Chapter 2. In Dangerous Company.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thorongil…”

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

“You are taking Hirgon with you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But your wife… and how’s your son?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“If you just listened…”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“My grandson, no!” the lady cried.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lad!”

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

“You, lad!”

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

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

“With the Steward’s approval.”

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

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

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

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

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

A/N

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

Forlong of Lossarnach will perish in the battle of Pelennor.

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

Baranor is Beregond’s canon father.

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