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

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

~

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

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

Gilraen shook her head.  “You?”

Arandur grunted a negative.  “Council meeting.”

“All night?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Was a tragedy.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

~

“Elladan?”

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

“I’ve been thinking,”

“Never a good sign.”

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

“The signal at the ambush?”

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

“Yes?”

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

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

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

“Uh oh.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Or worse.”

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

“Is it?”

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

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

“The race is extinct, Elrohir.”

“We can’t know that.”

“If you’re right . . .”

“If?”

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

“Should we go back?”

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

“You still don’t mean to stay?”

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, my lord!  I remember . . .”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

“Thor?  Wha’s going on?”

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

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

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

“Why wasn’t the alarm raised?”

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

“Are they still alive?”

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

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

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

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

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

“You have the provisions?” She asked.

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

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

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

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

“You’re coming with me?”

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

“But, you’re the acting-chieftain!”

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

“But Arandur, what about Rían?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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