
all comers.

"But - it's wrong to rob the dead." Will Rushlight
ventured.

"The Wights have already done that," Treebole
answered, "this is how we break their hold and cleanse
the barrow of their presence."

"The King and his knights passed long ago beyond
the circles of this world," Silverlock added kindly,
"they care nothing for treasure now."

He bent and took from the heap a circlet of tiny
leaves in bright silver with a green beryl stone set
above the brow. Looked at it rather sadly for a
moment, before saying; "I chose this."

Treebole silently selected a big red-golden broach
in the shape of a coiled dragon. Thus encouraged the
Breelanders began to pick through the glittering pile.

Butterbur chose a chain of gold and pearl for his
Missis, another of adamant and beryl and topaz for
Peggy, a pair of wide silver bracelets set with
sapphires for May and an opal ring for Lusey. After a
moment's hesitation he also took a long dagger, its
blade damasked in a flame pattern of red and gold, for
young Gerry, since Beomann already had his sword.

For himself he took one of the shields, bright
gold, ensigned with sprig of butterbur in green with
purple flowers. Why a knight of old would have been
carrying it he couldn't imagine, but it would look
well over the bar.
**********************************************

1. So called for his height, even greater than that of
most Rangers. His real name is Arallas son of Dornlas,
(the same Arallas who is Captain of the Gate of Swords
in 'Return') at one hundred and nineteen years he is
accounted old even by the Dunendain.

2. So called for his silver blond hair. His real name
is Elfaron son of Ithilion. His ancestors were nobles
holding land on the River Lune. He inherits his silver
hair from an ancestress who was a Nandorin Elf of the
Evendim Hills.

The Nandor, btw, are Elves who left the Great
Journey to settle on the banks of the Anduin and in
Eriador. Though accounted 'Dark Elves' they are
considered a cut above the Avari who refused the
Journey altogether.

It turned out the Rover and his companions had had
another reason for coming to Bree, beyond a roof over
their heads and a chance to hear the news, they needed
to buy food.

"You have families," Farmer Appledore said blankly,
"women and children?" the three Rangers looked at him
and he blushed. "Sorry, of course you must, it's just
I never realized -"

"You weren't meant too." Gil told him. Continued to
the tableful of Bree's leading citizens: "Normally we
buy our supplies through the Dwarves, but as you all
know last summer and fall were anything but normal."

Fervent nods of agreement all round.

"With none of the usual fairs or markets open we
were forced to fall back on our stores, unfortunately
almost all of those were lost when the enemy burned
our holdings -"

"Enemy?" Butterbur interupted. "Surely you don't
mean those brigands from down South?"

"No," Treebole agreed grimly, "he means the Hill
Folk of the North and the Mountain Orcs."

"And Stone Trolls, and Hill Trolls. Wights and
Sergollim and other things left by the Witch King
and the Great Enemy." added Silverlock.

The Rover silenced his companions with a look. "As
I said, we've had troubles of our own to deal with."

Butterbur didn't like the sound of that. He was
begining to suspect Bree's 'bad trouble' had actually
been a very small matter indeed, and much worse might
have happened had the Rangers not put themselves
between the Breeland and the greater threat.

"What about your women and children?" his Missis
said suddenly, pausing mid-pour, ale pot in hand. "If
your homes were destroyed where are they? Surely not
camping out in the Wild!"

Gil seemed to hesitate a moment before answering.
"No, most have taken refuge in Annuminas."

"The old capital?" Ben Mugwort gaped, "but it's a
ruin now. The enchanted forest grew over it, didn't
it?"

The Ranger shook his head. "No, the Elves took care
of the city for us. The buildings are sound enough to
shelter our people but we need to buy food if we are
to make it through the winter."

Of course the Breelanders immediately agreed to
sell, it was certainly better than letting their
surpluses of grain and vegetables moulder in the
storehouses but -

"Are you sure you can afford to pay?" Mugwort
blurted, adding hastily, "I mean we'd be glad to give
you a discount in you need it."

Gil smiled, "Thank you but that won't be necessary."

Mrs. Butterbur frowned at him. "I know you men,
this is no time for silly pride. If your folk are in
need -"

Astonishingly all three Rangers grinned. "I promise
you, Mrs. Butterbur, payment will not be a problem."
Gil's eyes twinkled. "You see, when our ancestors
abandoned Annuminas they left the Royal Treasury
behind."

The Breelanders gaped. "You don't mean vaults of
gold and silver?" Butterbur managed.

"In fact I do." Gil shrugged. "We were surprised
too."

"Though we shouldn't have been come to think of
it," that was Silverlock, "it's not as if gold or
silver would have been any use to them in the Wild."

"Comes in handy now though." said Treebole.
***

The train of twelve large, heavily loaded wagons
jolted its way over the broken and grass grown stones
of the old North Road.

The Wild spread wide and empty around them, rolling
hills, stands of forest, jagged outcroppings of rock,
and here and there crumbling ruins that were once
towns or castles or who knew what. The sight of them
made Beomann's eyes sting.

The Wild hadn't always been waste, once upon a time
this had all been settled land - a grand and glorious
kingdom - and his ancestors had been a part of it. A
humble part but they'd obeyed the King's Law and
fought in his wars until the day the King and his
people had disappeared, leaving Bree to struggle on
as best it could alone.

Only they'd never really been alone. Adrift now in
this vast emptiness Beomann saw his homeland for
what it was, a tiny, fragile bubble of life and order that
never could have survived without the constant, secret
protection of the Rangers.

He found it hard to believe the Breelanders had
never guessed who those strange, green clad
wanderers and hunters really were. The old stories
said the People of the Kings were tall and dark haired
and possessed strange magical powers and lived for
centuries.

And of course Rangers were tall and dark and
magical too. And everybody knew they lived much longer
than ordinary folk did. Why Strider, who was King now
according to old Gandalf, had been coming into the
Pony since Beomann's grandfather's time - nigh on
sixty years if it was a day.

"How old are you, Gil?" Beomann asked suddenly.

The Rover, riding beside the wagon on one of the
big, shaggy horses Rangers used, shot him an amused
look. "About your father's age I'd say, just short of
sixty."

Beomann looked at him hard. It wasn't easy to gage
Gil's age. When he got that grim Ranger look he seemed
older than the hills but if he chanced to smile or laugh
he looked no older than Beomann himself. He was
smiling now.

"That's not very old as my people measure it. By
our standards I'm still little more than a boy."

"How old do you get?" Hobbits lived a bit longer
than Men but not even they considered sixty young.

The smile vanished. "If our lives aren't shortened
by violence or hardship or grief, perhaps a hundred
and fifty years or a little more. My kin may, with
good fortune, live sixty or so years beyond that. But
we've had all to little good fortune these last
centuries."

And there was that look again. Gil's reaction to
questions was unpredictable. Often they amused him
but sometimes he'd go all sad and grim, like now, as if
reminded of things he'd rather forget.

But then he'd see Beomann's face fall and make an
effort to cheer them both up. "Silverlock's just a
youngster, like me, but Treebole there is a hundred
and nineteen, old even by our measure."

Beomann stared slack jawed at the tall Ranger's
long back as he rode next to the lead wagon. Treebole
didn't look young but he certainly didn't look *that*
old! Of course all three Rangers had been coming into
the Pony as long as Beomann could remember and none of
them had aged a day in all that time.

"I can't understand why we never figured out who
you Rangers really were."

"You weren't meant to." Gil replied.

"You said that before," Dick Heathertoes said from
the driver's side of the wagon seat. "What do you mean
by it?"

"That you saw and thought what we wanted you to see
and think."

Both Breelanders stared at him. "You mean you used
magic on us?" Dick asked nervously.

Gil frowned. "I've never really understood what you
country people mean by the word 'magic' you seem to
use it for so many things."

"Well," Beomann groped for an example, "what you
did in the barrow was magic."

"That was Power." the Ranger agreed. "But fooling
the eye is a small thing in comparison, would you call
that 'magic' too?"

"Yes!" said both young Men in unison. Gil shook his
head bemused. "What would you call it?" Beomann wanted
to know.

Gil shrugged. "A trick, a play. It's a simple thing,
we learn it as children. Why I might even be able to
teach it to you."

"No thanks!" they chorused in lively alarm. And Gil
laughed.

"Are you doing it now?" Beomann asked, and the
Ranger smiled again.

"No, it's no longer necessary."

Beomann looked at him hard, trying to see a change.
Gil was still recognizably the Rover he'd known since
he was a boy, yet he'd never really noticed the fine
aristocratic features under the scrub of beard and
dirty hair or the quicksilver brightness of the wide
deep grey eyes. The old stories said the King's People
were beautiful and Gil was, but somehow Beomann
had never seen it before.

"I don't like the idea of being under a spell." Dick
grumbled.

"Oh it's not a spell." the Rover assured him
quickly. "I promise you those of us who can use such
arts do not do so lightly, and certainly never on our
own people without their leave."

Beomann suspected what Gil meant by a spell was not
what Dick meant by it, but kept his mouth shut. Dick
seemed reassured and Beomann wanted him to stay that
way.

As for himself it wasn't the magic he minded but
the deception. Their King hadn't abandoned Bree but
he'd hidden himself from its people even as he'd set
his own to guard them. It wasn't right.

Beomann felt a sudden, irrational surge of
resentment. Bree Folk had belonged to the King too!
Maybe they didn't have magic like the Men from Over
the Sea but they'd kept his laws and fought for him
too. It wasn't *right* he hadn't trusted them!

But how could he say that to Gil, or Silverlock or
Treebole after all that they and the other Rangers had
done for Bree down the long years? It was Strider, the
King, he had to say it too if he ever got the chance -
or had the nerve

The high, darkly wooded Evendim Hills marched
into the blue distance left of the road. Half the
wagoneers, including Beomann, watched the forest
like they expected a three headed Oliphant to charge
from the verges at any minute. The other half
resolutely refused to look at it at all.

The Enchanted Forest had an evil name in the
Breeland and Gil's reassurances had been somewhat
less than successful. According to him there was indeed
a King and Queen of the Lake - but no need to worry
about them as they were friendly to the Rangers.

Better still, the forest really was packed solid
with spells and enchantments trapping all kinds of
nasty things inside it, but not to worry; the road
and the city had special protections placed on them.
Needless to say the Breelanders didn't find this the
least bit comforting.

Beomann's heart was in his mouth as the road turned
directly towards the forest. They passed under the
shadows of the first trees and found themselves faced
with a tall gate, intricately wrought in black iron in
the form of bare and tangled trees, between two grim
towers of dark stone crowned with iron spikes.

Treebole blew a long mournful call on a horn. A
moment's silence then the great gates swung smoothly
open before them revealing a spotless white road
running between tall, bare black trees. It wasn't
until they were actually passing beneath them that
Beomann realized the trees weren't real but, like the
gate, wrought of iron.

"The Gate of Iron." said Gil suddenly. "Also known
as the Gate of Winter."

There didn't seem to be much to say to that.
Looking back Beomann saw the gate had closed silently
behind the last wagon. There was no going back now.

Two miles or so on they came to a second gate
between towers of reddish stone topped by brazen
spikes. The Gate was bronze too, made to look like
tangled trees just like the iron one but covered with
bright copper leaves. And Beomann wasn't surprised to
see the trees beyond this gate were also bronze with
large leaves of beaten copper.

"And this is the Gate of Autumn." said Gil.

"Very pretty." Dick managed huskily.

"Thank you. They were made for Elendil long years
ago by the greatest Elven craftsman yet living in
Middle Earth."

Elendil, Beomann remembered, was the name of the
First King. The one who'd escaped from Westerness
before it was drowned. So these gates must be
thousands of years old - and not a spot of rust or
tarnish on them. "Are they magic?"

"I suppose you could call them so." the Ranger
conceeded.

The first and second gates had been strange and
beautiful but the third took the breath away. It was
of gold, and so were the glittering parapets of the
honey colored stone towers that flanked it. And the
trees that formed the gate and lined the road beyond
it were covered with leaves and fruits of jewels,
sparkling green, gold, red, pink and orange in the
sunlight.

"This is the Golden Gate of Summer." said Gil.

Beomann had to swallow twice before he could get
the words out. "Are we there yet."

The Ranger laughed. "Not quite. Still two more
gates to go."

Beomann exchanged a bemused look with Dick. It was
hard to see how they'd top that last gate but the Bree
Men braced themselves for further wonders.

Shining white towers with silver parapets flanked
silver gates wrought in the shape of new budding trees
covered with young leaves and blossoms. And the tall
silver trees lining the road on the other side also
glittered with pale green gems, the exact color of new
leaves, and many colored jeweled flowers.

"Don't tell me, the Gate of Summer." Dick blurted
and Gil laughed and nodded.

"And now you've run out of seasons," said Beomann,
"so what's your last gate called?"

"The Gate of the Two Trees." both Breelanders
looked at him blankly and he smiled. "I take it you
don't know that tale?"

Dick shrugged. "Beomann here's the expert on the
old stories."

The younger Man flushed a little but admitted. "I
can't say I've ever heard that one."

"Long ago, before the Sun and the Moon were made,
when Elves and Men still slept in the mind of Eru,"
Gil began, just as Bree storytellers always started
with 'Once upon a time when the King still ruled,'
"the only light in Middle Earth came from the stars of
Varda. But in the far West, in Aman the Undying, there
grew two Trees and from them light fell as rain and
dew.

"Telperion was the elder, the Tree of Silver, and
its light was purer and stronger than that of the new
moon. The Tree of Gold was known as Laurelin and a
firery rain, hotter and brighter than sunlight, fell
from its boughs. For long ages the Valar and the Maiar
dwelt in the light of the Trees, and when the Elves
awoke in Middle Earth they were called to Aman that
they might share in the light as well.

"But Morgoth, the Great Enemy, hated all light that
was not his own and he poisoned the Two Trees,
thinking thereby to plunge the world into darkness
unending. But before dying Telperion put forth one
last silver flower; and Laurelin a final fruit of gold.

"And the Valar took them and placed them in vessels
imperishable and set them in the heavens that they
might give light to all Middle Earth. Thus the final
flower of Telperion became the Moon, and the last
fruit of Laurelin the Sun.

"And it is said that the Second Children, our race,
the race of Men, awoke to the first dawn of the first
day of the Sun. And so the Elves call us the Children
of the Sun and the dawn will ever bring new hope to
Men.

"But the High Elves remember and mourn for the
Light of the Trees, which lives now only in the
Silmarils - and they are lost."

Beomann shivered, suddenly catching a vertiginous
glimpse of the vast, dark gulf of time underlying his
small familiar world, like a fallen leaf floating on
the surface of a deep well. "Silmarils?"

Gil smiled. "That's an even longer story, we'll
save it for another time I think." pointed ahead.
"There it stands, the Gate of the Trees."

A high, grassy green bank reared up before them and
in its middle stood tall, shining gates of gold and
silver intermingled, adorned with figures of the sun
and moon. And the gateposts were two gigantic trees,
one of silver and one of gold, more than a hundred
feet high. And the leaves of the silver tree were dark
green above and silver below and it was covered with
glistening flowers of pearl. And the tree of gold had
light green leaves, gilt edged, and firery clusters of
topaz blossoms dripping from its boughs.

"Is that - is that what they looked like? Telperion
and Laurelin." Beomann stammered.

"As close as craft can come to it." Gil answered.
"Enerdhil made them, who saw the Two Trees in their
glory before the coming of the Dark Lord."

The Breelander thought he'd never seen anything so
wonderful and beautiful, until the gates opened and he
had his first sight of Annuminas the Golden, City of
Elendil.

The road became a broad avenue lined with fragrant
evergreen trees, unlike any he'd seen before,
descending into a shining city of white stone, its
many domes and the pinacles of its soaring towers
overlaid with gold that glowed in the sunlight filling
the air with a warm radiance.

The Breelanders' wagons rattled past tall houses
with balconies of fretted stone and wide windows set
with colored glass like jewels. Pillared arcades
shading rows of empty shops, and grand public
buildings adorned with statues of Kings and Queens,
armored knights and fair ladies. There were green
parks and gardens full of unfamiliar but very
beautiful flowers. And everywhere the glitter of water
in pools and channels and hundreds of splashing
fountains.

And the people matched the city. More of them than
the Breelanders had imagined, tall and dark haired
with light, piercing eyes in proud, stern faces. Many
of the Men were dressed in the familiar Ranger
leathers but others wore long tunics and surcoats in
dark, rich colors under swirling cloaks fastened at
throat or shoulder by glittering pins. The Women were
nearly as tall as the Men and every bit as stern and
grim. But they were beautiful too, like queens and
princesses of old with their long hair hanging down
their backs and flowing, jewel colored gowns under fur
lined mantles.

And, unbelievably, there were children. Small,
bright eyed and noisy, running wild in packs. Chasing
each other through the columns of the arcades; barely
dodging, or failing to dodge, their elders; laughing
and calling to each other in the strange musical
language Gil had used for his spells.

Beomann could imagine what his mother would have
had say to his brothers and sisters if they'd behaved
so but the adult Rangers didn't seem to mind at all.
They just got out of the way, or failed to, and
exchanged smiles over the children's heads. (1)

Finally the avenue came to an end in a great plaza.
Golden fountains cascaded down terraces of colored
marbles under the benign gaze of numerous statues and
above it all rose the turreted and golden domed palace
glittering with jewel-toned window casements, its
great tower soaring high into the blue sky. Clearly
they couldn't take the wagons up there!

They turned left instead, skirting the terraces,
until they came to lacy gates of silver and steel
between doorposts carved in the forms of tall knights
armed and helmed. These stood open and they rolled
right into a large stableyard, distinctly grander than
the Pony's but still comfortingly familiar to the eye
and nose.

Rangers dressed in grey and white came to take the
horses. "I see your mission was successful, Captain."
one said to Gil.

"Thanks to our friends in Bree." he answered with a
smile for the wagoners, huddled uncomfortably together
unsure of what to do next. "Where is my Grandmother?"

"In the Hall tending to business." the Man answered
and shook his head. "There seems no end to it."

Gil nodded, grimly. "I never thought victory could
be so troublesome." he agreed then turned to his
companions. "Arallas, find quarters and refreshments
for our friends. Masters Heathertoes, Master Butterbur
come with me if you will."

Treebole herded the rest of the Breelanders off in
one direction while Geoff and Dick and Beomann
followed Gil and Silverlock in another. They passed
under an archway and through a pair of tall ivory
doors carved with trees and stars into a broad hallway
with colored marbles set in intricate golden
arabesques on floor and high vaulted ceiling, the
walls hung with paintings and lined with carved
pillars and statues.

It made Beomann feel very small and grubby and
badly out of place. He looked enviously at Gil.
Somehow, dispite being every bit as dirty as the
Breelanders and the worn green leathers he wore the
Ranger fit right in, with his fine features echoing the
sculpted faces of the statues and the regal bearing of
a king come home.

A second pair of doors, of gold inlaid with trees
and stars in silver and white stones, opened onto a
vast round hall. The high domed ceiling was dark blue
and patterned with stars that glittered with their own
light just like the real ones. A glimmering silver
tree grew out of the dais in the middle of the room,
its leaves chiming softly against each other as they
moved. A Woman sat in a silver chair beneath its
boughs surrounded by Rangers, all talking in quiet,
measured voices.

They made way for Gil and he led the three Bree Men
to the foot of the dais. The Woman rose to greet them.
"Master Heathertoes, Master Richard, Master Butterbur,
welcome to Annuminas."

Beomann felt his jaw drop, and he didn't have to
look at the Heathertoe brothers to know their
expressions would be equally sandbagged.

"N-Nightcrow?" Geoff quavered.

"Ellemir," she corrected, deep grey eyes like Gil's
glinting amusement, "Lady of the Dunedain."

She looked a lot like Gil, but then she would,
being his grandmother. Then Beomann remembered
how old Gil really was and gulped. Nightcrow - Ellemir -
must be nearly as old as Treebole! (2) But she looked
younger than Beomann's own mother. The long black hair
held back by a silver circlet hadn't a thread of grey
in it and her elegant, high boned face showed a few
lines but no wrinkles.

"We are grateful for your help, Master Heathertoes.
What foodstuffs in what amounts have you brought and
what was the agreed price?"

The prosaic business talk struck Beomann as being
badly out of place in this setting, but nobody else
seemed to think so. The Rangers listened with their
usual grave attention as Ellemir and Gil and Geoff
talked about grain and vegetables and the going rates
for cartage and delivery.

Beomann's own mind wandered, he looked instead at
the people around him. A very beautiful woman all in
dark grey with a long veil over her hair stood on the
steps of the dais next to a sleander, tired looking
girl also in grey.

A bearded Man in shades of green with a golden
chain around his neck sat on a stool on the step below
them, one leg thick with bandages and a short silver
topped staff leaning against his good knee. Gil too,
had mounted the dais to stand on the step just below
his grandmother.

Some of the people gathered at the foot of the dais
were dressed in Ranger leathers, others in dark grey a
few in brighter colors. And they weren't all Men, (and
Women) Beomann saw a trio of Dwarves, two red bearded
and one with a black beard braided with gold. And a
tall, slim, silver haired person who could only be an Elf.

Something about those delicate features struck
Beomann as familiar. Jarred he looked at Silverlock
standing next to him, then back at the Elf. There was
a definite resemblance. Some said the King's People
were part Elf, apparently they were right.

Then Geoff and Dick were bowing, rather awkwardly,
and Beomann realized their audience was over. As
Silverlock herded them back towards the door he heard
Gil begin to talk in the musical Ranger language,
sounding both grim and sad.

For all their magical city these people were
clearly in trouble and Beomann wondered if there was
anything else Bree might do help. A shipment of food
seemed a small repayment for the Rangers' thousand
unthanked years defending the Breeland.
***********************************************

1. Annuminas is a tremendously exciting place for the
young Dunedain, even more exciting is the opportunity
to meet and play with a great many other children.
Something their usual lifestyle on scattered holdings
doesn't allow.

Though nowhere near as permissive as Elves the
Dunedain do tend to go easy on the discipline for the
first ten or twelve years of their children's lives.
Knowing only too well how grim their adult lives are
likely to be. Strangers are often painfully struck by
the contrast between the lively, high spirited
youngsters and their silent, watchful elders.

2. Actually she's much older. Ellemir is one hundred
and seventy five, a venerable age even for a member of
the Royal House.

 Luckily the living quarters of the Palace, away
from the great halls and chambers of state, weren't
anywhere near as overwhelming - though not exactly
what a Breelander would call 'homey'.

Gil, Treebole and Silverlock didn't reappear but
Beomann made friends with the young Ranger in grey
and white who brought their lunch and their supper and
seemingly had been assigned to look after them.

He really was young too, just Beomann's age, and
only a little taller with soft black hair, brown skin
and startlingly pale grey eyes. His name was Danilos,
but he didn't mind being called Dan.

"Why do you all have such odd names?" Beomann asked
idly the next morning as he lay by a pool in the
Palace gardens with the Ranger sitting cross-legged
nearby.

Dan smiled down at the arrow he was fletching.
"Because they're in the Grey Elven tongue not a
language of Men."

"So you people are part Elf."

He shook his head. "Only some of us, the Line of
Isildur of course and a few other Houses. Most
Dunedain are mere Men."

Beomann's look was skeptical. Men maybe, but there
was nothing 'mere' about them.

"Our ancestors adopted the Elven speech three Ages
ago," the other continued, "when they allied with the
High Elves of the West against the Great Enemy."

Beomann sat up, blurting the question that had been
bothering him all night. "Dan, what's happened to your
people?"

The Ranger put the finished arrow down beside the
others and took an unfletched shaft from the pile, his
face grim and sorrowful and much older than it had
been just a second ago. "We have won a great victory
but it has cost us almost all we had."

"Gil said your homes had been burned." Beomann
offered awkwardly.

"There isn't a holding or strong place left
standing north of the road." Dan said baldly, hands
busy with his arrow. "And the south and the east are
little better off. Raiders even won through to Lune
Dale and the Tower Hills and that's never happened
before, even in the worst of the Flood Years."

Beomann frowned, puzzled. "Flood Years?"

Another bleak smile. "Our name for times when our
Enemy has come near to overwhelming us. This year was
the worst - and the last."

"There've been others?" Beomann'a blood chilled,
how long had this war been going on with Bree knowing
nothing about it?

"To many." Dan said flatly.

Beomann decided not to pursue that question just
yet. "And this is where the Rangers went when you all
disappeared?"

But Dan shook his head. "Only the children, the old
and some of the women. Those still fit to bear arms
went North to face the Enemy."

"Enemy, what enemy?"

"Angmar." the Ranger answered grimly.

"The Witch Kingdom? But I thought - wasn't it
destroyed?"

"Oh yes." even more grimly. "Carn Dum was leveled
and her people scattered. But that was no more the end
of them then the destruction of Fornost was the end of
the Dunedain.

"As the power of Sauron grew so did the numbers and
might of the Hill Folk and Carn Dum was rebuilt. Orcs
and Trolls multiplied in the Mountains, and other Dark
things came forth from their hiding places."

"Like the Wights." said Beomann.

Dan nodded. "We have been hard pressed these last
years. Foot by foot they drove us back until the Line
of Defense was just a few miles north of the Road.
Then, at the begining of March, Greymere fell and the
Line was broken."

"What was Greymere?"

"The seat of the Wardens of the Weather Hills and
key to control of the Road. When we lost Greymere we
lost the power to defend our country people from the
storm to come.

"So the Lady and the Captains decided to carry the
battle to the Enemy and that the time for secrecy was
ended." Dan's sudden smile glinted like the steel edge
of a sword. "The Captains rode to Rivendell to get the
Arms and Banners of the Kings from Lord Elrond and the
rest of us brought out the weapons and trappings our
ancestors had put aside, at Aranarth's bidding, over a
thousand years ago when first we became Rangers."

"So Nightcrow - Lady Ellemir that is - is your
leader?" Beomann asked puzzled. "What about Strider, I
thought he was Chief of the Rangers?"

"And so he is, Isildur's Heir and our King. But he
was down in the South, as he still is, and in his
absence my Lady, his grandmother, governs the
Dunedain.

"Nightcrow is Strider's grandmother!" Beomann
interupted. And if she was Gil's grandmother too that
must mean - "Gil's royalty? He's descended from the
Kings?"

Dan gave him a look of mild surprise. "He is the
next in blood, the heir until the Dunadan gets himself
another." a faint smile. "Which he may now at last!"

Beomann flopped back on the grass. Stupid of him,
he should have realized as much for himself when he
saw Nightcrow sitting on a throne. "So you went
north?" he prompted.

Dan nodded, eyes shining. "It was like the Elder
Days had come again, the ranks of knights and
men-at-arms with the sunlight glittering on their
armour, and of archers with the great Numenorean
warbows over their shoulders, a full ten thousand in
all, and the banners of the High Kingdom, Arthedain
and the Heirs of Isildur flying over our heads."

"You were there?"

A look of surprise. "Of course." continued: "The
Elves of Lindon and the Lake sent what strength they
could spare to join us, in memory of our ancient
alliance, some nine hundred in all.

"We met the vanguard of Angmar's army, four times
our number or more, at the Gornen -" broke off
remembering who he was talking to. "but I don't
suppose you know the far northern lands?"

"How could I?" Beomann asked drily.

Dan smiled faintly and explained. "It's a small
river some fifty leagues north of here. In spring and
summer it carries snowmelt from the Rhudaur Hills but
spring came late this year, as I'm sure you remember,
so its bed was nearly dry.

"They were still in marching order when we
encountered them, mounted Hill Men in the advance and
Orcs on foot behind. The Captain led our horse in a
charge on the Hill Men while our archers and
foot-soldiers flanked them to engage the Orcs."

Dan's eyes sparkled at the memory. "The shock of
being suddenly attacked by a foe long thought dead was
too much for the Enemy, they soon broke and fled
northward, carrying their panic with them to infect
the main host.

"Their captains spent some days trying to find a
way round us, but finally braced themselves to face us
beneath the Angmar Hills." shook his head. "They chose
their ground badly, a narrow sloping plain with the
high Hills on one side and the deep gorge of the
Forochel River on the other, making it impossible for
them to spread out and take full advantage of their
numbers.

"The Captain set the Warden of the Weather Hills to
guard our left flank from attack through the Hills.
And himself took command of our left wing, giving that
of the right to the Lady Ellemir." Dan paused,
realizing from Beomann's blank expression he was
becoming too technical. "The Captain aimed his attack
directly at the leaders of the Enemy host while Lady
Ellemir and the Warden kept our flanks from being
turned, the Enemy from getting round us that is."

"I see." Beomann said. Military strategy was new to
him but he felt he had a sort of grasp of what Dan was
saying.

"They ran again and we followed to the plain before
Carn Dum itself." smiled grimly. "Then at last they
had us at a true distadvantage for their numbers
covered the field, protected by dikes and traps, worse
still they had two dragons -"

"Dragons!" Beomann interupted.

"Small ones, fifty or sixty feet no more." that
smile again. "We were expected to attack headlong, as
we had been doing, but of course that would have been
folly, instead we circled rightward around their
prepared position. The tried to stop us with cavalry,
then set the dragons on us. Our archers brought them
down and Ingloron killed them on the ground but was
sore hurt in the doing. Finally they were forced to
leave their entrenchments to attack us on ground of
the Captain's choosing, but even so we would have been
worsted had not the Ringbearer destroyed Sauron and
all his works just in the knick of time.

A raised eyebrow. "You do know about the Ring?"

"Heard all about it - from Gandalf and Mr. Baggins
himself."

"Of course, they would have passed through Bree on
their way home to the Shire. The Enemy broke and fled,
again, but that wasn't the end of it. We still had to
besiege and take Carn Dum, drive the Hill Men back
into their hills, and hunt out and destroy the
scattered hosts of Orcs and Wargs and other things."

"And that's what you've been doing since you all
vanished." said Beomann.

"In the north, yes. Our kin to the east and south
have had their own battles to fight. It is only
recently we've had the leisure to take up our
patrolling again. I know that's been hard on Bree and
the other country folk. I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it." Beomann said, and this time
it was his turn to sound grim. "We managed."

 Nobody seemed to understand how he felt, certainly
not his fellow Breelanders.

"Be reasonable, Beomann," Tim Brockhouse said
patiently. "We Breefolk aren't warrriors, neither the
Big nor the Little." Tim was a Hobbit. "What good
would it have done us, or the Rangers, if we'd known
all this? We'd only have worried ourselves sick over
things we couldn't help."

"Tim's right." Geoff Heathertoes agreed. "We're
plain, practical folk in Bree, not heroes or wizards.
The Rangers were quite right to let us tend to our
business in peace."

"While they defended us!" Beomann demanded.

"Why not?" Dan Rushlight chimed in. "That's their
business isn't it? Let them get on with it I say."
frowned a little. "Mind you we could have been a good
bit kinder and more helpful, would have been too if
we'd known."

The other Men and Hobbits nodded agreement. "Well
we know now don't we?" said Tim's brother Tam, "We'll
make it up to them."

"Oh you're all hopeless!" Beomann cried, and
slammed out of the room.

He stormed down the long, empty palace corridor and
out a door opening onto a sort of hanging porch or
gallery looking over the city to the Lake only to find
it already occupied.

For a moment he completely failed to recognize the
Man in dark grey velvet perched on the parapet between
two sleander pillars. Then he did and his jaw dropped.

"Gil?"

He nodded, eyes glinting amusement. "I clean up
well, do I?"

That was an understatement! Gil's hair was clean
and combed and crowned by a thin circlet of silver
twisted with gold and there was a chain thick set with
pearls glimmering against the soft velvet.

He looked like a prince and Beomann remembered
abruptly he *was* a prince, descended from the King
who had disappeared and close kin to the one who'd
returned, and his hurt, frustration and anger
overflowed.

"You didn't tell us! The Elves and Dwarves knew all
about you but you hid yourselves from us, your own
people! It's not right, it's not fair!"

Gil looked at him in astonishment as he continued
bitterly. "But maybe you were right, the others don't
seem to care there's been a war going on for a
thousand years with us knowing nothing about it,
coddled like we were children." Beomann's eyes filled
with tears. "We were the King's people too, as much as
you, he should have trusted us."

"It was not a lack of trust." Gil said emphatically, got up
from his perch to put two firm hands on Beomann's
shoulders and transfix him with a level silver-shot stare.
"There are no braver or loyaler folk in all Middle Earth than
our own country people, and nobody knows that better than
the House of the Kings. Men and Hobbits alike fought
valiantly in the Witch Wars and paid a bitter price for it. They
died by the thousands in the plague years, were driven
from their lands by the Enemy and lost nearly half
their men to war.

"When your fathers swore allegiance to the Kings we
swore in return to defend you from foes." a wry twist
of the lips. "It seemed to Aranarth that while you had
more than kept your side of the bargain we had done a
very poor job of keeping ours."

"That wasn't your fault."

"In a sense it was." Gil said soberly. "The Dark
Lord cared nothing for Men of your kind or Hobbits, it
was Isildur's heirs and the Men of Westerness he
sought to destroy. It was never your war."

"Tell that to Frodo Baggins."

Gil blinked, then laughed. "You're right of course.
The fight against the Shadow belongs to us all, and it
was not the 'High Men of the West' who won this
battle." he shrugged. "Forgive me, sometimes we tend
take to much upon ourselves." continued. "Aranarth
thought to give your people time to recover and
rebuild, and afterwards there seemed no reason you
involve you directly as you were doing good service as
you were."

Beomann gave him a look of open skepticism and he
smiled. "No truly, not only did you grow the food we
needed to sustain us but you kept Arnor from turning
entirely into the Wild."

The younger Man thought that over. "Well...maybe
you've got a point there. But I still think we should
have been told."

"Maybe we were wrong." Gil conceed, flashed a quick
smile, "it wouldn't be the first time. But please
believe we meant no slight to your people's valor or
their loyalty."

"All right." Beomann mumbled, feeling mollified
almost in spite of himself, and a little silly.

"I'm glad your folk hold no grudge as we will be
needing your help badly." the Ranger continued.

"*Our* help?" Beomann repeated, incredulously.

Gil nodded, picked up the letter he'd been reading
off the parapet ledge. "Aragorn - Strider, the King -
has in his infinite wisdom resolved to rebuild the
cities." his dry tone suggested he was none to
enthusiastic about the idea.

But Beomann's eyes glowed. "Rebuild the cities?
Norbury and Sudbury and Wutherington?" (1)

Gil's eyebrows rose a little and he tilted his head
thoughtfully. "The idea appeals to you?'

"Of course! You need us to help with the building?"

A shake of the head. "No, we'll have the Dwarves
and our kin from the South to help us there, We need
you to teach us how to live in a settled country
again." Beomann stared and he smiled wryly. "We've
lived lone in the Wild for more than a thousand years,
and its been at least that long since we practiced any
trade but war." his face turned suddenly sad. "Much
has been forgotten," he continued softly, "commerce
and crafts and the growing of food. We can relearn
those things from you."

Beomann had a brief, incongruous vision of a class
of solemn Rangers listening attentively as he lectured
them on innkeeping. "If that's what you want."
*********************************************

1. Norbury is Fornost, Sudbury Cardol and Wutherington
was the city that once stood on the slopes of
Weathertop beneath Minas Sul, the Tower of the Winds.

Treebole and Dan escorted the wagons back to Bree.
Their folk welcomed the train home with almost tearful
relief, but listened rather skeptically to stories of
golden towers and silver trees and magic gates.

To Beomann's surprise his father seemed even less
enthusiastic about rebuilding the cities than Gil had
been. "We don't want a lot of outsiders tearing up the
Wild and making trouble. We've had enough of that!"

"Dad! This would be the Rangers." Beomann
protested, scandalized.

Butterbur had the grace to look embarrassed. "Well
of course that's a little different, no offense meant."

"Naturally they want to live like decent folk
again," Mrs. Butterbur said, with a kindly smile at
Dan, "who wouldn't, the poor dears."

"Perfectly understandable you'd be concerned, Mr.
Butterbur," Treebole said with a straight face but a
fugitive glint of amusement in his eye, "given what's
happened here lately. But I promise you the Dunadan's
thinking of proper settlements of respectable folk
following the King's Law, not camps of brigands or
tramps, and none near enough to Bree to crowd you."

"Wutherington would be the closest and it's more
than twenty leagues away as the crow flies." Dan put
in encouragingly.

"Just think how good it will be for business, Dad,"
Beomann added, "what with people travelling back and
forth between the cities and all."

"That would be all to the good." Butterbur
admitted. "But the idea takes a little getting used
to, if you take my meaning. We don't like change here
in Bree, 'specially since it's mostly for the worst -
or has been."

Treebole smiled wryly. "Well if it's any comfort to
you, Mr. Butterbur, we're none to sure how we feel
about it either. It's been quite a while since we
lived like 'decent folk' and it's going to take some
getting used to for us too."
***

Beomann just couldn't seem to settle back down to
the hum-drum life of Bree. It wasn't that he yearned
for white marble cities with golden domes, the very
air fairly stiff with magic - far from it! What he
couldn't stand was the thought of all the things going
on out there somewhere; battles being fought, cities
rebuilt and a kingdom being reborn with him knowing
nothing about it and having no part in it at all.

His father saw his discontent and it worried him.
"We should never have let him go," he told the Missis,
"who knows what ideas it's put into his head?"
But he, Butterbur, was getting some odd notions of his
own these days.

Part of him wanted Bree to stay exactly the way it
was, just as he'd told Treebole. Yet somehow he
couldn't forget the vision Silverlock's song had shown
him; the fruitful, golden land with tall cities and
tall Kings to guard it. If Strider - the King he
should say - could bring those days back again surely
it would be a good thing? Dimly Butterbur forsaw the
possibility of a larger, more prosperous Bree. No
longer a lonely island of habitation lost in the Wild
but an important center in a greater realm.

It was more than a month since Dan and Treebole had
disappeared into the Wild, on patrol they said, and
neither they nor any other Ranger had been seen in
Bree since. The lack of news was driving Beomann half
mad.

"And they have these lamps," he told his mother and
sisters early one morning as they swept and scrubbed
the common room for another day's custom, "glassy
globes in silver cages. Perfectly clear by day but at
night they glow all silvery-blue. And they hang them
from the trees lining the streets and in the parks to
light them up at night."

"Dear me," said his mother, "how does anybody get
any sleep then?"

"Oh it's not so bright as all that." Beomann
assured her. "And it's very pretty to see, like little
moons caught in the branches of the trees."

"Hmmm." Ishbel Butterbur straightened to give her
son a thoughtful look. "Pretty maybe, but it doesn't
sound very homey to me."

"It's not." he agreed ruefully. "I'm glad to have
seen the Kings' City but I wouldn't want to live
there!" he meant it too, every word, and his mother
knew it and was satisfied.

"I'd like to see it too." Lusey, Beomann's youngest
sister, said suddenly.

Her mother frowned at her, then smiled. "To tell
the truth so would I. Maybe someday we'll let Beomann
take us there." and all four of her children looked at
her in amazment for Ishbel had never gone farther than
the Forsaken Inn, nor wanted to. Not even to the
annual fair at Hoarwelling.

The outer door opened and Mr. Butterbur hurried to
the counter to greet the first customer of the day.
"Longbow!"

Beomann dropped his broom and rushed around the bar
to see for himself. All Rangers were tall, topping the
Bree Men by a half head or more, but Longbow was a
real giant, the tallest Man Beomann had ever seen, and
carried a bow as long as he was, hence his name.

"Has there been any more trouble with the Hill
Men?" he demanded, "and have they started the
rebuilding yet? And is there any word of when the
King's coming home?"

Longbow looked at him in astonishment and his
father clucked his tongue. "Now, now, Beomann, what
kind of greeting is that? At least let the Man sit
down before you start pelting him with questions."

"That's all right, Mr. Butterbur." Longbow assured
him, smiled kindly down at Beomann. "I'm afraid I
don't know any more about the state of the northern
frontier than you, my duty lies in the south and the
east. Nor do I know when Aragorn plans to come home,
soon I hope. As for the rebuilding, that's why I've
come, to meet Gilvagor and Aranel and inspect the
sites of Wutherington and Sudbury."

"Gil's coming here?"

Longbow nodded. "Bree is a convenient meeting place
for us. They should arrive sometime today."

"That's nice," Butterbur said, perhaps a little to
heartily, "always a welcome for Rangers here." Longbow
had the courtesy to betray no surprise at this
startling new sentiment. "And what is your right
name?"

"Belegon son of Belecthor." the Innkeeper's face
congealed and he added quickly. "But Longbow does very
well."

"No, no, Belegon it is." repeated to himself under
his breath. "Bel-e-gon, Bel-e-gon. Right, got it."

Who is this 'Aranel' coming with Gil?" Barliman
Butterbur asked his eldest son as the two of them
hastily swallowed their lunch in the kitchen. Ishbel,
hands covered with flour, was making pies further down
the long wooden table.

"That's Lightfoot's real name." Beomann answered
and saw his mother's face congeal. "She's Gil's
sister." he continued quickly remembering Ishbel's
past comments on that subject, ('Shameless hussy and
no better than she should be I'll warrant!) "her
husband was killed in the fighting up north I told you
about."

Mrs. Butterbur's expression changed, as if by
magic, from scorn to burning sympathy. "Oh the poor
thing! any children?"

"Three, including a new baby."

"Oh my! how dreadful, the poor dear."

Beomann reflected ruefully that 'poor dear,' was
not a phrase he'd ever apply to Lightfoot, widow and
mother of orphaned children though she might be.

When Gil finally appeared late that afternoon he
had not just Aranel but her two elder children with
him: Daeron, a dark, serious faced boy of nine; and
six year old Lalaith, a pretty golden haired little
thing whose big blue eyes and beaming smile instantly
won the heart of everybody in stable yard and Common
Room.

"Really, Lightfoot - Mistress Aranel I meant to say
- dragging young children all this way through the
Wild. I'd have expected you to know better!" Ishbel
scolded as she cut generous slices of cake and served
them to the two children.

"Daeron will be Warden of the Weather Hills
someday, and so responsible for any settlement below
Weathertop." Aranel explained calmly, adding with a
glint of humor. "And if Daeron was to have his head
cut off Lalaith would insist on loosing hers too, on
the same block to the same axe."

Ishbel nodded ruefully. "Don't I know it, my lot
are just the same." She poured a couple of tall
glasses of buttermilk for the little ones and snuck
another sidelong look at their mother.

Lightfoot had always been rather too pretty in her
dark mysterious way to suit the goodwives and maidens
of Bree, but all of a sudden Ishbel saw she was not
merely pretty but beautiful - more beautiful than any
ordinary Woman could be, like a lady in an old story
from the Days of the Kings. She couldn't understand
how she'd never noticed before.

Certainly she wasn't the only one noticing now! The
number of dropped jaws and round eyes in the Common
Room had moved her to suggest a private parlor - using
the children as an excuse.

Why even old Barliman, loving and loyal husband
that he was, could barely tear his eyes away and kept
losing the thread of the conversation he was having
with Gil and Longbow - or Belegon as he called
himself.

"Provisioning the building crews will be the main
problem, if Aragorn insists on proceeding with this
project." Gilvagor said, firmly drawing the
Innkeeper's wandering attention back to himself.
"We're going to need your help there Master
Butterbur."

"You don't mean to quarter all those Dwarves and
Men from down South here in Bree, do you?" Barliman
asked in lively alarm.

"Certainly not." Gil reassured him. "They'll camp
on the building site. But I was hoping you'd be
willing to use your connections to help us keep them
fed - for a suitable commission of course!"

"Oh, yes, of course." that sounded promising
anyway. "Er, when can we expect all these folk?"

"Not for another year or two at least." Gil
replied, even more reassuringly. "Plenty of time to
make the necessary arrangements."

And to get used to the idea. But after all they'd
always had odd folk passing through Bree. What were a
few more - especially if they were good paying
customers for the Inn?

The parlor door opened and Beomann came in
balancing a tray with a pair of fresh pitchers of beer
on it. He set it on the table in front of the three
Men and said in a rush; "Gil, there's something I
wanted to ask you."

The Ranger raised a gently interrogative eyebrow
and Barliman Butterbur looked apprehensively at his
eldest son who blurted: "What would I have to do to
join the Rangers?"

Barliman's mouth opened but nothing came out.
Ishbel was similarly struck speechless, clutching the
milk jug to her breast.

Beomann rushed on: "I know you take folk who aren't
your kind, Dan told me, so - so would you take me?"

"As you yourself pointed out the Men of Bree are as
much the King's Folk as the Dunedain or the Men of
Rhudaur -" Gil began mildly, only to be interupted by
a heartfelt cry from Ishbel.

"He mustn't go! what will we do without him?"

"Quite right." her husband agreed. "What are you
thinking of, Son? We need you here at home."

"You do not! You've got plenty of hands to do the
work of the Inn." Beomann snapped back, then
contritely. "I'm sorry, Dad, but I'll go crazy if I
stay here. The Realm's coming back to life and I want
to be a part of it!"

"You'll get yourself killed!" his mother wailed,
"fighting Barrow Wights and who knows what other
horrors!"

"I can't promise he won't get killed, but I do
promise he'll be taught to defend himself." Gil
answered her.

Beomann's face lit up. "Does that mean you'll take
me?"

"Not against your parents' will," Gil looked at the
elder Butterburs, "but such enthusiasm should not be
wasted." even more gently. "You must have expected
this."

Barliman nodded heavily. "I've been afraid of it
ever since he came back from your city." looked at his
wife. "Beomann's of age, Sweetheart, we'd have no
right to stop him if he took it into his head to
become a trader or move to Staddle, I don't see how
this is any different."

Ishbel didn't argue, just stood there dripping
tears. Aranel put a gentle hand on her shoulder. "All
children all lost from the begining, Mrs. Butterbur.
Like hawks they must be let to fly when the time
comes."

"I do not forsee death for Beomann, Ishbel." Gil
told her, "And I do see him coming home, in time, to
Bree."

"Of course I will!" Beomann but his arms around his
mother. "I love Bree, I wouldn't want to live anywhere
else. I just want to see other places too, and be
where things are happening."

Longbow - Belegon - smiled. "You're not the first
Butterbur to feel that way, my friend. Sir Tolman
would be proud of you."

All three Butterburs stared at him in confusion.
"Who?"

Belegon's eyebrows knit in a slight frown. "Tolman
Butterbur of Upwood who fell in the final defense of
Cardol. I don't know what kin he would be to you but
surely that's his shield you have above your bar?"

"Is it?" Barliman said a little blankly. "Upwood
did you say? That's our family all right. We had a
good farm there before the Great Dying (1) drove us
north to Bree."

"One of my ancestors was a King's knight?" Beomann
asked wonderingly.

"More than one." said Belegon. "There were several
others I believe, but Sir Tolman is the only one
remembered in song."

"Remembered in song." Ishbel echoed, squared her
shoulders. "Well then, Son, you have something to live
up to don't you!"

"I don't doubt but he will." said Gil.
************************************************

(1) The terrible Plague of 1636 decimated the
non-Dunedain population of Cardolan. The survivors
fled northward in hopes of escaping the contagion
which was said to be less virulent in the higher,
cooler clime near the road.

King Elboron of Cardolan died not of the plague but
of exhaustion from his unavailing efforts to save the
sick and grief over his failure to do so, leaving no
direct heir. The High King took the depopulated
country's scepter back into his own hands and Cardolan
ceased to exist as a seperate sub-kingdom.

Beomann stood in his room looking discouragedly at
everything he owned in the world piled up on his bed.
Turned gratefully at a knock at the door.

"Come in." delightedly: "Dan!"

The young Ranger smiled. "The Captain tells me
you're joining us."

Beomann nodded, looked again at the bed. "But I
don't know what to take."

Dan raised his eyebrows slightly. "You didn't have
any trouble packing for your last trip to Annuminas
did you?"

Beomann shook his head. "But that was just for a
short visit, now I'm going there to *live* - maybe for
years."

"That does make a difference." Dan agreed, studied
the heap on the bed. "Well you're not going to need
that," he said pointing to Beomann's holiday suit,
"but you are definitely going to be wanting *that*."
and the pointing finger shifted to the sword from the
barrow.

The Breelander smiled palely. "I figured out that
much for myself."

"I think you can leave the ninepins and throwing
rings," Dan continued with twinkle in his eye as
Beomann blushed, "but take the bow and the folding
knife."

"It's not much of a bow, just for playing at
rovers." Beomann said apologetically.

"It will do for target practice at least, until we
can get you another." the Ranger answered. "What is
this, a book?"

Beomann blushed again, even redder. "Oh that. A
trader came through a few years ago with a lot of odds
and sods from some estate sale in the Shire. It's a
collection of old stories."

"So I see," Dan said, turning the pages. "'The
Coming of the King', 'The Tale of Whiteflower', 'The
Dragon of Gram Mountain', 'The Deed of the
Woodcutter's Son', 'The Song of the Lonely Queen',
'The Quest of the Knights of the North'..." he shook
his head wonderingly. "I'd never have guessed your
folk or the Little Ones remembered so much from the
Olden Times."

"You thought we'd forgotten about the Kings didn't
you?" Beomann challenged.

"Frankly yes. It has been a dozen lives of your
kind of Men since there was a King in the North, more
than enough time to be forgotten. Or so we all
thought."

"Well you were wrong."

"So I see." Dan smiled ruefully. "And not for the
first time."

Beomann licked his lips. "Are they true, the
stories I mean."

"Oh yes," the Ranger answered, still studying the book.
"well mostly. We have histories that tell them in
full."

Beomann's face lit up - then fell. "In Westron?"

"Some, but many more are written in Sindarin, or
the High Tongue of Old."

"Are those hard to learn?" Beomann asked anxiously.

"Very. Or so the Men of Rhudaur tell us." Dan
smiled encouragingly. "But you will have all the help
you could wish for if you want to try."
***

When he came downstairs, saddlebags packed, Beomann
discovered his Dad and Mum had bought him a horse
as a going away present, one of the fine Thornhill
riding stock favored by all the gentry. A beautiful
animal, bright bay with black stockings and an
intelligent eye, who must have cost a mort of silver
pennies.

Beomann was touched almost to tears by the
gesture, and found himself choking up in the most
unexpected and embarrassing way - and at his age too!
- as he said his good-byes.

The Rangers - the *other* Rangers Beomann reminded
himself - had tacfully taken themselves off to the
stableyard so he had a chance to pull himself together
and dry his eyes before going to join them.

Half the town turned out to see them go. Beomann,
acutely aware of the sword buckled over his jacket,
and breeches, was certain he looked more than a little
ridiculous even on the new horse. But happily the
townsfolk's attention was mostly on young Daeron and
his sister, Ranger children being something they'd
never seen or even imagined before.

Beomann caught more than a few disapproving looks
and somber headshakings among the old gaffers, but
saw also some wistful and even envious expressions
on the faces of the younger folk. Then they were out
the open gate and on the Great Road heading westward.
***

"What is his name?" Gil asked.

Beomann blinked blankly up at him then realized the
Ranger was talking about his new horse. "Brandywine,
like the river."

"Which we call the Baranduin. 'Baran' meaning
golden brown and 'duin' river."

"So duin is your word for river." Beomann said
tucking the fact away.

"One of them." Gil answered. "'Sir' is also river,
deriving from an ancient High Elven root meaning
'flow' as of water. Or 'Celu' which refers
specifically to swift running waters."

"Duin, Sir, Celu." Beomann repeated. "Three
different names for the same thing?"

"Elves love words and coined many, each with its
own subtle shades of meaning." Gil explained. "One of
the things that make their languages so difficult to
learn and even harder to use correctly."

"That's encouraging." Beomann said gloomily.

The Ranger smiled. "Yet many Men have learned to
speak both tongues well, no reason why you should not
- if you are willing to work at it."

"I want to read those books Dan mentioned." Beomann
told him.

"Then we shall have to teach you the tengwar, the
Elvish script, as well."

"They can't even write with the same letters as the
rest of us?" the Breelander demanded almost
despairingly.

"All letters are Elven in origin." Gil replied
calmly. "Eastern Men and the Dwarves adapted the Grey
Elven cirth to their own uses. But the Tengwar is the
alphabet of the High Elves of the West, adopted by the
Fathers of Men in ancient times." he smiled. "But
since Men are changeable by nature we must needs alter
anything that comes to our hand to suit ourselves. The
letters you learned are not quite the same as those
used by my kin which have deviated least from the
Elven mode."

Beomann sighed. "Fine. So I have to learn two
languages and a new alphabet as well. It'll give me
something to do in between fighting Wights and Bandits
and Orcs and what else."

Gil laughed. "Don't forget rebuilding long ruined
cities."

"I haven't." said Beomann.

Brandywine was three hands shorter than the very
tall and rather shaggy horses the Rangers rode but
kept pace with the best of them as they alternately
walked and trotted until mid-afternoon when the
company stopped at the Forsaken Inn for lunch.

The Forsaken was much smaller than the Pony, and
had a discouraged, run down look as it huddled behind
its protective stockade of massive logs. A lonely
outpost of the Breeland it was run by a cousin of
Beomann's. Bannock Butterbur didn't have much to say
about the company his young relative had fallen into
but he shook his head a lot. And Aunt Alisoun kept
muttering 'Your poor mother!' under her breath
whenever Beomann was in earshot.

But Cousin Ban, unlike Barliman, rather liked the
idea of new settlements. "More folk on the road means
more business for me." he observed, puffing his pipe.
The Forsaken, unlike the Pony, was almost entirely
dependent on travelers there being naught but a few
scattered homesteads near enough to give it regular
custom.

"Once the building begins you'll have all the
business you could wish for." Gilvagor assured him.

Ban brightened even more. "That sounds promising,
don't you think Mum?"

Aunt Alisoun snorted. "Don't count unhatched
chickens." she told her son. "I'll believe it when I
see it."

"I'm not sure I will even then." Gil replied and
smiled at her.

Old Mrs. Butterbur blinked, then to the
astonishment of her nephew and son, smiled in return -
all but cracking her face. "Not that good fortune
won't be welcome if it comes." she half apologized.
"But living hard in the Wild as we do, I don't like to
get my hopes up you see."

"Very well." said Gil.

They went on after an all to short lunch and
continued til nightfall. By this time Beomann was
feeling the effects of his long hours in the saddle
and even Brandywine was begining to droop, his neck
losing the proud arch of the morning.

Suddenly Longbow - no *Belegon* Beomann reminded
himself - who was in the lead, turned southward off
the road into the rolling grassland winding his way
between scattered clumps of brush and occasional stone
outcroppings.

"Where are we going?" Beomann whispered to Dan.

"To Tor Nencair (1), we'll spend the night there."

"Where?"

Dan remembered who he was talking to and explained
more fully. "A Ranger holding just off the Road."

"I thought you told me all your homes had been
destroyed." Beomann said, frowning in confusion.

"*North* of the Road. There are still some standing
south of it."
***

A mile off the Road a boy suddenly rose up out of
the dry winter grass, Belegon reined to speak to him,
unstartled as if he'd expected to be so met. Tall as
Beomann, but skinny with it as if he'd just got his
growth, dark haired and light eyed like most Rangers,
the boy was wrapped in a cloak of mottled greens and
browns that had rendered him invisible in the twilight
until he'd moved.

He exchanged a few soft words in the Ranger
language with Belegon, then walking at his stirrup,
led them around the slope of a down into a little
hollow.

At first Beomann didn't see the holding, then he
did and stared in disbelief. Several turf covered
roofs rose little more than Man high above the ground
beneath the steep face of the down. One of these
proved to be a stable, sunk deep into the earth and
reached by a covered ramp. They left the horses there,
cozy with beds of straw and mangers of hay, and
followed the boy to a cluster of long gabled roofs of
varying heights and down a steep flight of steps to a
door in a rough fieldstone wall.

Beomann followed Dan through and came to a full
stop, jaw dropping. He was standing on the threshold
of an unusually large but otherwise perfectly ordinary
kitchen with sanded floor, pewter plates on a dark
wooden dresser, and cured hams, strings of onions and
apples, and clumps of herbs hanging from the ceiling.

A girl stood at the long table chopping something
fine. And a Woman bent over a turning spit, ladling
juices over the meat. Aproned and flushed with the
kitchen heat they reminded Beomann, with a twinge of
homesickness, of his own mother and sisters dispite
the differences in height and coloring. A calico cat
dozed contentedly on one of the brick benches inside
the cavernous fireplace and the Woman, finished with
her basting, sat down on the other picked up a small
bowl and began adding pinches of something to a pot
bubbling on the fender.

Then Lightfoot nudged Beomann from behind and he
blushed and hastily followed Belegon, Gil and Dan
through a doorway in the wall next to the big
fireplace into what looked like a dining room.

Like the kitchen it was unusually large and longer
than it was wide, and nowhere near so homelike. The
walls were panelled with strips of willow and alder in
a chevron pattern and hung with colorful, intricately
patterned carpets. The chill of the flagstone floor
was muffled by mats of woven rushes and the ceiling
beams carved with spirals and flower shapes painted
blue and green and yellow and red.

A tall skinny boy, some five or six years younger
than Beomann at a guess, was setting a long table
covered with a fine linen cloth. The plates and
tankards were pewter, just like at home, but engraved
with designs of ships and stars and flowering trees.

A Man with snow white hair and beard rose from a
cushioned settle drawn up before the fire to greet
them, the first really old looking Ranger Beomann had
ever seen and he wondered, a little uneasily, just how
old one had to be before he started looking it.

He greeted them in the Ranger language but Belegon
answered in Westron, for Beomann's benefit. "Thank
you, Ingold, but I fear we're rather a large company
for you to put up on such short notice."

"Not at all, Captain." the old Man replied. "It
will fill up the empty spaces. We've been lonely, my
granchildren and I, with so much of the family away."
(2)

"And not likely to return anytime soon, I fear."
Belegon sighed. "All that can be said for conditions
in the South is that we're better off than the North."
and they both looked at Gilvagor.

He shrugged. "We have roofs over our heads and
enough food to get through the winter thanks to our
friends in Bree and the Shire." shook his head. "But
we will have to begin all over again and it's hard to
know where to start."

"Aragorn knows where he wants to start," Belegon
continued as they all found seats before the fire. "he
intends to rebuild the cities. Starting with Fornost,
Minas Sul and Cardol."

Ingold looked startled then dubious, and the two
boys setting the table stopped their work to stare.
"An ambitious undertaking." said their grandfather.
The doubt clear in his voice annoyed Beomann.

"Why doesn't anybody but me seem to like the idea?"
he blurted. "They were *your* cities after all you
should want to rebuild them now that you can!"

"It's been a very long time, even by our measure,
since we were city dwellers." Gil explained. "After
long years of living solitary in the Wild the idea of
living cheek by jowl with thousands of other Men is
not entirely appealing." sighed. "And I wonder if
there are enough of us left to people even one city
much less three."

"The numbers coming in to Annuminas show more have
survived than we at first dared to hope." his sister,
Lightfoot, reminded him. "And I have spoken with
emissaries of our kin over the Mountains. They are
weary of being guests and would like to come home."

"There are more of you?" Beomann asked, startled.
"Over what mountains?"

"The Ered Luin, the Blue Mountains." she explained.
"Your people's legend that we went to live with the
Elves is not entirely wrong, tens of thousands were
harried from their homes after the fall of Fornost and
found refuge in the Elven realm of Lindon. Many,
having no homes to return to, remained there and have
increased in number over the long years." looked at
her brother. "And they are accustomed to cities,
having known both the Havens and Cor Corion." (4)

Gil smiled wryly. "There you are, Beomann, some at
least of our people will welcome the rebuilding as you
do."
*******************************************

1. 'Watership Down', (assuming 'tor' is singular for
Tyrn. ;) I couldn't resist.

2. The Men of age to bear arms, Ingold's son-in-law,
grandson and the husbands of his great-granddaughters,
are on Ranger duty in the former Cardolan, tracking
down fugitive orcs and wargs and putting down bandits
preying on the local population and refugees from the
troubles further south. His daughter and
granddaughter-in-law are also away helping Belegon's
mother, the Lady of the Red Hills, mediate between
those refugees and the locals.

There are few settlements south of the Road, the
fairly large population of Men and Hobbits are
semi-nomadic after the fashion of American
frontiersmen. Building themselves log houses or
tunneling shallow holes and raising a few crops before
moving on when the fancy takes them. These folk are
far better acquainted with Rangers than their settled
kin, though they have no more idea who they really
are, and are accustomed to enlisting their help in
dealing with raiding Orcs or Dunlendings.

The refugees are for the most part simple country
folk of Gondor and Rohan and a few Dunlendings all
wanting to settle down and build new lives somewhere
away from the troubles down South. This has brought
them into conflict with the present inhabitants who
don't like the idea of their Wild being torn up
anymore than Barliman Butterbur did.

(3) The Dunedain of Lindon still regard themselves as
subjects of Isildur's Heirs and over the centuries
many have crossed the Mountains to take service with
them. But as the numbers of Elves dropped and those of
the Dunedain increased they became vital to the
defense of Lindon's long coast against attacks by the
Dark Fleet out of Tol Fuin.

(4) The City of Circles, Gil-Galad's ancient capital
and seat of those Noldor remaining in Middle Earth.

Master Ingold and his family were the first Rangers
Beomann had met who seemed almost like plain folk -
almost.

He and Dan slept in the loft over the dining room,
or hall as the Rangers called it. The sharply peaked
ceiling was lined with waxed cloth, to protect the
occupants from soil filtering through the boards from
the sod roof, and the cloth painted with strange
looking trees and flowers. There were four beds, low
but very long, one in each corner. And each had a
bench at its foot with pitcher, washbasin, and folded
linen towels; and a candlestand with a white beeswax
candle in a copper holder at the head.

The pitchers were taller and slimmer than
Breelander fashion, and the basins wide and shallow.
Both were glazed a deep rich red and decorated with
designs like those on the wall hangings below. The
towels had embroidered borders and the candleholders
were wrought in the shape of coiled dragons.

"Dan," Beomann said suddenly, after the candles had
been blown out, "how old do your people have to be
before you start looking it?"

"A hundred forty or so as a rule." he answered.
Then: "In case you're wondering, Ingold is one hundred
and sixty-one. A very great age indeed for one not of
a Half-Elven house."

"A hundred and sixty-one!" Beomann's eyes popped
wide open. "Are you sure? How do you know?"

There was a smile in Dan's voice as he replied:
"Because his granddaughter married my grandfather."

"He's your great great gandfather?"

"That's right."

Beomann gulped air like a newly landed fish. Now
there was a thought! His grandfather had lived long
enough to see his grandchildren, and Granny Butterbur
was still alive, living with Aunt Belle. But imagine
having not just grandparents but great grandparents
and great great grandparents! He began to grasp dimly
some of the implications of the Rangers' very long
lives.

But Dan was still talking. "Normally Grandfather
would have passed on before this, but he didn't want
to leave his family in such terrible times. I suppose
he'll hang on a few more years, long enough to see our
present troubles settled, before laying down his
life."

"What?" Beomann turned on his side to look at the
other bed, just visible in the dim red firelight
reflected through the open trapdoor from the hall
below. "Dan, are you saying you people can *choose*
when you're going to die?"

"Well, sort of. It's one of the gifts the Valar
gave to us - as a reward for our Fathers' help in the
Wars against the Great Enemy - that we should have
long lives of undimished vigor with a short, swift
aging at the end. It is our custom to give up our
lives willingly before we become enfeebled in mind and
body."

"You mean you just say; 'I think I'll die today.'
lay yourselves down and do it?" Beomann asked
incredulously.

"Well no, not just like that." Dan was begining to
sound a little uncomfortable. "First you make your
peace with Arda, with the world that is. Repent of
your errors and amend them where you can; let go of
attachments to home and kin and concentrate your heart
and will on the One. Then, when you desire reunion
with Him more than continuing your life in the world,
you're ready to pass on. They say when you reach that
point it really is as easy as lying down and going to
sleep."

Beomann, struggling with half a dozen new and
strange ideas, chose the least disturbing of them. "So
Ingold's not quite ready to go because he's worried
about his family?"

"That's right." Dan sounded relieved the Breelander
had gotten the point so easily, or maybe that he
hadn't asked any of those other, more awkward
questions.

Beomann flopped back against his pillow. And here
he'd just been thinking maybe the Rangers weren't such
a strange folk after all!
***

Beomann continued their journey the next day in a
pensive and distracted frame of mind. Naturally Gil
noticed, or perhaps Dan dropped him a word, for after
a few hours on the road - long enough for misty dawn
to give way to full daylight - he fell back alongside
the Breelander.

"Is something troubling you, Beomann?" he asked
after riding beside him in silence for several
minutes.

"I just can't get a handle on you Rangers!" Beomann
burst out - to his own considerable surprise.
"Sometimes I think you're not so different from us
Bree Men - and other times that you're weirder than
Elves and Dwarves put together!"

Gil smiled, but wryly. "You're right on both
counts, my friend. We are Men like other Men, and yet
we're not. It's not very comfortable for us either." a
sidelong twinkle. "But of course from our point of
view it is you Breelanders who are the odd ones."

Beomann stared up at him, half outraged, half
astonished. "There's nothing odd about us Bree Folk!"

"Isn't there?" Gil asked, suddenly quite serious.
"Our country folk have a gift for peace, for
contentment, that Men of my kind can only envy.
Granted you can be narrow, and parochial and quite
infuriatingly stubborn," a shadow of a smile quickly
fading, "but for all that, there are no folk anywhere
so steadfast in the face of peril or privation."

Beomann could only stare back at him, moved beyond
words but incredulous "Us?"

"Yes you!" Gil answered. "It has been many long
years since your strength was tested - we Rangers saw
to that - but it's still there, ready to come forth at
need." quietly. "To stand fast against the kind of
terror wielded by Barrow Wights is no small feat, yet
your father and the other Bree Men did so - as I knew
they could." smiled. "And you, my reckless young
friend, followed me into the barrow itself which I
most certainly did not expect - but am most grateful
for."

And Beomann, blushing to the ears, found himself
wondering suddenly just how much a desire to live up
to the Rover's trust in them had had to do with the
Bree Men's unexpected courage - and his own.

Wutherington was a deep disappointment.

"I said it was in ruin." Dan reminded Beomann a
little sharply.

"I know, I know. I wasn't expecting Annuminas -" he
looked up at the steep, rock strewn hillside, "but you
can't even tell there was a city here."

"Five times Minas Sul was overrun, and four times
retaken and rebuilt." Lightfoot, the Lady Aranel, said
softly. "When the Enemy was driven back for the fifth
time we discovered he had had the city razed to the
ground, so scarcely one stone was left atop another,
and we did not rebuild it. Time finished what the
Enemy began, but we do not forget."

There was a little silence, broken by her young son
Daeron. "You can't see it from below like this, but
when you look down from above you can see the outlines
of houses and streets."

The boy was right. Standing at the edge of the flat
top of the hill and looking down Beomann could indeed
make out a tangle of lines, light against the slightly
darker grass, that might have been the foundations of
buildings with streets and alleyways snaking between
them - more like Bree really than Annuminas. The city
had only reached about two thirds of the way up the
hill. Above the other buildings but still a few
hundred feet short of the top was a massive shelf or
terrace built out from the hillside on which Beomann
could see the outlines of larger buildings.

"That's the citadel," Daeron told him, "where my
ancestors lived from the time Urin founded the city to
the end of the Witch Wars."

It took Beomann a minute to place the name. "Urin?
the Lord Urin who they say ruled the land before the
King and fought the Dark Lord himself? He was a real
person?"

The boy gave him a reproachful look with grey eyes
very like, had Beomann only known it, the Lord Urin's
own. "Of course he was real, I am his heir."

Huhh?

"Urin's House, the Maglavorni, is older even than
that of the Kings, the most ancient Mortal lineage
surviving in Middle Earth." said Daeron's mother. "And
they have governed the midlands since the end of the
First Age when Urin led his people across the
mountains from foundered Beleriand and built the City
of the Winds."

"How long ago was that?" Beomann demanded, though
not at all sure he really wanted to know.

"Something over six thousand years." was the
stunning reply.

He shook his head. "And we've always said in Bree
that we were the oldest settlement west of the Great
Mountains."

"You are." Aranel said even more astonishingly.
"There was a village on Bree hill when Urin passed
through, and it was old even then. There's been a
settlement at Bree from the time Men first came into
the Westlands." she smiled at Beomann, dazzling him.
"Your town is far older than the Dunedain."

Once again he had a vertiginous glimpse of the
depths of time underlying his world, but this time he
saw also a little village on the side of a hill
outlasting war and pestilence and the rise and fall of
Kingdoms and felt a sudden fierce pride in his
homeland.

"Not much to work with I fear." Gil said, glanced
at his sister. "As for the tower..." and they all
turned to look at what remained of the great
Watchtower of Elendil.

It stood near the middle of the plateau upon a
rocky knoll, but the fragmentary walls reached no
higher than Belegon's head. It was as if the tower had
been sheered away and the upper parts carried off by
some titanic force.

"There was a watchtower on Amon Sul from Urin's
time," Gil told Beomann, "but they were simple, wooden
structures. It was Elendil who had built the Great
Tower of Amon Sul, surrounded by a shell keep to house
the garrison he set here to guard his eastern
frontier."

Belegon and Dan, with little Lalaith tagging
happily after them, walked a great circle around the
tower stub, studying the ground. Arriving back at
their starting place, Belegon looked at Gil and shook
his head.

"The keep's completely gone. They even dug up the
foundations."

Aranel, rather startlingly, smiled. "They would."

"I must admit a watchtower here would be very
useful." Gil mused. "But I fear rebuilding city and
tower keep is beyond our power, even with the help of
the Dwarves." saw the disappointment on Beomann's face
and smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry but we just
don't have the resources Elendil had."

"Aragorn is now King in Gondor." Aranel reminded
him, but doubtfully.

It was Belegon who answered. "Gondor's little
better off than we, from what the refugees say. She'll
have all she can do to restore herself."

"I don't really care," Daeron said seriously, "as
long as we can rebuild Greymere." looked worriedly at
his Uncle.

Gil smiled gently down at him. "That much we can
and will do." Continued briskly. "In fact I would much
prefer to concentrate on rebuilding our strongholds
along the Line and leave more ambitious plans for
later. Much later."

"Aragorn is King." his sister reminded him.

"So he is, but that doesn't mean he can command the
impossible."
***

Though bitterly disappointed Beomann couldn't help
but see Gil's point. Clearly building a whole new city
in the middle of the Wild, which was what it amounted
to, was impossible. And if they did, who would want to
live in it? Not Breelanders, and apparently not the
Rangers either.

They spent the night in a cave hollowed into the
knoll beneath the foundations of the tower, and the
next morning climbed back down the hill, crossed the
road and headed south-west towards the ruins of
Sudbury.

As the company of Rangers zig-zagged up the path
running through the ditches and earthen ramparts
defending the hilltop stronghold of the Wardens of the
South Downs Beomann heard a buzz of voices, like Bree
on market day, Women's mostly, punctuated by the
shouts and laughter of children. An altogether
startling amount of noise for a holding of the
habitually silent Rangers.

Looking at his companions he saw they were equally
surprised, exchanging puzzled looks. They passed
through a short passage between the overlapping banks
of the final rampart and emerged into what seemed at
first glance a busy village square crowded with Women
and children, both Big and Little, who would have
looked right at home on the streets of Bree if only
they'd been wearing decent clothes instead of leather
and fleece. But mixed in with them were folk of other
kinds; some looked almost like Rangers, tall and fair
skinned with dark hair and light eyes, yet were not
quite Rangerlike in their bearing; others were golden
haired and blue eyed; and still others dark of hair
and eye with swarthy complexions.

Beomann saw what looked like a large brick and half
timbered house with barns and byres and sheepfolds and
cattle pens. And tucked in and around them dozens of
rough, turf roofed shelters with the women sitting in
front of them, knitting and gossiping and watching
their children play.

Daeron and Lalaith brightened visibly at the sight
of other children and darted off to join them the
moment they were lifted down from their pillion seats
behind mother and uncle. The rest of the party were
still busy with their horses when a tall Ranger Woman
in a soft grey gown walked into the stable, sunlight
falling through the loft windows brought out a
reddish sheen in her dark hair.

"Beomann Butterbur, my sister Angwen our hostess."
said Belegon introducing them "Not that she hasn't
already a plentitude of guests!" Continued to his
sister: "What is this? When I stopped here on my way
to Bree our folk and the refugees were ready to go
their own ways."

"So they were, but every spot the new people
suggest for their settlement draws cries of protests
from our own folk." Angwen looked slightly harried.
"My hall is full of quarreling Men. I don't mind
telling you, Belegon I am near to losing patience with
the lot of them!"

"And the Lady of the South Downs has ever been
notable for her patience!" said Gil, the teasing note
very clear in his voice.

"I haven't taken a battle axe to them yet have I?"
the lady retorted. "Though I warn you, Brother, my
forbearance may not last much longer!"

"Let me see what I can do." said Belegon.
***

Belegon, Gilvagor, Aranel, Dan and Beomann followed
Angwen through a doorway onto a sort of platform
overlooking a very long, very high room with benches
lined up against the walls beneath pictured tapestries
and a dozen or so Men, half like Breelanders and half
of the other kinds, together with a few Hobbits,
standing in the middle of it wrangling away at the
tops of their voices.

Suddenly Belegon walked away from the rest of them
to stand alone at the top of the three or four steps
leading down to the main floor. He stood there in a
shaft of light from a high window, one hand on the
hilt of his sword, and it was almost as if he'd tossed
aside some concealing cloak. Beomann, who'd known
'Longbow' all of his life and travelled with him for
the better part of a week, suddenly saw a kingly power
flash from him like sword from scabbard, and a silver
light burn bright in his eyes. The arguing Men felt
his gaze upon them and one by one turned to look and
fell silent, staring slack jawed.

Belegon allowed the silence to continue for a long
moment as they stared up at him and he looked down
upon them. And when at last he spoke his voice, though
not loud, filled the great room from floor to rafter
like distant thunder.

"I am Belegon son of Belecthor, Prince of
Carnarthon and governor of this land in the name of
the King. Tell me your quarrel."

Beomann, whose own mouth was dry as a bone, was
quite sure the Men would be unable to answer. Then one
of the Ranger looking strangers said, or rather
stammered. "King? Then it is true that there's a King
again?"

Belegon inclined his head slightly. "There is. He
is Elessar Telcontar, Elendil's Heir, and rightwise
born High King of Arnor and Gondor. I am his kinsman
and liege subject, as are you all." he allowed them
another moment to absorb that, before saying mildly.
"Now what is this quarrel of yours?"

The Bree type Men and Hobbits shifted their feet,
exchanged sheepish looks and finally one of the Men
said; "Well - sir - it just seems to us like these
here strangers are trying to take over and walk all
over the local folk."

"We have no such intent!" the Ranger looking Man
protested. Added a little shamefaced. "If we have
seemed high handed I apologize for it. All we want is
a plot of land to settle on."

Belegon raised his brows slightly. "A reasonable
enough request." there was a hint of a twinkle in his
eye as he continued: "Surely, Will Greenroot, there's
some untenanted patch of ground in the Southern Wild
you could spare?"

"Well when you put it that way -" Master Greenroot
conceeded, but still looked unhappy. "It's just that
this was our land once and we don't quite like the
idea of giving bits of it away to strangers if you
take my meaning."

"This is your land, Will," Belegon assured him
solemnly, "and shall always remain so. But these folk
are not strangers but our own long sundered kin.
Surely after all this time we can show them a better
welcome than angry looks and bitter words?"

Greenroot sighed. "When you're right, you're right
- sir." turned to the foreign Man beside him. "I'm
sorry, but life's been cruel hard these last years and
I guess it's made us close-fisted and distrustful of
outsiders."

"We should have remembered we are petitioners and
borne ourselves more humbly." the other Man answered.
Smiled a little ruefully. "But life's been 'cruel
hard' for us too - and having lost all, we cling to
our pride as the only thing left to us."

Will warmed visibly. "You know, that first spot you
picked isn't all that impossible - if you don't mind
neighbors."

"We would be glad of them." the stranger said as
warmly. "We have always lived in settled lands and
have much to learn about this Wild of yours."

One of the Hobbits chuckled. "You can say that
again, begging your pardon, but my folk can hear yours
coming a mile off and if we can who knows what else
can too?" and the Men who'd been practically at each
others throats just moments before shared a wry grin.

"Well now that's settled perhaps you'd like to
share the news with your good ladies, who I am sure
are growing impatient." Belegon suggested.

"Impatient." Will said resignedly. "I suppose
that's one way of putting it." which brought another
grin from Men and Hobbits both.

The strangers bowed to Belegon, the local folk
rather awkwardly following suit, and then the whole
assemblage poured out of the doors and into the noisy
sunlit yard.

"Now why didn't I think of that?" Angwen wondered
walking forward to her brother's side.

Belegon smiled down at her. "No doubt for the same
reason it never occured to me up to five minutes ago."
shrugged. "But if Aragorn's King in Gondor there's
surely no reason for the rest of us to stay in hiding.
Though I doubt our own people will be as impressed by
the Blood Royal as the Gondorim."

Beomann swallowed twice and was finally able to
make his voice work. "Trust me, we'll be impressed!"

Southwest of the downs was a country of low rolling
hills threaded with little silvery streams, dotted
with stands of trees and occasional outcroppings of
the rust red stone that had given the region its name
'Carnarthon' the Red Land.

Beomann had never been south of the Road before but
he knew this country from his grandfather's tales. The
Butterburs' original home had been somewhere near
here. A fine big farm, Grandad had said, outside a
village called Upwood and not far from the King's city
of Sudbury.

And here was Sudbury, rising from the lowlands
around it, and it was very different from
Wutherington. Not only was it immediately obvious that
a city had once stood here but you might even say it
still did - after a fashion.

"I must admit this looks more promising." Gil
conceeded.

"Certainly plenty to work with." Belegon agreed.

The ancient city of Cardol towered above them like
a mountain seven terraces high, each encircled by a
massive wall of rose red stone with broken gables and
domes showing above them between the leafy boughs of
evergreen trees. At the very top the ruinous stump of
a great tower, rising two or three stories above the
citadel wall, was silhouetted against the pale winter
sky.

A moat fed by five streams encircled the city with
a great earthen rampart rising above it crowned by the
first circuit wall, built of man sized blocks fitted
almost seamlessly together and interupted at regular
intervals by semicircular bastions, still sharp edged
and unweathered dispite centuries of neglect.

The company circled the city southward until they
came to the Greenway, the old, overgrown North-South
road. The stone bridge that had once crossed the moat
to the Great South Gate was broken, the missing center
span replaced by a rather makeshift arrangement of
wood and rope.

Beomann looked at it so dubiously that Dan had to
fight back a smile. "Don't worry, it's stronger than
it looks." he promised.

"I certainly hope so!" the Bree Man answered,
clearly unconvinced.

But although the bridge quivered alarmingly under
hoof, hold it did and the company passed safely
between the great guard towers and under a broad
arched span into the weedy remains of an open square,
the broad avenues running out of it on either side
overshadowed by tall evergreen trees, their branches
tangling together overhead to turn them into green
shadowed tunnels. Belegon led the party up the east
road. Looking from side to side Beomann saw roofless
facades with blindly gaping windows between the
massive tree trunks. Side streets opened off the main
avenue at regular intervals, those on one side sloping
down to the outer wall, and on the other up to the
second circuit wall. Every so often the avenue would
open up into a square decorated with the remains of
fountains and statues or pass through patches of
overgrown greenery that had once been parks or
gardens.

"The outer shells of the buildings are intact for
the most part, except where we've taken stone for the
nearer holdings," Belegon told Gil and Aranel, "though
the interiors were gutted by fire and pillage and
time. Yet a few score Dwarf masons could doubtless put
the stonework to right in short order and our own
carpenters rebuild floors and roofs."

"But who will live here?" Gil demanded.

"The Gondorim perhaps, many of them are townsfolk
and would doubtless prefer it to farming." Belegon
suggested.

"They can't be enough to fill all the seven
circles." Gil retorted, apparently determined raise
every possible objection.

"Belegon doesn't have to restore all the levels,"
his sister pointed out. "He can start with the citadel
and work his way down as the population grows.
"Really, Gilya, there's no need to be so contrary!"

"You're just determined not to like the idea aren't
you?" said Beomann.

"It strikes me as impractical and a waste of the
few resources we have." Gil snapped, then smiled
apologetically at the Bree Man. "But I have my orders
and will obey them, if not happily."

They wound their way up the seven levels to the
high citadel and found its great gate court all but
buried under the remains of the toppled tower. The
damage was worse here than in the lower circles, the
great halls and lesser buildings had not only been
gutted by fire but their walls partially pulled down.
The very pavements had been dug up and tiny fragments
were all that was left of the statues and fountains
that had once adorned the seat of the Kings of
Cardolan.

The whole party stood silent under the gate for a
long moment, looking at the wreckage.

"This will take more than a little work by
stonemasons and carpenters." Gil observed at last.

"The Dunlendings were very thorough." Belegon
agreed quietly.

"I hope they left at least one clear spot where we
may camp the night." Aranel said practically.
***

Beomann climbed up to the battlemented walk over
the gate and looked down at the ruined city. The ruddy
stone of which it had been built glowed in the light
of the setting sun, and Beomann felt his eyes sting.
"It must have been very beautiful once."

"It was indeed." Gilvagor agreed quietly: "Beril en
Harmen, the Rose of the South it was called in the Old
Days, the pride and delight of the Southern Kingdom."

Beomann turned to look at the Ranger, magically
materialized next to him. The finely modeled,
aristocratic features beneath their scrub of beard and
thatch of unkempt hair looked sad and wistful, like
one remembering lost splendors.

"Why are you so set against rebuilding it?" Beomann
asked bluntly.

"Because I do not think it can be done." Gil
answered. "The past cannot be called up again, and we
Dunedain and our cities belong to the past. Our time
is over."

"How can you say that when you're still here?"
Beomann demanded almost angrily. "Without you there
wouldn't be a Bree or a Shire or villages along the
Brandywine, nor towns in the Angle. There'd be nothing
but Wild from the Blue Mountains to the Misties, and
it all full of Orcs and Wargs and Bad Men from what
Dan says."

Gil smiled a little, but still sadly. "Thank you.
Yes we have saved that much, but much has been lost
and still more will be. The last of the High Elves are
preparing to leave Middle Earth and with them will go
many old friends and kin dear to us."

He was silent a moment, and when he continued he
seemed to be speaking to himself rather than Beomann,
perhaps even to have forgotten the Bree Man was there
to hear. "I didn't expect to have to deal with any of
this. I thought - we all thought - we marched North to
our deaths whether the Ringbearer succeeded or no." a
faint, wry grimace. "It's almost embarrassing to find
oneself still alive after having resolved to die nobly
in defense of the West."

Another brief silence, then very quietly: "And I am
tired, so tired. Rebuilding the holdings and the Line
is almost more than I can face. I have not the
strength or the courage to remake a realm." a sigh. "I
wish Aragorn would come home."

Beomann, appalled, pitying and desperately
embarrassed, found himself remembering the time, nigh
on two years ago, when his parents had left him in
sole charge of the Pony for a whole three weeks while
they went to help Aunt Alisoun after half the
Forsaken's roof had been blown off in an autumn storm
and Bannock laid up with a broken leg. How
overburdened he'd felt and how glad he'd been when his
parents had finally come home and taken the load off
his shoulders! Gil was much older of course, but then
he'd had a kingdom and a war left on his hands not
just an inn, anyway he seemed to be feeling much the
same now as Beomann had then. He tried to find
something to say.

"But you're not alone anymore," he managed at last,
"We Bree Folk will help, and the Hobbits of the Shire
and all the other villagers and townsmen. We can show
you how to farm and keep shops and all the rest just
like you asked. And the Dwarves will help with the
building and the folk from down South too." he ran out
of breath and inspiration at about the same time and
looked nervously at Gil to see what effect he'd had.

The Ranger stared at him in open surprise, he
really had forgotten Beomann was there. Then he
smiled. "Thank you, it's ungrateful of me to talk so
but my spirits have been flat on the ground ever since
our victory and I don't know why, nor how to raise
them."

Beomann didn't know either, but he found himself
wondering rather resentfully why Strider - the King -
was still lallygagging in the South with so much
trouble here in the North that needed fixing. High time he
came home!

The next morning they climbed back down the seven
levels of Cardol and once outside its gates turned
southwest towards Tol Ernil, Belegon's home. The hills
became fewer and lower and the gound between them soft
and boggy. Occasional clumps of willow and alder
gradually thickened into a dense forest of knarled and
ancient trees with meres of still water gleaming
sullenly among their roots.

Belegon wended his way confidently over this
treacherous ground, the rest of the party strung out
single file behind him and Beomann was very careful to
follow exactly in Gil's tracks for he could see no
path at all.

Then suddenly from up ahead he heard the
unaccountable ring of hoof on stone and a moment or
two later Brandywine stepped from boggy earth lumpy
with roots onto a moss patched causway running arrow
straight deeper into the wood. Beomann looked his
astonishment at Dan who just grinned.

"Not much farther now."

Three miles later the trees suddenly gave way to a
broad, mirror smooth moat reflecting the red stone
walls of a castle with a long gabled roof and the
pinacle of a tower showing above them. Beomann's mouth
dropped open but before he could get any questions out
they had clattered across the moat and through the
tunnel-like arch of a massive gatehouse into a cobbled
courtyard.

The gabled roof belonged to a very high, very long
building of the now familiar red stone. The winter
bare boughs of a huge and ancient oak tree shaded the
flight steps leading up to the great door. The tower
beside the hall was linked to it by an arcaded gallery
raised high above the ground on stout stone piers, and
had ten rows of windows, some set with colored glass,
glittering in the sunlight.

No faces appeared at those windows nor did anybody
emerge from the open door of the hall. The whole place
was silent and empty as the Elven Princess' Castle in
the Tangled Wood. Then some Rangers came out of the
gatehouse to take the horses, Mortal Men not Elves,
and Beomann silently berated himself for being so
foolishly relieved. Maybe he *had* read to many old
stories, just as his Dad had always said.

Inside the long building seemed to be one gigantic
room. the sun came through big windows, so high up
they looked small, and reflected off the red stone
walls and vaulted ceiling causing them to glow with a
warm and rosy light that made the immense and empty
hall seem far less cold and forbidding than one might
expect.

The floor was paved with squares of black, white
and red marble. Four doors were spaced at regular
intervals down each long wall, with three huge cold
fireplaces set between them. A seventh fireplace,
larger than the others, was centered on the curved
wall behind the dais at the head of the hall with
three black banners hanging above it: one emblazoned
with an arc of seven stars above a single much larger
star of many points; a second with a crossed bow and
quiver beneath another many pointed star; and the
third, hanging between them, ensigned with a green oak
tree, a golden sun shining in its boughs, beneath an
arch of seven silver stars.

"Where is everybody?" Beomann whispered to Dan as
they followed Belegon and Gil up the length of the
hall.

"Hollin or the Enedwaith or on patrol." the young
Ranger answered, "they are as hard pressed here in the
South as we in the North."

"Though with a somewhat different set of problems."
said Belegon without turning his head. "Hollin is the
land between the Loudwater and the Mountains, Beomann,
and Enedwaith the country south of the Greyflood."

"But that's not our land is it?" the Bree Man asked
uncertainly.

This time Belegon did look around with a smile.
"Exactly right. Old Cardolan was bounded by the Road
in the north, the Hoarwell in the east, the Brandywine
in the west and the Greyflood in the south. Hollin and
the Enedwaith have become lurking places for our
enemies and we have pursued them there."

By now they were climbing up the steps of the dais.
"The seven and one stars are the banner of the North
Kingdom," Belegon continued. "the bow and quiver is
the emblem of my House, the House of the Great Bow,
and there between them is the oak and sun of
Cardolan."

Beomann craned his neck to look up at it. 'That's
*our* banner,' he thought with a surprising surge of
emotion, 'our kingdom and our own king, near at hand
in Sudbury not far off at Norbury like the High
Kings.' Then with a sudden fierce determination:
'Strider - the King - is right. It *can* be that way
again and it will be, we'll make it so.'

A door tucked into a corner behind the dais led to
the wide arcaded passage between hall and tower. At
the end of it was a double door, made of some
red-golden metal brighter than copper, engraved with
the oak and sun. On the other side of that was a big
round room ringed by gleaming colums of dark grey
stone, huge arched windows filled with jewel toned
glass showing between them. A simple chair carved of
some red material stood on a small dais facing the
door.

Tucked behind a pillar was yet another door, this
one opening onto a long stone stair spiraling around a
great center post and lit by small, deepset windows.
They passed one landing, shaped like a slice of pie
with a door opening off it, continued on to a second.
This door Belegon opened.

Beomann had time to notice no more than the room
was large and bright with sunlight before a small form
crying "Papa! Papa!" hurtled out of nowhere to throw
itself into Belegon's arms. Only to catch sight of
Aranel's children a second later and promptly wiggle
free. "Lalaith, Daeron!"

"My son Bellin," Belegon explained to Beoman as the
little boy happily greeted his cousins. Bellin seemed
astonishingly small to be his tall father's son, a
pretty child, like Aranel's two, with light brown hair
and big blue eyes. "And this is my wife, Finduilas."

Beomann found himself looking up at a beautiful
lady much taller than himself, though barely coming to
her husband's shoulder, with a coil of golden hair and
deep blue eyes. Silverlock was the only other fair
haired Ranger he had ever seen and he wondered if
they were related.(1)

"Beomann Butterbur of Bree," Belegon was telling
his wife, "who's taken service with us."

Finduilas smiled at him. "Welcome to Tol Ernil,
Beomann Butterbur."

And he turned red to the ears and couldn't think of
a thing to say, though he did manage a bow. Mercifully
the lady then turned her attention to her kin and
Beomann was left free to look around.

It was another of those long, narrow Ranger rooms
but gently curved to fit into the round tower. The
outer wall was all big, peaked windows inset with the
by now familiar Ranger motifs of moons and suns and
stars, flowers and trees, ships and towers, in colored
glass. The deep sills under them were spread with
cushions of green and blue and scarlet making
comfortable window seats for a number of Women and
girls busily stitching away.

A spicy scent came from bowls of dried leaves and
flowers standing among the litter of cloth scraps and
spools of thread. Beomann realized they were making
herb-bags like the ones his mother used to repel
fleas, moths, and other pests. Such homely objects
seemed out of place here, surely folk living in
castles didn't have to worry about moth or bugs
getting into the flour?

He heard Lady Finduilas tell Belegon, "Aragorn has
sent another messenger." and turned.

"And what does our Lord and kinsman have to say to
us?" Gil asked, an unspoken 'what now?' very clear in
face and voice.

"Nothing. He is asking for tidings not sending
them." Finduilas replied. "It seems he has grown
impatient waiting for a reply to his last missive."

Gil snorted. "He has no idea what we are facing
here in the North."

"How can he when we have agreed not to trouble him
with it?" Finduilas asked reasonably. And Gil smiled
ruefully.

"I know, I'm not being fair to Aragorn. No doubt he
has troubles enough and to spare among the Gondorim,
which is why I can't understand this obsession of his
with rebuilding the ruined cities."

"That is exactly what he's asking about." said
Finduilas, and lifted her eyebrows questioningly.

Gil shrugged wearily. "We are agreed Minas Sul is a
hopeless case," a quick smile, "even Beomann here who
is wholeheartedly in favor of Aragorn's plan. Stone
has been carted away and the very foundations dug up,
there is nothing left to work with. Fornost and Cardol
are in different case. Only the citadels were
deliberately slighted, the lower circles are suffering
from the effects of pillage and time but our ancestors
built sound and they could be restored with sufficient
labor."

"Then let you tell Aragorn's messenger so." the
lady said briskly.
******

1. They're not. Finduilas is golden haired like most
of the House of Urin, descendants of Hador Goldenhead.
She is in fact the sister of Aranel's late husband Ingloron.

Dan, who was apparently familliar with the castle,
took Beomann up another winding stair, not the
original
one, to a bright, airy chamber two floors above Lady
Finduilas' sewing room.

It had a pair of wide beds, their carven headboards
against the inner wall and big chests decorated with
painted hunting scenes at their feet. The wall
opposite was slightly curved with two deeply recessed
windows, one with a table and chair beneath it, the
other with a cushioned bench. There was a shelf of
books between the two windows, a fireplace in the
righthand wall and a door in the left which Dan
opened to show a small room with a big round bath,
apparently carved from a single lump of red stone and
shelves holding pitchers, basins, piles of folded
linen towels and a big copper kettle.

"Bathroom." he said, rather unecessarily, then
moved to the foot of the nearest bed to throw open the
lid of its chest. "Now let's see if we can find a
livery that will fit you."

'Livery' turned out to be the kind of clothes
Beomann had seen Dan and other Rangers wearing in the
palace at Annuminas. Like Breelanders they started
with a shirt and breeches but instead of waistcoat
and jacket covered them with a long tunic and an
equally long sleeveless garment Dan called a surcoat.
The tunic and surcoat he found for Beomann were a
shade to long, loose at the waist and tight at the
shoulder but not enough to be obviously ill-fitting.
The tunic was of nubby white wool and the surcoat of
glossy grey leather, both falling nearly to his
ankles. Beomann felt foolish and was afraid he looked
it too.

Dan didn't. He had a silver brooch, shaped like a
many pointed star, to fasten his surcoat at the neck.
And his belt seemed to be made of grey fur and was
fastened by a silver clasp like two wolves' heads,
their jaws locked together. (1)

There was a knock at the door and another young
Ranger came in. His tunic was green and his surcoat
black, but he too had a star shaped brooch at his
throat, Dan greeted him with easy familiarity.

"Camborn, this is Beomann Butterbur of Bree who's
newly taken service with my Captain. Beomann, Camborn
is is the service of Captain Belegon and his lady."

"Welcome to Tol Ernil," the new Ranger said to
Beomann with an apologetic smile, "though I fear you
find us at less than our best." he turned even more
apologetically to Dan. "I know it's not done to ask
labor of guests, but could you two help with the
serving tonight? There's only Brandir, Elboron and I,
and Brandir's laid up with a wound." adding quickly at
Dan's look of concern. "Oh not bad, just an arrow in
the muscle of the calf, but of course he can't carry
platters and cups while leaning on a crutch."

"I say yes for myself most readily," Dan answered,
"but as for Beomann - " continued to the
puzzled Breelander. "Camborn's asking us to help serve
dinner, if you wouldn't mind?"

Beomann grinned. "I'm an innkeeper's son, remember?
I've been serving meals to folk since I could walk."
***

But dinner wouldn't be for several hours yet. Dan
suggested they go see if Gilvagor had anything he
wanted done and led the way back down three flights of
yet another winding stair and through a door into a
circular room, about a third the size of the throne
room below, dominated by a big round table its top
inlaid with an elaborate map of all the country west
of the Misty mountains, bounded by a great bay in the
far north, and a river in the south.(2) High backed
chairs, carved and painted with the oak and sun, lined
the curving walls beneath colorful banners emblazoned
with all kinds of devices; not just the usual stars
and trees and ships and suns and moons, but flowers,
strange beasts, swords, axes and other weapons.
Sunlight streamed in through high windows embelished
with colored glass. Beomann would have liked to linger
a bit and get a good look at that map but Dan circled
briskly around the table to knock on a door in the far
wall, then open it.

This was a much smaller room, about the size of one
of the Pony's private parlors, its red stone walls
hung with big parchment maps and its floor covered by
a gigantic wolfskin rug. A writing table faced the
door with Belegon sitting in the thronelike chair
behind it, another oak and sun banner showing over his
shoulder. Gil sat in a second chair on the other side
of the table.

"Come in Beomann." he said. "Danilos, you will find
the Dunadan's messenger in the west solar, bring him
to us if you please."

Dan nodded and went out again. Beomann came further
in, paused to look at the maps on the wall. They
seemed to be of the Wilds south of the road, all
dotted with little houses and towers labelled with
names written in strange letters. A number of them had
been scored through by a slash of red ink.

"So, Beomann, what do you think of our manner of
dress?" Gil asked with a teasing glint in his eye.

"I feel like I'm wearing skirts," Beomann admitted,
"but at least there aren't any petticoats!" shrugged.
"I'll get used to it."

"I don't doubt but you will." Gil indicated a
sealed letter on the table. "We are writing the King
that Norbury and Sudbury may be rebuilt, but
Wutherington is beyond salvaging. You agree?"

"Oh yes, like you said there's nothing left to work
with there." cocked his head, puzzled. "But why ask
me?"

"Because you are the only available representative
of the Men of Eriador, and the matter concerns your
folk as much as ours." Gil answered. Smiled faintly.
"I have told Aragorn you approve of the idea. Though
your father seemed less pleased."

"Dad doesn't like things changing, but he'll be
pleased enough when there's more business going
through Bree." Beomann frowned. "You saw how Aunt
Alisoun and Cousin Ban can barely keep their heads
above water? Well if something isn't done about it we
might be in as bad case in Bree before to long."

"It won't come to that," Belegon assured him
quickly. "even if the cities are never rebuilt, the
Road will be safe to travel again and trade will pick
up."

"But I don't just want things to go back to how
they were!" Beomann burst out with a vehemence that
surprised him quite as much as the two Rangers. "That
may be all Dad wants but I want more." he pointed to
the oak and sun hanging behind Belegon's chair. "I
want that banner to mean something again. I want our
Kingdom back, with its cities and towns and its King
too. I want my people to be what they once were." he
blinked back the tears stinging his eyes, swallowed.
"And if Strider - the King I mean - wants that too,
I'll do everything I can to help make it come true."

"That is exactly what the King wants," Gil said
softly, "and he will need all the help Men like you,
who share his vision, can give him."

There was a knock at the door. Gil gestured Beomann
to stand beside him as it opened admitting Dan and a
Man who looked like a Ranger in height and coloring
but wasn't one, dressed all in black with a white tree
and seven stars on his surcoat.

Beomann wasn't quite sure just how he could be so
certain the Man wasn't a Ranger, maybe it was the open
shock in his face as he stared at Gil and Belegon.
Beomann looked at them too.

Both had risen at the messenger's entrance. They
were washed and brushed and dressed in the deep grey
that seemed to be the favorite Ranger color when they
were out of green leather.(3) Beomann had gotten used
to the fact that Gil was beautiful, he'd even gotten
used to Aranel's dazzling looks, and to Belegon's
majestic height. You'd think a Man from the Southern
Kingdom would be acustomed to people who were
beautiful and people who were very, very tall - but
maybe not.

Or maybe the messenger wasn't any more used to
people with the kind of power Gil had shown in the
Barrow or Belegon to the quarreling Men in the Downs
than Beomann himself was, and like Beomann could sense
it under the two Ranger Captain's ordinary manner,
like a banked fire ready to burst forth at any minute.

Suddenly the Man seemed to realize he'd been
staring, flushed a little, took three steps forward
and bowed.

I apologize for your long wait, Asgon of Gondor,"
Gil said, gently as if he wanted to avoid giving the
Man any more shocks, "but I am sure my kinswoman, the
Lady Finduilas made the delay as pleasant as
possible."

Asgon bowed again but apparently couldn't think of
anything to say. Beomann knew the feeling, high
ranking Rangers seemed to do that to people.

"I am Gilvagor son of Armegil, the High King's heir
and deputy here in the North." Gil continued. "Captain
Belegon and I have been inspecting the sites of the
old cities. Fornost Erain and Cardol have been sadly
damaged by time and their citadels slighted by our
enemies yet with sufficient labor they may be
restored. Minas Sul however has been all but erased,
her very foundations dug up, and would require a total
rebuilding that is beyond our means." he picked up the
letter and handed it to Beomann, who looked at it
blankly for a moment then realized he was supposed to
give it to the messenger and did so.

Now it was Belegon's turn to talk: "I would ask
that you delay your departure till tomorrow so my
kinsman and I may here firsthand the news of our kin
in the south." he said with a reassuring smile such as
one gives to nervous children. "And I will send one of
my Men with you in the morning to guide your company
on safe paths known to us."

Asgon finally found his voice. "Thank you, my Lord,
you are very kind."

*****

1. The star brooch is of course the Badge of the North
Kingdom worn by all Rangers, (re: The Grey Company).
The wolfskin belt with its ornate wolf head buckle is
an award of valor for saving a companion by killing,
or helping to kill, a great Warg.

2. The Bay of Forochel and the River Isen, in other
words the map covers all the lands ruled by the
Isildurioni and their allies.

3. In fact it's Dunedain mourning.

He should have known serving dinner in a castle
would be nothing like serving customers at the Pony,
for one thing it was a lot quieter. And there was only
the one table set up in Lady Finduilas' sewing room,
or solar as the Rangers called it.

She was there, and Belegon and Gilvagor, another
Ranger Woman and two or three Men, and Asgon of Gondor
who did most of the talking, giving them the news of
the South as Belegon had asked.

Beomann couldn't follow it very well, too many
people and places he'd never heard of, but it sounded
pretty alarming what with winged demons and armies of
Orcs and Evil Men, and important people burning
themselves alive and all. Most disturbing of all was
this army of ghosts, the Oathbreakers as Asgon called
them, who'd strangly enough been on the Good side,
crawling out of their graves to help Strider rescue
the Southern capital.

Asgon made it sound like it was one of the early
Kings - Isildur? - who'd turned them into ghosts, but
surely that couldn't be right. Still, it worried
Beomann, so when Gil drew him aside after dinner he
found himself bursting right out with it.

"I'm afraid it's true." Gil answered soberly. "The
Dead Men of Dunharrow were a mountain tribe that swore
fealty to the Kings of Gondor but broke their oath at
the behest of the Dark Lord."

"So the King cursed them?" Beomann asked
incredulously.

"To find no rest until their oath was finally
fulfilled." Gil agreed.

"But - but how could he *do* that? I mean dead's
dead isn't it? How could he force their ghosts to stay
in the world."

Gil smiled a little, not happily. "By what you
would call magic. The Line of the Kings has Elven
blood in it, and another strain even more powerful. We
can do such things if we will."

Beomann stared at him. "Could you do that?"

Gil's face went very grim. "Yes."

The Bree Man swallowed. "Would you?"

Gil sighed and the grimness fell away, and he
looked only sad and troubled. "I would like to say no,
for you are right it was a terrible punishment. More
cruel perhaps than even such a crime as theirs
deserved. But who can say what foresight was upon
Isildur when he chose it?"

"You mean he might have *known* Strider - the King
- would need a ghost army thousands of years later?"
Beomann asked incredulously.

A smile flickered briefly over Gil's face.
"Something like that. And so I cannot truthfully say I
would never do such a thing, only that I fervently
hope I will never have to."

Beomann shuddered agreement. Bad enough to have
something like that done to you, worse still to have
done it and carry it on your conscience.

"To bind yourself by oath to the Kings of the West
is a perilous thing," Gil continued quietly, "it puts
you in our power and that power can be terrible
indeed. That is why I have put off asking any oath
from you. I wanted you to see something of the life
you would be committing yourself to before you did
anything irrevocable."

Irrevocable, Beomann shivered. He knew the kind of
power Gil was talking about, he'd seen it with his own
eyes back in the Barrow on the Downs. Then he
remembered something else. "That's how you called
little Tom and Daisy back from whatever place they'd
gone to, 'by the oaths of Elendil the King and Hundeth
the Chief' my people already belong to you, to the
Kings."

"As the Heirs of Elendil belong to you." Gilvagor
agreed.

It was like turning a piece of cloth over and
looking at the pattern from the right side. The House
of the Kings had never hurt their people and never
would. For Beomann to be afraid of Gil, magic or no,
was as silly as him being afraid of his family or of
his town.

He squared his shoulders. "Well I've seen and I
haven't changed my mind."

"Very well then." Gil said, briskly businesslike.
"Beomann son of Barliman, are you willing to swear head
and heart and hand to the service of the King of the
West?"

"Uh - yes, I am." There was probably a more
ceremonial way of saying it, but Beomann didn't know
it and Gil didn't seem to care.

"Then I accept your service in the name of King
Elessar Telcontar." Gil put his hand on Beomann's
head. "As the liege man binds himself to his Lord so
is Lord bound to his liege. This oath shall stand
in memory of the Faith of Elendil the Faithful and of
Hundeth the Wise in the keeping of those who sit upon
the thrones of the West and of the One above all
thrones forever."

Whatever all that meant.

Then Gil gave him the smile that made him look no
older than Beomann, and much more mischievious. "And
now my new Leige, we have much work to do. Shall we
get to it?"