Éomer quickly finished the fight with two guards protecting the Lady’s private room and simply crushed the door. One of his men followed, but the Lady was alone. She stood at the table, her face white as linen, and sternly looked at him. Her lips were bloodless, and she must had fearedthe King of Rohan, but still she stood upright in her dark red gown with the wide sleeves. She would have been a beauty if it were not for the hatred in her eyes.

“You have returned,” she stated coolly.

“I have returned to accuse and sentence you for high treason, you snake,” Éomer growled stepping closer so he could look into her eyes. “The King of Gondor will sit in judgement over you. If it was for me I would not be generous.”

“You overestimate your power,” she gave back, not flinching, her hands still held down. “Even if you have gotten here you have not yet won.”

“The fight is over, and you lost it.”

“My Lord!” a shout came from the door and Éomer turned. A young man appeared on the threshold. “There are more soldiers coming up! We need you here! … Watch out!”

Éomer swivelled around. The Lady swung back her arm to strike, a long dagger in her hand. Éomer raised his right arm to block. The blade cut through cloth and flesh. He cried out with pain, punched the Lady with his left in the face. She dropped the dagger and fell on the ground. Éomer clenched his teeth, held his arm for a moment. Blood oozed between his fingers, and he wiped them on his tunic.

“Damn it! …Bind her and leave her here!” Knowing the Lady was unconscious Éomer gripped his sword tight and ran out of the room, into another ongoing fight. He swung his sword with both hands, cutting through leather and cloth viciously, driving the castle’s defenders back with every strike. He was as much an example as an encouragement for his men. His sword fell on one more enemy, throwing him to the ground when Éomer suddenly could not see clearly anymore. Heavily breathing he blinked. To no avail. His sight was blurring even more. He heard shouts beside him, heard his name too, but he could no longer hold the sword, could not raise it to his defence. His strength was fading. In front of him a shining blade appeared to cut his throat and was deflected in the last moment.

“My Lord! Get up!”

Éomer had not known that he was on his knees, but was unable to straighten even with a helping hand. His sword slipped from his hand, clanged down the stairs. The King collapsed.

Faramir heard the shouts from somewhere – Éomer had fallen. But he could not come to aid. Sadur was a fierce opponent and excellent swordsman. Faramir needed all his skill to stand his ground. Still Sadur drove him back with vicious strikes.

“Now, Prince of Ithilien, is that all you can manage? Is that all you offer… ruler for the sake of the King?” Sadur snarled. “What makes you a Prince? You are nothing but the hated son of a great man!”

Faramir felt the recognition of his father’s features in Sadur’s face like a heavy strike on its own. The Lord’s face was contorted by anger – a sight Faramir remembered well of his father in his last days.

The next blow made him stumble backwards. Behind them the battle was still violent, and if he could not push Sadur back he might get stabbed from behind. Faramir doubled his efforts, swung the blade faster, no longer aiming to only disable the Lord but to force him down. Sadur retreated a few steps and came forward again, taking the challenge. The Prince felt the pain in his almost healed arm again. From behind he heard Aragorn’s voice still over the clash. He ordered to let those who surrendered live.Knowing the King was behind him he threw himself forward, parried the next blows and finally his sword cut through Sadur’s weapon arm. The next hit ripped the sword out of his hand. The Lord expected the deadly blow with a stern expression.

“Kill me, brother, if you have the courage.”

Faramir held his sword for the last strike, but hesitated. He had come here to meet Lady Saborian and her son – his brother. Within minutes they had turned from strangers to enemies. It was hard but just to end his life right here.

“Let him be!” Aragorn ordered, running up the stairs.

Faramir did not flinch.

“He deserves death. He wanted to kill us both!”

“He will get his punishment. I will see to that.” Aragorn threw a pair of handcuffs in front of the Lord. “Put them on!” he commanded locking eyes with Sadur and staring him down. “Now!” Sadur hesitated, clenching his teeth. The tip of the blade still rested on his throat. One move would condemn him to bleed to death. “Faramir!”

Behind them the noise ebbed away. Soldiers lay dead or wounded on the stairs and in the corridors, some had given up and were disarmed. Some had fled without a fight. The Rohirrim roared their success.

Slowly the Prince lowered his weapon, but remained on alert when Sadur picked up the handcuffs.

“Your dagger,” Faramir growled threateningly and waited until Sadur had delivered it before he sheathed his sword. Aragorn watched as Sadur put on the shackles. Still the rings of handcuffs remained around his own wrists. He swung around, sword ready, when he heard steps coming up behind him.

“Aragorn! Éomer was hurt!” The boy pointed to the next stairway, and Aragorn hurried with him down the corridor.

“Lock him up!” he shouted back to Faramir, and the Prince smiled grimly when he escorted Sadur downstairs.

“Where is Éomer?” Aragorn demanded to know when he did not see him at once.

“That room,” a man with the white horse on his cuirass pointed. “He was hit on the arm… and then he suddenly collapsed.”

Aragorn cursed under his breath.

“He would not have been thrown down by that kind of wound!”

“But he…”

Aragorn’s fierce look cut him off. The King stormed into Sadur’s room where the King of Rohan had been laid on a bed. He knelt beside him, closing his eyes for a moment. He was exhausted, tired, and from a wound across his almost bare breast a gash still bled. Carefully he turned Éomer’s right arm and opened the cloth. The long cut was swollen and deep red. Blood still oozed out of it.

“With what was he hit?”

“A dagger – the Lady’s dagger.”

“Get me that blade! At once!” When he turned to Éomer again the man had opened his eyes. Pain showed in them, and Aragorn exhaled sympathetically. “I will help you as much as I can.”

Éomer’s face glistened with sweat, and his smile was but a shadow.

“Feels as if it is too late.” He clenched his teeth against the pain.

“You did not die at the Black Gate, my friend, and I will truly not let you die here.” He turned again. Vlohiri stood nearby, his hands playing with the keys on the chain. He gave them to Aragorn. “Get Lomac – he shall bring the kingsfoil with him. And fetch water! Run!” The boy took off, and to the rider from Rohan he said, “Light a fire at once! Make haste!” Only then he used the key to open the handcuffs. His wrists were abraded, and he flinched when the metal bands came off. He dropped them and hung the chain with the keys at the bedpost.

“I failed you, my King,” Éomer said panting.

“No.” Aragorn put a hand on the man’s chest. “Rest. I will take care of the wound.”

“I was here before… and I did not find you.”

“I know.” He had to close his eyes for a moment when a wave of dizziness hit him.

“You are hurt yourself.”

Aragorn smiled wearily and took a knife to cut off the rest of the sleeve. It was red with blood as well as the linen. A thin red line crawled slowly upwards.

“My Lord… the dagger.” The man held it in a piece of cloth, and Aragorn took it, smelled the dark liquid on it, then put it down. He tried to hide his concern, but his friend knew him well.

“You do not know that poison,” Éomer said weakly.

“The healer will be here soon.” When he turned Éomer had closed his eyes. “We will help you.”

“There you are!” a friendly voice said in his back.

Aragorn turned and rose slowly. All muscles in his body seemed too tense to move.

“Lomac.” He gave him the dagger. “Tell me if you know the poison. The Lady used that dagger to stab my friend.”

“She did?” The healer put down his sack and pots and took the cloth with the weapon, turned it around, smelled it, even touched it with the tip of his finger, and squinted when he examined it. “It is good to see you again,” he said in a conversational tone, and then gave back the dagger. “Seems to me you are fully healed, are you not? You caused quite an uproar in the whole castle. Or your friends did. More or less.”

“Do you know the poison?”

“Yes – creeper leaves. Quite common in the south. Along the coast of Anfalas… She must have gotten it from a trader. I did not know that!” He smiled confidently. “Kingsfoil is a help – it will at least slow it down if not heal it.” He gently pushed the King aside to kneel at Éomer’s side. “It was not long ago, hum?” he said looking at the wound. “We got a good chance, I suppose.” He turned to see Vlohiri come in with a bucket of water. “Oh, my little friend! I am so glad you are back! What a wonderful sight to my old eyes!”

The boy grinned and hurried to fill the water in a big pot to hang over the fire.

“You are far more than a poacher, hum?” Lomac said turning to Aragorn who stood upright, his chin lifted but with a cautious expression. “I thought so before.”

“You were right.”

Lomac huffed, unsatisfied with the answer.

“The water needs some time to heat up. Let me take care of your wounds in the meantime.”

“There are others who are wounded worse.”

Lomac cocked his head.

“Do you want to argue with me, young man? Sit down before you fall down.” To the man from Rohan he said, “Send those who can walk up here, and carry those who cannot to the next room. There are beds on that floor. Use them.” He turned to Aragorn again, who fumbled with the straps of the harness, but could not reach the clasps. “I think the Lady and the Lord will no longer rule Deromonor.”

“No, they will not.”

“Very well.” He twitched his lips amused. “Shall I help you out of that harness?” The King did not share Lomac’s sense of humour, but he turned so the healer opened it, and Aragorn shed out of the harness, and threw it on the floor. The chain attached to it rattled, and Vlohiri turned at once, his look frightened. Lomac raised his hand to calm him. “It is good now, my little friend, no more worries.” He opened his sack, took out the little sac with kingsfoil and bandages, his eyes fixed on the boy who slowly got closer. “You found his friends,” he nodded smiling. “That was very brave.”

“I was lucky,” Vlohiri admitted lowly and shivered with the thought of Lanar holding the sword to his throat.

“You are more courageous than many men,” Aragorn said stepping closer. He let himself down on one knee. “You saved me, Vlohiri, as your mother called you. I am in your debt.”

The boy looked at him, swallowed, unable to find words. Finally his mouth twitched and he flung his arms around Aragorn’s neck, holding him tight, eyes closely shut. At that moment all the strain he had endured fell off of him. He had fulfilled his task. He had set out to find help, and he had brought back Éomer and Faramir. He could not stifle the sobs, and the King held him until the boy had calmed down and stepped back, wiping his face.

“Is there anything else I can do?” he asked Aragorn and the healer. He did not know whom to look at. He found it strangely embarrassing that the King of Gondor knelt in front of him and stepped back even further.

“You could grind these leaves,” Lomac smiled, and the boy hurried to oblige.

* * *

Still Day 74

Faramir ordered the Rohirrim to bring the Lady’s soldiers and guards to the dungeon, and he ordered to take Lady Saborian to the cell the King had had before. Lord Sadur was brought to the adjoining cell with the restraints still on.

Only then, knowing the wounded were taken care of, he met with Aragorn in Sadur’s private room.

“How is he?” he asked Aragorn, who sat at the bedside, his hands on Éomer’s chest.

Lomac finished bandaging a soldier and sent him out. Turning he said:

“He will need time to heal. Kingsfoil can help, but it cannot do magic!” He cocked his head. “Who are you? You have a familiar face.”

“I am Faramir, son of Denethor.”

“Well, my young Faramir, can I help you – for you cannot help here.”

“No. I just wanted to report to the King.”

Lomac swiftly turned to stare at the not kingly looking man on the floor.

“The King, hum?” he mused. “Well, that explains some things.” His smile turned to laughter. Faramir frowned. “The King of Gondor! Now, now, sometimes magic arises from unseen places.”

But the Prince did not listen. He watched Aragorn’s face. The King was losing strength. The months of imprisonment, the hard work, and now the fierce fights took a heavy toll on him. Gently Faramir put a hand on Aragorn’s shoulder.

“My Lord, you have to rest.” Aragorn looked up, too tired to object. “The healer will take care of him now.”

“Of course I will do!” Lomac exclaimed happily. “Go, rest!” Faramir helped Aragorn to straighten. “There is a bed in the room…”

“No,” the King contradicted. “I will not leave him. I will stay here.”

“I will get you a blanket,” Faramir offered and left the room.

“Where is Vlohiri?” Aragorn asked, wiping his eyes.

“Over there.” The healer pointed to the fireplace. Vlohiri slept on a woollen blanket, covered with another. Aragorn smiled tiredly. “He is all right, just completely exhausted. The moment his work was done he fell asleep where he stood.” Aragorn looked down upon Éomer’s face. “He will survive, my Lord,” Lomac said lowly. “Sleep. I am sure the castle will be safe now.”

* * *

Day 75, the castle

Faramir stood on top of the eastern tower, overlooking the village in the morning’s first sunshine. It was still cold, but he enjoyed the wind in his face. He had been able to sleep. No dream had bothered him, and he was more than glad that the dream about Aragorn had not predicted the King’s death.

Two of his men were dead, and six Rohirrim riders. Looking back it seemed more than amazing how well they had fought. Still he thought that he would have preferred to kill Lord Sadur, but he was safely locked away. He trusted the King would choose the right sentence.

Lt. Medros had died during the night, and no one seemed to mourn him but his wife. Lanar and the two guards in his company had not returned. Many soldiers from the castle and those who had come to reinforce the defence had been killed, many were wounded and taken care of while the Rohirrim had celebrated during the night and were now still sleeping. Only a few men were awake to watch over the Kings and their followers, but the threat was over, the power of Lady Saborian broken. The servants and maids had been informed to continue their work until a new ruler would be chosen.

Within the joy of the victory he felt strangely robbed of the possibility to learn more about his father – a side of him he had never experienced while he was still alive. The impression he had carried with him all the time was unpleasant. Denethor had never really loved him, but had him sent out to re-conquer Osgiliath in a futile fight. He closed his eyes for a moment. So many men were lost in that fight, and his return had almost led to his own death. He still could not understand that his father had been about to kill him. And where he did not succeed the Lady had tried to meet his intentions. What would happen if there were others who thought the same – that he should not live a life as the Prince of Ithilien?

With a shiver he turned to step down the tower.

Vlohiri awoke from a smell he had enjoyed before. Half smiling he rose, wiped his eyes and yawned. It had been the first night without disturbance – and without half sleeping on a horse. He could still recall the waves of nausea that had frequently haunted him. Lomac smiled at him when he came to the table.

“Ah, you are up! Very well. If you do not mind you could get something to eat from the kitchen for all of us.”

“How’s Éomer?” the boy whispered. The King’s arm had been bandaged, but he still looked wretched.

Lomac glanced over his shoulder.

“He lasted the night, my little friend, and I am sure he will wake up during the day.” He followed the boy’s stare to Aragorn, who slept on the floor. “And he will be all right, too. Do not worry. He was just as much exhausted as you were. Now go.”

Vlohiri hesitated.

“What will happen with us now?” he asked shyly, looking up. “The Lady and the Lord will be sentenced, but what about us? The servants, Narana, the grooms, and smiths?”

“I am sure the King will take care of it,” the healer soothed him. “But now… I am hungry. And when the men awake they will be, too.”

Vlohiri hurried out of the room.

Narana as well as all servants working in the castle were upset like a swarm of bees in spring. Rumours spread that the riders from Rohan would stay at least a week and that all those who had served the Lady would be sentenced like her and her son. Anxiety ruled the kitchen when Vlohiri arrived. No one knew what would happen to them in the next days. Narana embraced the boy heartily.

“You are back, Flea! I can’t believe it! You survived!”

Vlohiri struggled out of her arms, unable to understand why the cook was upset about his return.

“I was sent to fetch help for the King,” he explained flatly. “And I brought help. Now I need breakfast for the men upstairs. Lomac sends me,” he added to make sure Narana worked quickly. 

“Of course, of course!” She laughed, looked at him, and laughed again. Then she turned to hand him fresh bread, cheese and some fruits. “The King was imprisoned here?” she asked surprised. “How could this be?” The boy did not answer. “You know the King then?” Vlohiri tried to put everything in the big basket to carry it. He nodded. “And…will he… will he sentence all of us? What about the castle? Who will rule it?”

“I do not know that,” the boy answered with surprise. Why did she ask him? She had never asked him anything before – except to whom he took the bread after supper.

“Will you ask him?”

The boy frowned.

“No. I bring the breakfast.” With that he left, confused more than anything.

He crossed the corridors. Though not much had changed, they all looked different to him now. Truly the fights had left their traces, and the maids were cleaning the floors now, some shivering with disgust about the blood that had been shed. Strangers hurried past him, the white horse on their cuirasses. And all personnel looked terrified because they still expected another evil to happen. But all of this did not explain his awkward feelings. He was aware that it might not be the corridor and the people but himself being different from the boy he was before. He had risked his life to fetch help and had been successful. Lomac and the King of Gondor had trusted him.

He mused over the evening when he had embraced Aragorn. It had been a most welcomed reward.

Grinning he entered Sadur’s room again. He realised he had never been here before the day of the fights. It was a big room with wall decoration, a large table and chairs. And on the broad bed Éomer was slowly opening his eyes. Vlohiri put down the basket and tugged at the healer’s sleeve.

“He’s awake,” he whispered.

Lomac smiled confidentially.

“I told you he would wake up.” He turned and knelt at the bedside. “Welcome back, young Lord Éomer. Does your arm still hurt?” Éomer swallowed dryly and licked his lips. He was about to ask for water when the boy already handed a cup to Lomac. “Thank you, lad, you really are a help.” Vlohiri grinned while Lomac helped Éomer to drink.

“How long did I sleep?” the King asked.

“All night. I changed the bandages several times. The wound will heal.”

“It still hurts.”

Lomac could not conceal his smile.

“A good sign you are feeling it, is it not?”

“I will give you an answer to that as soon as I can get up again.”

Lomac’s smile deepened.

“Well, then I do not think that I should force it!”

“We will ride as soon as he can,” Aragorn said from behind. “We all have been away from home for too long.”

“I sent one of my men to Minas Tirith three days ago. Lady Arwen will know where we are.” Éomer tried to clench his right hand, but stopped when the pain rose.

“I will send another to let her know the fight is over,” Aragorn decided and left the room.

Éomer closed his eyes.

“What about my men?”

“They are taken care of,” Lomac said friendly. “Most of them celebrated during the night…” Éomer smiled weakly. “…and now they rest. The wounded were bandaged, but your men wait for a decision what to do with the dead.”

“We will take them home. They shall not be buried so far away.”

“Good. I will see to that.” Lomac rose. “Rest. If you need anything…”

“I stay here,” Vlohiri offered without hesitation.

“Very well.” Lomac put a hand on the boy’s head. “I will go see after the others.”

Aragorn had changed his clothes, but he was still missing his belongings. He went downstairs to the dungeon. The smell of dampness and mould cut off his breathing. He had to force himself the last steps down. All sounds and colours and the look of the dark walls would forever be burnt to his memory. He clenched his teeth. For almost three months he had been forced to live in a small cell, at times chained to immobility. He could still feel the weight of the iron on his hands.

With clenched fists and his heart racing he reached the cells of the deserted corridor. The Lady stood at the small window, looking into the sun.

“Where did you hide my sword and the rest of my belongings?” he demanded to know.

Lady Saborian did not turn.

“The victory is small, my Lord, but it will be my satisfaction that you have to return without them.”

“Do not let me ask you twice. I might choose to let you be judged by others than myself.”

“Is it not forthcoming that you sentence me to death? So what do you expect? Regret? That I beg for my life? I lived a fulfilled life, my Lord,” she added turning. “So you can do with me what you want. I still will not see your reign legitimate. What more than a sword with a name have you got?”

Aragorn found it hard to restrain his anger.

“In her room,” Sadur said from the adjacent cell. His voice was expressionless. “A compartment behind the cupboard.”

“Do you think you can save your life with that?” the Lady spat rushing to the door. “Do you think he will spare you?”

“It is no longer important, mother. The treason was revealed. There is no reason for further resistance.”

Aragorn left the dungeon while Lady Saborian still argued.

Faramir approached, and Vlohiri finished his breakfast with a frightful look. He had not yet forgotten that the man had seen him – without being even close to the dungeon! He swallowed the last bite and was about to leave when Faramir held him back.

“Please, wait. I did not mean to fright you.”

“How… how could you know I was in the dungeon?” Vlohiri blurted out still undecided to stay or leave.

“I had a dream.” He sat on a chair. The boy still kept a safe distance to run. “I saw Aragorn in that dark cell. He was lying on the floor unmoving. Then you appeared at the door. You were saying something, but I could not hear it.”

Vlohiri shivered, and the meal lay heavy in his stomach.

“You saw the night I found him when he was sick,” he stated. “How can this be? If you saw him… why did you not come to help?”

Faramir inhaled, but did not know what to say.

“I could not see his face. Or where that cell was. But I set out to get here. Éomer and I had met shortly before we found you.”

“Lanar would have...” Vlohiri shivered. “For a moment…” He could not say it. He would dream of it many times, but was unable to speak of it.

“No one will hurt you now.”

“I know.”

* * *

Day 80, the castle

Éomer chose two young men to stay behind until Aragorn decided what to do with the castle and its inhabitants. The King of Rohan was – due to the care of the healer and Aragorn – on his feet again and eager to ride home. He ordered his men to pack enough food and water for most of the way so to not lose any time hunting. Faramir chose horses from the groom to carry Sadur and his mother, and the young man looked at him fearfully. He told the man to prepare the horses and left. On the way up he met Vlohiri who brought carrots from the pantry. His admiration for the young boy had grown by the minute when he learned how much he had done and risked to help the King survive in the dungeon.

They both reached Sadur’s room where Éomer and Aragorn spoke about the preparations to leave. Vlohiri’s heart sank. Tomorrow the riders from Rohan, Faramir and Éomer would be gone, only a memory. He put the carrots on the table where bread and whine already waited and was on his way out when Aragorn called to him. He slowly turned.

“Vlohiri, my friend, you truly look unhappy. Will you tell me why?” The boy looked from one man to the other, and on a sign of the King they left. They were alone, and still Vlohiri did not find words to describe his feelings. He stared at his feet. “Let me know what troubles you.” The boy had thought about it for four days how he could say what he wanted to say, but now that he had the chance he did not open his mouth. “Have I to order you as the King of Gondor?” Aragorn teased him, and finally Vlohiri felt a smile tugging at his lips. “Is there a wish I can fulfil?”

“I… I would have loved… to see Lady Arwen,” he uttered, still unable to look up. He flushed deeply and did not see the King smile.

“Did you think I would leave you behind?”

Vlohiri raised his head caught by surprise.

“You take me with you?” It was hard to believe.

“Yes!” He almost laughed about the boy’s puzzled look. “But you will have to ride.”

A smile broadened on Vlohiri’s face.

“I will.”

            THE END

June 2004, to whom it may concern: The first chapter of a kind of sequel, called “Twilight of the Gods”, is now available on this site.  - T.